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“John, Tyler isn’t just angry. He’s stewing so hot in his own juices he’s going to destroy what little he has, and none of that is going to be on you. You’ve made overture after overture.”
“Too little too late.”
Dad’s exasperated sigh reaches through the phone and wraps around my neck. I didn’t get a lot of words of wisdom from him when I was a young man. These days, he more than makes up for it.
I appreciate his love and concern, but some mountains are too high.
“Say, son.” Dad’s tone signals he’s moving on. “Your Aunt Susan is in town visiting your mom for a few days. How about I hitch up my boat and you and I tool up and down that river you got out at your place and catch us some nice fish?”
“I still have a job, you know.”
“And vacation time spilling out your ears. Come on, what do you say?”
Hollie’s atrociously ugly car no longer occupies my driveway when I round the corner onto my cul-de-sac. Oddly, the house looks worse for its absence. I’d held onto a thread of hope that I might catch her when she came for her things.
What’s even worse is the presence of the banged up, decade-old sedan in the driveway, which I take longer than I should to recognize as my son’s. It’s the collection of ugly stickers on the rear windshield, emblems for dark metal or alternative bands—heck if I know which, or even what it’s called—that tip me off.
It’s quite possible I do not have the mental capacity to deal with Tyler right now.
I park in front of the garage and stare at the house. Sadly, I am acutely and happily aware of the presence of my sidearm in the holster yet draped around my shoulder.
My lungs threaten collapse at the unbidden thought. My own son...
But Dad’s right. I’ve felt the burn of Tyler’s hatred, and his rage is a grave matter.
Pausing, I assess. Tyler isn’t in his vehicle and lights are on in the house. How did he get inside?
Stepping out of the car, I let my tired sigh be as hearty as it needs to be since no one is around to declare me weak because of it. Up the sidewalk I go, opening the front door with a sad amount of caution.
Tyler is on my sofa puffing on a cigarette.
In my new house.
I toss my key onto the entry table. When I look again, he’s dropping his cancer stick through the opening of a mostly empty water bottle. He stands, staring me in the eye, uncharacteristic uncertainty creeping into his expression. “Your girlfriend let me in.”
Girlfriend. Ouch.
My fists begin to curl. Hollie had to deal with Tyler? Hopefully not in one of his moods.
“I think I scared her off.”
My heart thumps. “So you’re saying you were your regular, cheery self, is that it?”Mess with me, not Hollie.
Our stares lock on like radar in a dogfight. He blinks first, his narrow shoulders sloping down. It’s the first sign of…softening…I’ve seen in years.
Careful curiosity edges its way past my caution. “What’s wrong, s—Tyler?” I’ve learned a thing or two this last week about calling a kidsonwho either isn’t my son in the first place or is my child and doesn’t want to be.
I know. Another me problem.
His chin comes up. I sense he’s hanging onto the tough, but only by his fingernails. In a rush, even that whooshes out of him. “Dani left me.”
Crack. A fissure runs right down the middle of my hopes, hopes that Tyler could pull it together and avoid my mistakes. Brayden needs two parents.
I want badly to put my arms around my son. Instead, I step around the muddy brown chair at the edge of my pathetic furniture grouping, motioning for him to sit and doing so myself. I fold my hands between my knees. “What happened?”
The softness vanishes. “It’s your fault, you know.”
I nod. “I know.”
