Misconduct

And he knew it. He knew I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

He breathed out a laugh and gave me a condescending look. “Gimme a break,” he grumbled. “We barely resemble estranged brothers, much less father and son. Don’t start something we both know you won’t finish.”

Then he reached out for his phone, but I hardened my expression and pulled my hand away.

“I need my phone back,” he shot out, tension crossing his face. “Ms. Bradbury, or whatever her name is, lent me her battery, and I have to bring it back tomorrow.”

“Too bad,” I barked, stuffing his phone in my pocket and turning my burning eyes to my brother. “You know, that’s really the problem here. Role models like teachers who enable children to continue to disconnect from the world.”

“Well, you would know,” Christian bit out at my side. “You disconnect all the time, and you don’t need technology to do it.”

I tipped my chin down, tightening my jaw. Jesus Christ.

If I weren’t so fucking pissed, I might’ve laughed.

I remembered getting in my father’s face time and again when I was younger. Christian looked exactly like me, but even if he didn’t, there would be no doubt he was my kid. I’d been just as defiant at that age.

“Your energies belong elsewhere,” Jay pointed out, trying to reel my focus back in, “and your time is sparse,” he reminded me.

My energies belong elsewhere. My time is sparse.

Meaning my brother didn’t think fighting a losing battle with my kid was a good use of my time.

I looked over at Christian, watching him stare at nothing out his window and finding my chest tightening.

My shit relationship with my kid was my own fault. It had been no surprise when he’d fought his mother and me about staying here for the year instead of going with her to Africa.

He needed time. Of course, it was time I didn’t have, but even when I did try, he shut me out.

I knew I wouldn’t win any fatherhood awards, but I had supported him his entire life and I’d always treated him well. I’d taken care of his wants and needs, and maybe I’d never pushed hard enough and maybe I’d never put him as a top priority, but I’d had no idea it was going to be this hard to bond with him later on. I didn’t exactly get along with my father all the time, either, but I respected him.

Christian couldn’t respect me any less than he already did.

And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the voice in my head that said it was too late.

The car turned up Prytania Street, dipping along one of many of the broken, potholed roads of New Orleans.

I turned my eyes out the window as well, the conversation in the car having gone silent.

I took in the evening bustle of the city, with its array of boutiques, shops, and intimate restaurants. Out of every neighborhood in the city – the Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, the Warehouse District, Midtown, Uptown – it was the Garden District that captivated me the most.

Nestled between St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street, Prytania had some of the best architecture in a neighborhood adorned with vibrant colors, flowers, and foliage, and the best restaurants located in buildings that probably wouldn’t pass any health-code inspections. The wealthy and pristine blended effortlessly with the chipped and aged, and that was called character. You couldn’t buy it, and you couldn’t describe it.

But it was the same thing that made a house a home.

The nineteenth-century mansions loomed on both sides, protected behind their wrought-iron gates and massive live oaks lining the street. Gas flames flickered in lanterns hanging outside front doors, and cyclists cruised past with either backpacks strapped to their backs – probably students – or instruments secured to their bodies – street performers.

Lightning flashed outside, energizing the life on the streets, and then thunder cracked, reminding me that it was hurricane season. We’d be getting a lot of rain in the coming weeks.

We drove up the long street, entering the quieter and even more picturesque section, and then slowed to turn into my driveway, taking us deeper into the veil of trees, behind which sat my home.

The old Victorian, surrounded by a generous plot of land, was three stories tall and featured a pool and a guesthouse on the grounds. Even though it had been in desperate need of renovations when I’d bought it ten years ago, I hadn’t doubted my purchase for a moment. The beauty of the home was in the quiet, isolated feel of its position even though I was in the heart of the city.

Bars, restaurants, and shops sat only a short distance away, but inside the house, you wouldn’t know it.

The home was surrounded by an acre of land with the lushest grass and foliage I’d ever seen, as well as a few old oaks that created a canopy around the edges, hiding the house and allowing me the privacy I enjoyed.

And even though my son and I were barely on speaking terms, I knew he loved it here as well.

His mother and her husband lived in the more sedate Uptown area, not far from here in distance – only a matter of blocks – but worlds apart in terms of liveliness and culture.

After pulling into the carport, my driver got out to open our doors, but Christian swung his door open first and bolted out, obviously still angry that he’d lost his phone.

I hadn’t planned on keeping it, but since he’d chosen to be disrespectful, I might, after all.

His mother had said that I needed to earn his love, and that may be true – he had no reason to like me, and I knew that – but I wouldn’t coddle him, either. He’d show his elders respect, because it was good manners. If I tried to get his love first, he might never take me seriously.