Page 33 of Betting Brett

I look over at Brett, who’s as still as a statue, his eyes dark and stormy. I’ve never seen him look like that. I can feel the rage rolling off of him, and I admire his self-control. I want to scream and throw things, and I’m sure it’s worse for him. His parents, the people who should be his allies, his most solid support, have turned into adversaries. The realization is brutal. A stab to the chest, over and over again, worse with every heartbeat.

Brett’s voice, raw and charged, cuts through the heavy silence. “I can’t believe this.” Each word is a mix of anger and disbelief, a vocalization of the betrayal that none of us can fully comprehend.

Jen’s voice is a whisper, the words barely audible, yet they echo the emotions that fill the room. “How could they do this, Brett?”

I want to speak, to put a voice to the war within me, but words fail me. Everything is too raw, too fresh. We’re in uncharted waters, and the compass directing my emotions is spinning wildly, completely directionless. I wanted to stand up, yell, cry, shout, run, and cry some more. I want to drive straight to Darlene’s house and tell her everything I feel. I want to ask her how she could treat her own son this way.

Brett’s hand slips from mine, and reaches for the papers. His grip tightens around them, his knuckles white. I can see the battle raging within him. It’s a war no one should ever have to wage.

“I won’t let them take her, Jen,” Brett’s voice is a mix of determination and vulnerability. It’s a vow and a plea.

“And you won’t have to, Brett. We’re all in this together.” Jen’s tone is steady, yet I can hear the undercurrent of trembling emotion. This isn’t just a legal battle. This isn’t about missing the rent check or a bad car accident; it’s personal, and the stakes are incredibly high.

And then, as if she could feel us thinking about her, her bedroom door creaks open, and Izzy comes out to the living room, her smile just a little tentative and sideways, like she’s trying to get away with something.

“Uncle Andy, I can’t sleep. Can I have a drink, and then can you read to me?” She seems oblivious to the shitstorm in the living room. Her innocence almost brings me to tears.

I glance at Brett, who’s rubbing a hand over his face, his cheeks bright red. Jen’s gaze is still fixed on the papers.

“Yeah, Izzy, let’s get some water and read.” I force a smile, the effort to keep the tremor out of my voice almost Herculean. I need to be strong for Brett, for Izzy.

We can’t let this break us.

I follow Izzy to the kitchen to get a glass of water and then back to her room, where she turns and gives me a sudden hug before she climbs back in bed.

Why, Darlene? What kind of God would be okay with what you’re trying to do?

She hands me a book that I know she could read herself, but she gives me pleading eyes, and I read aloud to her, doing my best voices and impressions. I try to focus, but my mind is on Brett and Jen. They are deep in conversation, their voices low, the strategy unfolding. I catch snippets of their exchange, the reaffirmation of their commitment to the current custody arrangement, and the vow to fight this together.

I’m not sure how long I read. Time doesn’t really feel quite real. Izzy’s eyes are drifting shut when she rallies enough to say, “It’s okay, Uncle Andy, you can stop now. Thank you for reading to me. Is everything going to be okay?”

And here I was, sure she had no idea something was wrong. I should have known better. “Everything is going to be fine, Izzy,” I say through a thick throat. “Your Mom and Dad and I are going to take care of things. We’ll tell you all about what’s going on in the morning.”

I lean down, give her a hug, and tell her good night. I hope she can sleep now. It’s not my place to tell her what’s happening. That needs to come from her parents. When I get back to the living room, the first thing I notice is Jen. She has her lawyer face on, writing things down in a notebook, her focus set on keeping Izzy right where she is.

The sudden ring of the doorbell makes us all jump. I immediately think, ‘Not again’. More bad news. It has to be. I brace myself as Brett says, “I’ll get it,” his voice a low growl. The protective father, the betrayed son, each facet of his identity is battling inside him. I wish there were a way I could take this pain from him. A button I could press that would reset it all, make this never have happened.

I watch him rise, his movements jerky, the expectation of confrontation written in the lines of tension that mark his face. Who the hell can it be? Surely not another blind-side.

The door swings open to reveal Jim, Brett’s father. His eyes, usually warm and kind, are now just as dark as his sons. I can see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Raw emotion spills out of the normally stoic man.

Brett’s stance is defensive, a protective barrier between the world and the family he’s fighting to preserve. “What are you doing here, Dad?” The accusation, the demand for answers, is raw and charged with an undercurrent of rage.

“I didn’t know, Brett,” Jim’s voice is a mix of anger and regret. “Please, trust me, son. I didn’t know what your mother was planning. I had no idea until you called me.”

Brett’s demeanor is unyielding. For a second, I think he’s about to slam the door in his father’s face. Jim’s eyes, marked with tears, hold Brett’s. Right now, the battlefield is not just in our living room but in the silent exchange between father and son. Brett steps back slightly, making space, and Jim steps into the room. “Brett, I told her if she went through with this, I was leaving. She said God demanded it, Brett. So I left. I’m not going to allow it. I can’t.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes in the charged atmosphere. The papers, a stark reminder of the mess we’re in, lie on the table. I glanced at them before looking back to Jim. He really did seem remorseful… but how much of it was honest? Did he really not know?

Brett’s face is still hard. I can see the anger in the way his lips twist, and his eyebrows come together. But there’s also a growing softness there, a son’s inherent need for his father’s support and approval. I know that Brett has always been close to his dad, which only makes things that much more complicated.

“I didn’t know, Brett,” Jim repeats, his voice raw from a night that has already marked and changed him.

Brett stays quiet. I clear my throat and shift on the balls of my feet.

“I need to know where you stand, Dad,” Brett says.

Jim’s sad eyes hold Brett’s. “I stand with you, son. Always have, always will.”

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