Misconduct

Finally looking up, she met my eyes, and I saw the need there that I was hard-pressed to ignore as well.

The car door opened and Christian appeared, climbing in and dropping his bag before he sat down. When I looked back, Easton was just disappearing back into the school.

I loosened my tie and set my phone down on the console. “How was your day?” I asked.

“Fine,” he responded.

Yes. Fine.

Okay, yes, no, maybe, whatever… His usual responses.

“Was that Sarah Richmond you were talking to?” I inquired. “Clyde Richmond’s daughter?”

He took out his phone and started scrolling with his thumb. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I talked to your mother today.” I crossed my legs, resting my ankle over the top of my other knee. “She would like you to go to Egypt for Christmas to spend some time with her.”

I didn’t want him to go. My father and his wife were planning a huge party, and Christian could get to know my side of the family better, not to mention that I’d never spent a Christmas with him.

But he sat there, focused on his phone, and nodded absently. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled.

I shook my head.

Picking up my phone, I texted him. Right there, two feet away from me, because he wouldn’t talk to me, so I had to text my kid to have a fucking conversation with him.

I would rather you stay. I clicked Send.

I heard his phone beep and watched his lips tighten when he saw it was from me. He started to look up but stopped, instead typing out a response, I assumed.

I don’t like you, he texted back.

I stared at it, hating those words and feeling my chest tighten like a rubber band was wrapping around my heart.

I know, I responded.

His phone beeped, and he hesitated, looking like he was wondering if he wanted to continue the conversation.

But he did.

You piss me off, he admitted.

I nodded as I typed. I do that to a lot of people.

I’m not a lot of people, he shot back immediately.

I paused, feeling guilty that I’d made him think he was no more important than anyone else in my life.

I know, I agreed.

He started typing, and I waited, but when he kept going and I hadn’t received a text, I stilled just as much out of gratitude as out of fear.

I was afraid he had more to say that would be hard to hear, but I was also elated that he was talking to me. Albeit texting, but it was still communication, and it was about as much open dialogue as we’d had since he’d moved in.

Patrick turned onto St. Charles and headed east toward the CBD when my phone buzzed.

I opened Christian’s message.

I used to see you on TV or in the newspaper, he wrote. You had time for everyone but me. I used to wonder what was wrong with me, and then I realized that you were just an asshole.

I gritted my teeth as I held the phone and tried to figure out what I was going to say to him. He was right, after all. There was no excuse and no reason good enough.

And I’d known this was coming.

Come on, Tyler. You’ve had fourteen years to figure out how to make this up to him. You got nothing?

My phone buzzed again.

You’re an asshole.

I texted quickly. I know.

A huge asshole! he shot back.

I know, I replied again.

That was all I could do.

He was right, and if I didn’t stay calm, I’d push him farther away.

And I’m sick of this jazz shit! he texted.

I forced away the smile that pulled at my lips. Patrick kept the music light – with no lyrics – per my request, since I often made phone calls or worked on my laptop in the car.

I texted back. What kind of music do you like to listen to?

Rock.

I licked my lips and looked up, calling out to Patrick.

“Patrick, could you put on a rock station, please?” I asked.

Without answering, he began spinning the dial in search of a different station. Finally, once he settled on a tune that sounded angry and talked about “home,” I leaned back in my seat and took the opportunity to push Christian further. He was talking to me – or yelling – but we still hadn’t accomplished anything.

We’ve got a party on Sunday, I texted. You could invite friends.

His phone beeped, and I glanced over out of the corner of my eye to see his eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he started typing.

I don’t want to go to a party.

I continued. Food, music, swimming… You and your friends can enjoy the pool before it gets cold.

He sat there, staring at the text and wiggling his thumbs over the screen, looking like he wasn’t sure how to answer. He hadn’t said no, so I sent another text before he found a way to say no.

I invited Clyde Richmond. His daughter may come. I hoped like hell that enticed him.

The luncheon was for business, but families and significant others were coming. Some bridges needed to be built, but it was supposed to be a relaxed occasion, as well. If Christian liked the girl, as he appeared to – and he had the safety of his friends – maybe he’d brave it.

He began typing, but it was a while before I got another text.

I invited a few people, he wrote.

My jaw ached with a smile, and I looked out the window, letting out a breath. He must’ve sent a mass text to his friends. He was giving me a shot, at least.

I had one foot in the door.

“Are we going home, sir?” Patrick’s voice came drifting back.

And I blinked, realizing I hadn’t told him where we were going.

“Ah, Commander’s Palace,” I told him. I was starving.

“Not again,” Christian blurted out, startling me.