Misconduct by Penelope Douglas

EIGHT

TYLER

“Hey,” I greeted Christian as I walked into the dark kitchen. “How did practice go?”

He was sitting at the granite island, leaning back in his chair with his thumbs jutting out furiously on his phone.

“Fine,” he replied, not looking at me.

His eyebrows were pinched together, heavy in concentration on whatever he was doing, or maybe he was just trying to look like he was busy.

He grabbed a piece of popcorn out of the bowl in front of him and tossed it into the air, catching it in his mouth.

I glanced down at the floor, shaking my head and smiling at the evidence that he wasn’t a perfect shot every time.

I walked around the island and opened the refrigerator, grabbing a beer.

“The rain is starting,” I told him. “Do me a favor and make sure the shutters in your bedroom are drawn and all of your windows are locked.”

“Mrs. Giroux already made the rounds to all the rooms,” he told me, continuing to type on his phone.

“Good.” I nodded, twisting the lid off my longneck. “I don’t think the hurricane will hit us, but I want you to stay inside unless you’re in school or with me.”

The storm had entered the Gulf, but its trajectory showed it heading toward Florida, so, at most, we were looking at a tropical storm.

“There is no school.”

I swallowed the beer and gave him a questioning look. “What are you talking about?”

He looked up at me as if I was supposed to know. “They canceled school until Thursday,” he announced. “They’re anticipating some flooding, so I’m off for the next two days.”

I set the beer down with a clunk and placed my hands on the island, staring at him.

“Do they send home notes letting parents know this sh—” I stopped myself. “Stuff?” I corrected.

“Yeah,” he answered, sounding sarcastic as he put his hand on the paper on the island and pushed it over. “They also e-mailed the parents, if you cared to check.”

I picked up the light blue piece of paper and read the notice.

The school sat in a depressed piece of land, and due to the heavy rains expected, they didn’t feel it was safe for students or teachers to be traveling the streets to and from the school.

“Oh,” I mumbled, calming down. “Well, that’s a nice surprise, I guess. I used to love surprise days off as a kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” he shot back, grabbing his Dr Pepper off the counter and taking a drink. “You missed that part, remember?”

I set the paper down, loosening my tie and slipping off my jacket.

What was he trying to accomplish with this behavior?

I took a deep breath and let it roll off me.

“Well, the Saints are playing tonight,” I said, looking over my shoulder at him as I grabbed a sandwich off the plate in the refrigerator. “I was thinking we could hit Manning’s for a bite to eat and watch the game.”

He hopped off his chair and picked up his soda. “Marcus’s dad is taking him to their cabin in Mississippi to fish for a couple days to get away from the rain. They invited me.” He started to walk out of the kitchen. “They’ll be here to pick me up in half an hour.”

What? 

I slammed the refrigerator door closed and charged after him.

“Stop!” I barked, following after him down the hallway. “I didn’t give you permission to go anywhere. Do you even know how to fish?”

He rounded the staircase and stopped to look at me, disdain written all over his face.

“My dad has taken me fishing,” he pointed out, talking about his stepfather. “Many times. And I’ve been to Marcus’s cabin. Many times since elementary school. I wonder why you don’t know this,” he sniped, and continued jogging up the steps.

“Christian, stop!” I ordered again, my fist wrapping around the banister as I glared up at him.

That prick was not his father. I was.

“Goddamn it, Christian,” I gritted out, talking to his back. “I know nothing about you. I know that.” I tried to slow my breathing. My pulse was raging. “I messed up a lot,” I added. “And I was never there. I never put you first, and I’m sorry.”

I lowered my eyes, knowing he had every reason to hate me. Who was I to him anyway?

“I need you to start letting me in.” I spoke quietly. “Let me get to know you.”

I heard footfalls and looked up to see him continuing up the stairs away from me.

“When you start trying, maybe I will,” he called back before disappearing around the corner.

I started after him, but then Jay’s voice came from behind me. He’d just stepped out of my office.

“Just let him go,” he urged.

I stopped, looking up at the top of the stairs. “I’ve been letting him go.”

“So what are you going to do?” he challenged. “Keep him from going, so you can take him fishing instead?” I heard the teasing note in his voice. “Or hiking?” he suggested, knowing all too well that I didn’t have time to do either. “We have work to do, Tyler.”

I closed my eyes, feeling fucking defeated.

Jay was right.

I could chuck everything and spend the weekend fishing with my kid with my phone turned off and the laptops abandoned at home, and we’d have a great time.

But then e-mails would back up, production would stop because I wasn’t there to hold hands and make decisions, and Mason Blackwell would have more endorsements, because he’d stayed home and kept working.

I could tell my kid that things would calm down after the campaign.

And then I’d promise him I’d be there after the election.

And then there’d be this trip or that, and he would realize as well as me that the choices I refused to make still had consequences. They already did.

I walked back down the stairs, refusing to look at my brother as I passed him.

“Go home,” I told him.

 

 

Christian left around six, and I spent the rest of the evening in my office, going over quarterly budgets and making calls to set up new contracts.

I e-mailed my assistant, Corinne, to make flight arrangements first thing tomorrow for a trip to Asia in late November and to begin making arrangements for a luncheon I wanted to host at the house in a couple of weeks.

We could try to make it a family affair. Christian might like being able to invite friends.

It would probably be the only way I could get him to attend.

Then I researched some information online and faxed Jay my notes to add to the speech he was editing for me for a city council meeting later in the week.

“Mr. Marek.”

I glanced up from my desk to see Mrs. Giroux, the housekeeper, standing in the doorway.

“Hi.” I stood up, walking to the bar to fix a drink. “What are you still doing here?”

She entered, carrying something under her arm. “I went out for supplies, just in case.” She smiled, her blond hair – graying around her face – tied back in a low ponytail.

“We weren’t stocked with batteries or water, among other things,” she added. “You should be good to go now if the storm intensifies.”

“Okay, good,” I commented. “Thank you.”

I was glad she had thought ahead. Most residents of New Orleans – especially people like me, who’d lived here their whole lives – knew to keep bottled water, canned goods, and things like flashlights, batteries, and first aid supplies on hand. We were used to storms and torrential rains, so when we could stay in the city and weather it, we did.

When we couldn’t in safety, we left.

The rain wasn’t terrible yet, but it would be a monsoon out there tomorrow.

And by Thursday we’d have streets full of leaves, trash to clean up, and mud puddles to avoid.

I replaced the cap on the Chivas and walked with my glass back to my desk.

She approached. “I was just heading out, but I found Christian’s laptop in the TV room.” She handed it over. “I’m not sure where his charger is, and I didn’t want to leave it on the floor.”

I took it and set it down on top of my closed one.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Now get home before your husband comes down on me,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes and waved me off. “All right. I’ll see how the weather is the day after tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Will do.”

I watched her leave and then picked up the laptop, ready to set it aside, but then I stopped, hesitating for a moment.

Social media groups. 

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I set the laptop back down and opened it up.

I powered up the computer and brought up the Internet. Facebook was the home page, and I held back, feeling guilty about invading his privacy.

But I wasn’t prying unnecessarily. I was researching. I wanted to know what my son was like.

There was a shit ton of selfies, mostly young girls, and I immediately scrolled quicker, suddenly feeling like a perv for nosing around their adolescent world.

I caught sight of his groups on the left and saw MS. BRADBURY FIRST PERIOD and clicked on it.

Scrolling down the posts, I saw photos of student work, discussion threads about what they had talked about that day, and even parents commenting with their opinions on a historical event.

The participation was widespread, and everyone seemed excited.

I couldn’t help feeling like shit.

Christian was in this group, interacting with his peers, their parents, and his teacher, and I was nowhere.

I saw a message from Ms. Bradbury posted about two hours ago, wishing the kids a pleasant and safe few days off and to not forget to work on their assignments which were still due Friday.

Some of the students commented with pictures or jokes all done in good humor. They seemed to like her.

And I still knew almost nothing about her.

I closed the laptop and set it aside, opening up my own again.

I hesitated for only a moment, and then brought up my web browser, typing in “Easton Bradbury.”