Page 53 of Unspoken Rules

Why does he have to belittle everything I do? Why is nothing ever good enough for him? I know I’m not the best, but my art is better than a lot of other kids my age. I won an award, for crying out loud, and this is what I get?

My phone dings from my pocket, and after a few steady breaths, I pull it out.

Cole: That’s great work, Bryson. Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.

I wish I had a different father. I wish mine wasn’t so cruel!

I wish Christopher and I could trade places.

Bryson

Present day…

The sun beams down on me and I blink my eyes open, rolling onto my back. My mouth tastes like old beer and my body is stiff. I crawl out of bed and into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I stare at myself in the mirror.

“You’re an idiot, Bryson. A fucking idiot,” I tell myself and force a smile. “Congratulations.”

Last night replays in my head over and over, and the more it does, the less I want to go downstairs.

But it’s Sunday. And Sunday morning is breakfast.

Unless…

I wipe my mouth and head back into my room, looking for my phone. I find it under my bed and at only 6%. It’s 7:30, so they haven’t left for breakfast yet.

There’s a knock on my door, and I stare at it like I can see Cole on the other side, ready to tell me to pack my shit and get the hell out.

He knocks again, this time louder, causing me to jump.

I know it’s him because Chris would walk right in. Or try to, since I locked the door.

“Bryson, let’s go! Get ready for breakfast.”

For breakfast…

He’s gonna feed me before he kicks me out? Why am I not surprised? He’s too nice to do anything else. Send me packing with a full belly. He’ll probably hand me cash too. Well, I won’t accept it. I’m not taking anything from him.

I move to the door and pull it open.

“I don’t think breakfast is—”

“You’re going, whether you like it or not,” he says firmly, turning on his heel and heading down the stairs. “We don’t break traditions in this house!” he calls out.

He sounds pissed.

Like actually pissed.

I step into the hallway and go to Chris’s room, but don’t see him in it. I move inside, glancing into his bathroom, but the door is open and empty. I move to his window to look at the driveway. His car isn’t here.

Fuck.

Please let this fucker be alive.

I call him, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. I try again—same thing.

I call Mila, knowing she’ll be awake.

“Morning, Bryson,” she chirps. Bet she’s been up for hours already.

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