Page 87 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

Who the hell told her I’m off my meds? Because I’m not. I take them religiously, reminders on my phone and everything. I would never risk my relationship with my son by being that reckless.

I text her:

[AUGUST: of course I’m on my meds. I don’t screw around with that stuff. What’s going on? Who told you that?]

Another message pops up.

[PRISCILLA: Fine, then just come over. Owen’s really upset ur not here. We’ll talk after he’s down.]

That’s all I need. I can clear this up. I have to clear this up.

Owen is my primary priority.

Always.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, yank the gearshift into reverse, back out, and tear out of the parking lot toward the South Austin neighborhood where my son is apparently in distress. The whole way there I keep the needle locked exactly on the limit, both hands at ten and two. The last thing I need tonight is a ticket when I’m trying to prove what a responsible father I am.

Priscilla’s street is the kind of quiet that used to make me feel like I’d made it. Squat brick ranch houses with sprinklers and basketball hoops bolted over every third garage. Her place is the one with the flower bed she’s babied since she moved in.

The driveway’s empty, which means God is kind and Priscilla asked Trent to make himself scarce so we can work out our parenting shit without him hovering. She’s good like that. She doesn’t triangulate him into our parenting shit. I also understand why he hates me. Like everyone else, he probably assumes a big guy like me is automatically volatile. Priscilla knows me better than that.

Yeah, I’ve been in a bar fight or two in my life. But I’ve never been anything but gentle with her or Owen.

So I sit in the truck a second, breathe several times on purpose, and then push out and walk up to the front door.

I knock lightly so I don’t get Owen all riled up—the little buddy overstimulates easy, and if he’s already upset I don’t want to make it?—

Which is right when the door opens.

To my brother’s smug-ass face.

What the fuck? This is the last thing I need or can handle today.

“August. Took you long enough to respond to the mother of your child’s distressed call.”

I look around in confusion, but don’t see Priscilla. I have no idea what’s actually happening here.

It clicks immediately, though, exactly where she heard the lie that I’m off my meds.

I push past him into the house and call out, “Scilla? Scilla, it’s me, August.”

The living room swallows me for a second before I can get my bearings. Owen’s building blocks are still fanned out across the rug where he must’ve abandoned them mid-tower. There’s a basket of clean laundry nobody’s folded yet balanced on the arm of the couch. The big front window looks out over Priscilla’s flower bed, sheer curtains pulled back to let the evening in. It’s the kind of ordinary, lived-in domestic scene I used to belong to and now only visit.

Usually I feel comforted by the hominess every time I step inside. Like it’s a place where a kid might grow up happy.

But tonight, the quiet in here makes the hair stand up on my arms.

I don’t notice the door shutting behind me until I turn and find my ownmother, of all people, planted in front of it.

Again, what thehellis going on here?

“Priscilla?” I call out again. “Trent?” I’ll take the all-American football player as backup at this point, honestly. Something is seriously not right.

“They’re not here. They took Owen to go stay with Trent’s parents.” My mother’s mouth curls, satisfied. “Nice guy, by the way. He’ll be a good father to your son.”

“What the hell did you say to them?” I ask. “Why does Priscilla think I’m off my meds?”

Jake shrugs, that same congenial smile still fixed in place. “I just stopped by and explained how out of control you are right now. Destroying your own brother’s marriage by recklessly seducing my wife. I told her I had to call the cops when youthreatened me a couple weeks ago. And how it’s only been escalating since then. How frankly right now, you’re dangerous.”