Page 36 of Mountain Grump Protector

Of course.

It’s before noon, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t already been into the beer.

I find his pill bottle near the sink and do a quick check to see how many tablets are left before setting it down.

There are only a few days left. Which means he’s been taking too many.

Again.

With the combination of his pain meds and the alcohol, it’s no surprise he can’t get out of bed.

A quiet frustration settles over me, the tension in my shoulders returning. I should be used to it by now. This is how things are.

Since the accident that took Mom and fractured Dad’s leg, leaving him in almost constant pain, whether it was from the broken bones or the loss of his love, it had been like this.

He drinks too much. Takes too many pills. And we scrape out a life—if you can call it that—with the disability cheques and what’s left of the settlement from the accident. Combined with the few dollars I can bring in with whatever small jobs around town I can pick up here and there, it’s usually enough to get by.

Of course, whenever Bryson screws up, which is more and more lately, it takes whatever savings I’ve managed to squirrel away, and then some, to get us out of his latest mess.

I look up to see Cal watching me carefully. His expression unreadable.

“What?”

His gaze flicks briefly to the pill bottle before returning to my face. “How long’s it been like this”

I almost laugh.

Not because anything about this is funny, but because I honestly don’t have any idea how to answer that question.

Instead, I say, “Some days are better than others.”

Cal’s jaw tightens slightly like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Honestly, neither do I. But what else am I going to say?

Another cough sounds from down the hallway, and instinct immediately spurs me into motion. I grab a glass that doesn’t look too dirty and give it a quick rinse before filling it with water and reaching for a different pill bottle. The pills he should have been taking.

“You don’t have to do this by yourself, you know?”

The comment stops me, but I don’t bother turning around. “And who would you suggest should do it then?”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says after a moment.

The gentleness in his voice cracks the thin bit of control I’ve been hanging onto in half. Because the thing is, he says it like he means it, and I don’t know what to make of that.

I stare down at the pills in my hand and let myself think about the last few days on the mountain.

About how I’d probably smiled more in the last three days than I had in the last three years. Never mind the fact that I’ve slept deeper than I have in years.

The realization makes me want to cry because now that I know what it could feel like, standing in this dim, dirty, smelly kitchen feels even sadder than it used to.

A floorboard creaks behind me, and then Cal is there. His arms wrap around me and pull me back into his hard chest. He doesn’t say a word while I drop my head and try to fight back the tears that are burning the backs of my eyelids.

“You can’t keep carrying everybody forever, darling,” he murmurs in my ear. “You don’t have to.”

Before I can answer, or even let myself relax in the knowledge that even if it feels like no one has my back, Cal does, there’s a creak in the floorboards and a thick throat clearing.

We turn to see Dad leaning heavily on the doorframe, looking thinner and frailer than he did when I left a few days ago.