Page 6 of Grouch-ish

“He needs this.”

“He needs you, Dad.” Not the farm. And definitely not me. He needs Dad’s retreat.

“I can’t come back for him, but he’s a good guy at heart. He has it in him to change. I know he does.” Dad’s confidence in Brock settles like a weighted chain around my ankle. “He just needs some time and perspective.”

“Dad,” I grit, repeating, “He needs you.”

“You got this,” he encourages.

However, I don’t want to ‘got this’. I had my own issues to contend with. “I can’t give all the woo-woo advice you give, Dad.”

“It’s not woo-woo.” Dad chuckles. “And you don’t need to give him advice. Give him some tools and tell him to get to work around the place.”

“Dad,” I ground again, my molars clacking.

Brock steps even closer to me, holding out his big hand as if he’s about to commandeer the phone from me.

“He wants to talk to you,” I repeat to my father.

“You tell him he was late. I’m talked out with Brock. It’s time for him to put some muscle where his mouth gets him in trouble.”

I did not like the sound of that. The last thing I wanted was to spend time telling some random guy what to do on my dad’s farm. Especially if he had a bad attitude or chip on his shoulder.

“And where is he supposed to stay?”

Brock is even closer now, hand over mine like he’s ready to rip the phone from my grasp.

My eyes narrow, warning him with the glare. Don’t fucking touch me.

He lifts his hand and holds it upward, palm out. Then he curls his fingers, motioning once more for me to hand him my phone.

“Put him in the barn.”

“Jesus, Dad.” I can’t do that. The barn isn’t heated and as much as I don’t want Brock here, he can’t stay out there.

“I’ll tell him to find a hotel.”

“Good luck with that. I bet most are still booked from the holiday.” Christmas was only yesterday. “And I’d prefer he’s at the house. I don’t like you there alone.”

My breath comes sharp and quick, ready to remind him he left me here. But I’m a grown-ass woman of forty-one and I can take care of myself. In fact, being alone might be exactly what I need for some perspective. Time to build a plan for what’s next in the new year.

And the last thing I need is to be responsible for someone else.

Turning my shoulder to Brock, I whisper into the phone. “Dad, call him, and send him packing.”

“Nope.” Dad’s quiet a second, and I hear the blinker on his miniature school bus. The one he painted dark green and plastered Paradise Farms on the side where it once read School Bus. “Tell him this is his last chance.”

My mouth falls open ready to protest once more.

“Twelve days at Paradise Farms. Keep records of all he does, and I’ll evaluate his progress when I return. Now I need to concentrate on the road. The snow is starting to really fall.”

I glance toward the sky once more as he states, “Love you, Pear.”

A light dusting of flakes tickles my cheeks and sticks to my eyelashes, as I whisper, “Love you, too.”

The line goes dead, and I glance back at Brock, who is watching me. Eyes wide, hesitant yet hopeful.

Dammit.