Page 32 of Unspoken Rules

“Bart?”

“Pain in my fucking ass.” I groan, leaning back in the chair and bringing my attention to the ceiling.

“Weird you say that. He showed up at the store on Friday.”

“You’re shitting me…”

“Nope. He was heading in when I was leaving. Thought it was weird, honestly. What the hell would he being doing at DeFrancos?”

“Ruining my life, that’s what.” I shake my head.

“Hold on,” he says. “Is he still giving you shit over the Tabitha thing?”

I sigh heavily, placing an elbow on my desk and leaning on it. “Pretty sure that’s part of it.”

“That was like thirty years ago,” Jeremy says.

Don’t I know it? Bart Montgomery has had it out for me ever since I “stole Tabitha” from him. He’s never forgiven me for her cheating on him with me, and when his son started hanging out with mine, and coming to my house all the time, his hatred grew. When Bryson went off to college in Rhode Island for art, Bart got even more mad at me. The man just blames me for everything wrong in his life.

We were sixteen when Tabitha cheated on him. What teenager takes anyone else’s feelings into consideration? Not many. And according to Tabitha, he was an asshole even back then, so he probably deserved it. And as for Bryson? I was just trying to be a good person, supporting him and being there for him when no one else was. I’m honestly surprised Bart never told Bryson about the Tabitha thing to make him hate me. Probably because he’s embarrassed. Or maybe he did tell him, and he just doesn’t care.

“Just let me know if you hear anything,” I say to Jeremy.

“Will do. Fuck that asshole.”

I chuckle, then say goodbye.

I spin in my chair and look out the full wall of windows at the backyard. It’s looking good. I’ve spent a lot of time fixing it up. Only thing left to do is tear down that old shed and get some trees back there. Still haven’t decided which I want to go with. Probably why I haven’t taken the shed down yet. I’d rather get it done all at once. Have everything prepared and ready.

Thinking over plans usually helps clear my head, but I find myself so angry with Bart that I can’t think straight. The man has been a thorn in my side for years. Years.

It’s not my fault he’s a piece of shit and his son can’t stand him. Maybe if he were a decent father, Bryson wouldn’t be here for help all the time. But because the man is a foul human being, he has to make my life hell all because his son would rather spend time here than change to fit into Bart’s image of a good son.

It was little things when the boys were younger. Rumors about my company. Random inspections. Shit like that. But when Bryson left for college? He went all out. He’s been trying to destroy my business for the last five years, and he almost succeeded once. If there’s anyone in this world I’d like to send six feet under, it’s him.

My gaze goes to the pool, wondering if that’ll be enough to get my head clear.

It’s still a little chilly, but it’s a heated pool.

Not in the mood to check more emails, I head upstairs to change.

I swim for about an hour, taking out my frustrations in the water. The last thing I want to do is lose my cool on Chris and push him further away from me. Something that seems to be happening anyway. I don’t know what’s happened to make him pull so far away. We were close when he was young, but for the last year or so, he’s been drinking heavily and barely speaking to me. Had the timing been different, I’d think he found out about me and Bryson. But it started well before that night in Astoria.

I keep telling myself he needs to live and learn. I can’t fix everything for him; I can only be there for him. He knows I don’t approve of what he’s been doing, but everyone deals with shit differently. The feeling of being helpless when your child is hurting is fucking torture. If only I knew why he was hurting at all, I could give him advice. He may not take it, but maybe he will. I’d be able to do something, which is better than doing absolutely nothing.

When I get out, I head inside for a shower, and start on dinner, figuring the boys will be hungry when they get home. I have a few beers while I chop up the vegetables and potatoes. They get tossed in a roasting pan with a roast and thrown into the oven once it’s preheated. When that’s just about done, I’ll grill the shrimp.

The front door opens, and I glance at the clock. It’s nearly five. Who the hell is back this early?

I pop my head out to find Bryson walking in, his face telling me he isn’t okay.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks up, stopping where he stands.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” I say, stepping into the hallway

---