Page 70 of Grouch-ish

“Dad, I can explain.”

“You better explain.” Dad points at Brock, ignoring me and focusing an accusing scowl in Brock’s direction. He takes a step closer to us where Brock stands beside me, but I don’t miss the incremental shift. The moment he slides a little bit away from me.

I rush forward. “Dad, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Whose was it then?” Brock asks from behind me.

I hang my head before looking back at him. “Mine.”

“Explain this to me.” Brock’s hands come to his hips, his eyes are liquid ink again, on the verge of returning to dark coal. Questions well in his gaze, when I haven’t worked out the answers yet.

I didn’t really know why I did what I’ve done.

“You seemed so desperate for a chance to prove yourself to Dad.” My voice falters.

“Are you turning this around on me?” Brock snaps, poking one thick finger against his bare chest. “I could have gone home, is that right?”

Brock looks up at Dad. Neither Dad nor I answer, as Dad’s gaze shifts to me, brows cinched deeply in confusion. And disappointment.

I scramble to explain myself, keeping my gaze on Brock who refuses to look at me.

“When my dad sent a text that I could send you home, I intended to send you packing. But when you came to the door, all huffing and puffing about not finding a motel, I . . .” I what? Let him in. Made a space for the big bad wolf.

“You took advantage of me,” Brock whispers, his gaze floating to me and holding.

“Not what it looks like from my perspective,” Dad interjects, disgruntled and verging on his own example of an angered wolf.

“But I didn’t,” I say to Brock, my voice rising as I step in his direction again. “Look at all you did in twelve days. You gave owls a home and helped some cows. You donated to the Special Olympics and aided a farmer. You fixed Dad’s fence and a few pieces of furniture.”

My gaze shifts to Dad whose brows lower only a little. His expression shifting from upset father to puzzled mentor.

“Don’t forget making Valentine’s pears and chopping wood,” Brock mocks.

“Valentine’s pears?” Dad questions and I turn toward him.

“Brock put in his twelve days, Dad. He should be exonerated or considered restored or whatever you call it. He agreed to attend future therapy sessions.”

“That’s none of his business,” Brock snaps again, fire and smoke in his words.

“You did?” Dad asks, glancing over my shoulder at his charge.

When I shift once more, Brock ignores Dad. The full weight of his cold stare is on me.

“Explain this to me.” Brock points at the fallen fort. The heap of blankets that was once our little haven.

This is where it gets complicated. This is where I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was tired of hurting. Selfish.

“It’s the loneliest time of the year,” I whisper. Sometimes a girl just wants her daddy. My one safe place but he was leaving for twelve long days.

Brock’s brows hitch then crease.

I lower my voice when I say, “And I thought you seemed lonely, too.”

That divot between Brock’s brows turns into a deep furrow. “So you thought you’d . . . what? Lead me on? Take advantage of me? Let me hang out thinking I was working on myself only to learn you were working me instead.”

“Hey,” Dad snaps, causing me to flinch.

“It wasn’t like that.” But my voice is too weak, the defense even weaker. His explanation might sum it up. I didn’t want to be alone, but I shouldn’t have told him he could stay.