The Home-wrecker (The Goode Brothers)

“I’m just glad everyone’s okay.” Adam Goode stands in front of what’s left of my house. And while I normally like my boss’s boyfriend, right now, I’d like to deliver a hard right to his handsome fucking face. The last thing I need at this moment is his positivity bullshit.

Sure, I’m also glad my father wasn’t hurt in the fire, but I’m still fucking pissed it happened in the first place.

The gray smoke continues to billow from the hole left above my garage, even though the fire has long been put out. Firefighters are still dousing it with water, and I can’t tear my eyes away from everything I own being ruined even more. If it wasn’t burned, it’s being soaked.

My father groans from the ambulance, and it’s the only thing that steals my attention away.

“Is he okay?” I ask as I approach where they have him resting on a stretcher in the back of the truck. His oxygen tank is still sitting at his side, the tubes in his nose and a blood pressure cuff on his arm.

“Vitals seem fine,” the paramedic replies.

“I’m so sorry, son,” my father mutters.

I don’t reply. What would I say?

It’s not your fault. It was.

It’s okay, Dad. It’s not.

We’ll be fine. We won’t.

He’s still dying. Now he’s just dying and homeless.

I’ve caught him smoking in his room a few times before, and it wasn’t just the fact that he’s still fucking smoking and drinking that pissed me off. It was the fact that when I caught him smoking, he was passed out with the cigarette still between his fingers and ashes all over his chest.

I warned him that he’d burn the house down. He’s lucky he didn’t get the flame close enough to his oxygen tank.

But he doesn’t listen to me. He never listens to me.

And he’s always so sorry, which only makes me feel like an asshole for being so angry at him.

“We got you two a room at the hotel for a couple of nights,” Sage says with her phone in her hand as she approaches us. I didn’t ask her and Adam to come, but they insisted. And I hate to say it, but their kindness grates on my nerves.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter indignantly. I fucking hate charity.

“We know, but we want to help,” she replies.

My shoulders tense as I bite my tongue. Because what the fuck are we supposed to do after those two nights? Where will we go?

As if the cards weren’t stacked against us enough, now I have to tend to my terminally ill father in a hotel room.

Adam takes a step closer. “Do you happen to know anyone else in the area who could give you a place to stay while they do repairs?”

“No,” I mumble.

I despise the expression on Adam’s face. I can tell just by the way he’s concentrating that he’s trying to come up with a solution for me, and I want to tell him to stop. Not being able to stand being helped is a stubborn, useless trait of mine, but I’d rather sit here and struggle alone than let anyone else help me, especially out of the goodness of their heart.

But that’s just how the Goode family is. They’re a church family through and through. I was around them for a couple of years as a kid. From the age of twelve to fourteen, I practically lived at the Goode residence because I was best friends with Adam’s youngest brother, Isaac.

That is until I was shoved out of his life for being a bad influence and told to never return. A few years later, he vanished into thin air during our senior year of high school. Turns out the God-fearing patriarch of the family wasn’t so altruistic when it came to his gay son.

I hated his father even before that day, and I’ve hated him ten times more since then.

I have nothing against Adam. He was so much older than us growing up that he was moved out before I even started coming around. But if I ever see that other Goode brother again, I swear…

“Caleb’s got a room for rent, doesn’t he?” Sage says enthusiastically to Adam, who immediately nods.

Meanwhile, I’m frozen in place at the sound of that name.

“That’s right. He does,” Adam replies. “I’m sure he’d be willing to offer it to a family friend in need.”

A family friend.

“It’s upstairs, though,” Sage adds. “Won’t that be a problem for Dean’s dad?”

“Oh yeah…” Adam puts that contemplative expression back on his face.

My teeth are clenched so tight my jaw hurts. I scratch the back of my neck without responding to their offer. I need this conversation to end right now before I explode.

“You guys mind if we talk about this tomorrow? I need to get my dad to the hotel so he can rest.”

“Of course,” they respond in unison.

“Can we offer you a ride?” Adam asks.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I, uh, appreciate all of your help, though.”

After helping my dad to the car, I make sure everything is squared away with the fire department before pulling away from the rubble of my home.

I stand by the bathroom door, listening intently in case my dad falls and gets hurt. He is still insistent on showering himself, although I’ve offered to help. When he finally comes out, he’s gasping for breath, like he’s just finished climbing ten flights of stairs.

“You okay?” I ask with a hand on his back as I guide him to the first bed.

“I’m fine,” he rasps breathlessly as he leans against the headboard in the thick sweats I bought at the store on the way to the hotel.

He looks so elderly now. I’m used to having a dad so much older than the dads of other people my age. When I was growing up and had friends with dads in their thirties and forties, my dad was already in his late sixties. He and my mom had me when he was almost fifty. She wasn’t interested in raising a child at her age, so she ran off with some guy she met when I was only seven.

From that point, it was just me and a man who should have been enjoying his retirement. A man who most people assumed was my grandfather. A man who sacrificed everything for me.

I know that everyone in our town assumed my dad was a shitty father. That he drank too much and didn’t provide me with the life I deserved, but they were wrong. He’s not perfect, but no one is. The truth is that he was the best dad he could have been.

And now he needs me, and I can’t do shit about it.

After my dad is settled, I take a quick shower and order some food. Then I sit at the desk and open my laptop.

“Son,” my father mutters in his gravelly, breathless voice across the room.

“What, Dad?” I ask, not looking up from the claims page on my insurance company’s website.

“You should take that place.”

“Huh?” I ask, not entirely paying attention.

“Take the place that man offered you.”

“You heard him,” I reply without glancing up. “It’s on the second floor. Those stairs would kill you.”

Not to mention, the room is owned by the one person in this town I hate. But I don’t tell my dad that part.

“I don’t mean for me, Dean. I’m mean for you.”

Finally, I do look up. “What are you talking about? Where the hell are you going to go?”

“The retirement community can take care of me, so you don’t have to. And they have hospice there when the time comes.”

“Fuck that,” I mumble, shutting down the argument. “I’m not leaving you to some fucking nurses. I will take care of you.”

“Goddammit, son. Will you just listen to me? I’m tired of being…” He pauses to catch his breath, his eyes fluttering closed as he fights the urge to pass out.

“Jesus, Dad. Calm down.” I shut my laptop and cross the room toward him, checking the settings on his oxygen tank.

When he finally settles down, he’s wearing an expression of frustration. And I get it. I’d hate to be in his shoes. I’d hate feeling so helpless that others have to take care of me. I hate the thought of needing anyone.

I will never let myself get to this point, though.

But I also won’t have a stubborn-as-fuck grown kid to relentlessly keep me alive, either.

“I’m serious, Dean,” he rasps. “I’m done. You’re twenty-six. You shouldn’t be taking care of an old man who smoked too much and lived like a goddamn fool. My insurance and retirement fund will cover it. Just call them.”

“I said no, you stubborn old fucker.”

“I’m not backing down from this fight,” he says with a grunt. “You can either take me to that home, or I’ll call a taxi myself. You hear me? Now go. Call them.”

I stand upright and cross my arms over my chest. Inside, I’m fuming, but this anger burns like pain. And fear.

What if I drop him off at some retirement home, and he passes away without me there?

What if they’re too busy with someone else and they don’t get him his medicine on time?

Why doesn’t he think about these things like I do?

“You won’t be able to smoke there, you know,” I say indignantly.

He waves me off. “Like they could stop me.”

“Come on,” I argue. “This is ridiculous. We don’t need to put you in a home. We’ll figure it out. Can’t you just give me a chance to figure it out?”

“I’m the one who fucked up, son. Why should you have to pay for it?” he says. When he talks a lot like this, he starts to get out of breath. I hate the way his skin turns gray, the way it is now.

“Dad, stop⁠—”

He puts up a hand, cutting off my words. As I kneel down in front of him, I feel a lump building in my throat. He looks so miserable.

I watch him struggle through nasty coughs for a while, and when he finally gets through it, he turns his glassy stare toward me. The look in his eyes is pleading, and I realize that I have to give in.

The nurses at the home could give him real care. They could have doctors on hand. They’d keep him comfortable, and it’s a lot more than I can offer at the moment.

“Son,” he rasps. “Please.”

With a heavy sigh, I nod. “Fine. I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” he mouths before resting his tired eyes and letting his head flop onto the pillow.

I return to my laptop when he’s asleep but can’t focus on the insurance page. I’m dreading that call tomorrow. I’m dreading the moment when I have to leave him at the home. I’m dreading the moment when I have to take Adam Goode’s stupid charity.

I just keep thinking that doing the right thing feels a lot like failure.