Misconduct

“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.