Working together had never been a problem. Until now.
An average assistant would know their boundaries. A brother had none.
“Look,” he started, “I’m not saying you can’t —”
“That’s right.” I cut him off, nodding. “You’re not telling me anything.”
I let his expertise drive the invitations I accepted, the platform I created, as well as guide my campaign, but I would keep Easton separate.
It wasn’t that my brother didn’t have a right to ask. I just didn’t care to hear what I knew he would say.
“Tessa McAuliffe is our business,” I clarified. “Whoever I fuck is mine.”
I’d gathered in my short and limited experience as a father that being a parent was like tossing marbles up into the air and seeing how many would land in a shot glass.
I’d read enough and seen enough to know that kids could grow up in the worst hell and become valedictorians and doctors. Or they could be raised in privilege with two parents and Christmas trees stocked with gifts and still die of overdoses or by suicide.
One irrefutable fact about parenting that I knew even before I was one was that there was no “right” way. No set list of proven methods to follow if you wanted your kid to captain a submarine or conduct orchestras or be president.
If you pushed them to succeed, they could resent you. If you didn’t push them enough, they could still resent you. If you gave them what they needed, they would complain about not having what they wanted, and if you gave them what they wanted, they may only want more.
How much was too much? How much was too little? How hard should you push to be able to call it encouragement, because if you pushed too hard, they’d call it bad parenting?
How do they know that you love them? How do you know if they love you?
How do you know if they’re going to be okay?
I stared out the car window, watching Christian talking to a couple of girls, and there was an ocean of regret for the years I’d missed. I could tell myself that he’d turned out well. Maybe if I had been in his life, he wouldn’t have become this strong or confident, but I knew I was making excuses. I should’ve been there.
Easton stood at the bottom of the stone steps, smiling as she talked to a parent, her arms crossed. The students had just gotten out of school, and although Patrick usually picked Christian up, I’d decided to be here as well. I’d worked through lunch, even stopping Corinne from ordering food, so I didn’t waste time eating. I still had a few loose ends to tie up for the day, but I could get to that after Christian and I had dinner.
“Patrick?” I leaned forward and handed him a small black bag. “Would you please take this to Miss Bradbury?” I told him. “And hurry Christian up, please.”
“Yes, sir.” He reached around and took the bag, then hopped out of the car, leaving me alone.
I watched as he traipsed over to Easton, interrupting her conversation. Politely, I was sure, knowing Patrick.
She smiled at him, and the parent waved goodbye to her as she took the bag Patrick offered. Her face was a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn’t place. Curiosity, maybe?
She knew Patrick, so she had to know it was from me. He bowed his head quickly, saying goodbye, and she dipped her head, peering into the bag.
I watched her, my heart starting to beat faster, and I had to remind myself that I’d see her Sunday.
She slipped her hand into the bag and picked out the small box. Opening it up, she plucked out the smoky gray Lamborghini lighter I’d stopped to buy on the way here.
Her eyebrows pinched together as she cocked her head, studying it. I almost laughed, because she looked intrigued but utterly confused. Easton, I already knew, wasn’t a woman who liked to be caught off guard, and I enjoyed gaining the upper hand this once.
She pushed the button and jerked a little, breaking out in a smile as the flame appeared. Reaching back into the bag, she plucked out the small white card and read my message.
Don’t set any fires without me, it read.
She smiled to herself, the genuine kind of smile she always tried to hide. I knew if I were next to her I’d be able to see her blush.
Finally looking up, she met my eyes, and I saw the need there that I was hard-pressed to ignore as well.
The car door opened and Christian appeared, climbing in and dropping his bag before he sat down. When I looked back, Easton was just disappearing back into the school.
I loosened my tie and set my phone down on the console. “How was your day?” I asked.
“Fine,” he responded.
Yes. Fine.
Okay, yes, no, maybe, whatever… His usual responses.
“Was that Sarah Richmond you were talking to?” I inquired. “Clyde Richmond’s daughter?”
He took out his phone and started scrolling with his thumb. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I talked to your mother today.” I crossed my legs, resting my ankle over the top of my other knee. “She would like you to go to Egypt for Christmas to spend some time with her.”
I didn’t want him to go. My father and his wife were planning a huge party, and Christian could get to know my side of the family better, not to mention that I’d never spent a Christmas with him.
But he sat there, focused on his phone, and nodded absently. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled.
I shook my head.
Picking up my phone, I texted him. Right there, two feet away from me, because he wouldn’t talk to me, so I had to text my kid to have a fucking conversation with him.
I would rather you stay. I clicked Send.
I heard his phone beep and watched his lips tighten when he saw it was from me. He started to look up but stopped, instead typing out a response, I assumed.
I don’t like you, he texted back.
I stared at it, hating those words and feeling my chest tighten like a rubber band was wrapping around my heart.
I know, I responded.
His phone beeped, and he hesitated, looking like he was wondering if he wanted to continue the conversation.
But he did.
You piss me off, he admitted.
I nodded as I typed. I do that to a lot of people.
I’m not a lot of people, he shot back immediately.
I paused, feeling guilty that I’d made him think he was no more important than anyone else in my life.
I know, I agreed.
He started typing, and I waited, but when he kept going and I hadn’t received a text, I stilled just as much out of gratitude as out of fear.
I was afraid he had more to say that would be hard to hear, but I was also elated that he was talking to me. Albeit texting, but it was still communication, and it was about as much open dialogue as we’d had since he’d moved in.
Patrick turned onto St. Charles and headed east toward the CBD when my phone buzzed.
I opened Christian’s message.
I used to see you on TV or in the newspaper, he wrote. You had time for everyone but me. I used to wonder what was wrong with me, and then I realized that you were just an asshole.
I gritted my teeth as I held the phone and tried to figure out what I was going to say to him. He was right, after all. There was no excuse and no reason good enough.
And I’d known this was coming.
Come on, Tyler. You’ve had fourteen years to figure out how to make this up to him. You got nothing?
My phone buzzed again.
You’re an asshole.
I texted quickly. I know.
A huge asshole! he shot back.
I know, I replied again.
That was all I could do.
He was right, and if I didn’t stay calm, I’d push him farther away.
And I’m sick of this jazz shit! he texted.
I forced away the smile that pulled at my lips. Patrick kept the music light – with no lyrics – per my request, since I often made phone calls or worked on my laptop in the car.