Page 41 of Betting Brett

In the kitchen, I start the coffee maker, the familiar gurgling and grinding sounds a comforting and familiar backdrop to the morning. When the coffee is started, I get to work on the scrambled eggs and bacon, making sure there’s extra cheese in the eggs. Just how Brett and Izzy like them.

Izzy is the next to wake, her sleepy eyes blinking up at me as she pads into the kitchen. I can tell that even though we’ve all reassured her, she’s worried about what will happen today, too.

“Morning, Izzy,” I greet her, smiling, albeit a little weakly. She mumbles a response and plops into her chair at the kitchen table. I serve her breakfast, the normalcy of the act helping ground my rocky emotions.

Jen emerges from the guest room, her hair already done, tied into a tight ponytail, a light face of make-up already applied. She stayed the night, wanting to be close, to offer her support from the moment we woke until the judge made his decision.

“Morning,” Jen greets, her voice soft, respectful of the quiet in the house. She pours herself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air, and joins her daughter at the table, giving Izzy a kiss on the head before she sits.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks me while I grab some plates.

“Alright, considering.”

“Same.” Jen holds onto her coffee mug with both hands, looking out the window above the sink at the backyard. I try reading her expression. If she were worried, then that would have made me doubly so, but her face was neutral. Neither happy nor anxious. Just set in stone, unreadable.

“There’s my sweetheart.” It’s Brett, coming in wearing a black tank top and gym shorts, giving Izzy a hug before coming over to me, where I’m plating up the rest of the eggs on the stove. “Smells delicious.”

“Hopefully, it tastes the same,” I say, dishing the bacon and eggs onto three separate plates.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, and then, out of the blue, Izzy says, “Daddy, remember when you tried to make pancakes?” she asks. Her voice is overly innocent, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Brett looks at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “Uh, yeah?” he responds, clearly unsure where this is going.

Izzy’s grin widens. “And you flipped it so high it stuck to the ceiling?” She giggles, the sound like music filling the kitchen. “You looked so funny standing on the chair, trying to scrape it off with a spatula! But it was even funnier when it fell on your face!”

The image of a flustered Brett, spatula in hand, battling a stubborn pancake clinging to the ceiling before it falls and smacks him is just too much. We all burst into laughter, the tension dissipating, replaced by the warmth of our little family.

Brett’s face turns red, but he’s laughing too. “Traitor,” he teases Izzy, but there’s no heat in his words, only affection.

Jen’s laughter is hearty, a sound we haven’t heard enough of lately. “I wish I’d seen that,” she says between chuckles.

The laughter subsides, but the lightness remains. We finish breakfast with smiles, the shared joke a reminder of the love that defines us. Once the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher, and the table is clean, we split up to finish getting ready, Jen going with Izzy while I disappear with Brett.

We dress in silence. I watch Brett as he puts on his finest suit, the fabric a stark black against his skin. I reach out, adjusting his navy blue tie, our fingers brushing in a moment of connection.

“You okay?” I ask.

Brett nods, his eyes meeting mine. “I woke up feeling good today, Andy. Like, really good. Maybe I needed that panic attack to see things clearer or something. But I’ve got hope. More than I’ve had since this entire ordeal started.”

I pull him into an embrace, the solidity of his body against mine a reassurance. We share a kiss before I separate from him and finish getting ready. Soon, we are gathered by the front door, a united front ready to face whatever lies ahead. Izzy clutches Brett’s hand, her small frame a mix of innocence and resilience. Jen’s gaze is steady. She looks like a presidential candidate with her pressed pantsuit and slim all-black briefcase that looks like it holds the nuclear codes inside of it.

“Let’s go kick some legal butt,” Jen says as she opens the door.

Sam and Paul pull into the driveway in Sam’s truck, and Izzy gives us all a hug before she climbs up in the backseat. She’s not nearly as excited as she would normally be to hang out at their house, and I hope that we’ll be able to give her good news soon.

No one has much to say on the drive to the courthouse. I keep stealing glances at Brett. He looks like a pillar of strength, but I can see the subtle tremor of his hands when they grip the steering wheel, the slight tension in his jaw that makes the lines even sharper than usual.

The courthouse looms ahead, a grand old building of grey stone and towering columns. It’s seen countless stories of justice and judgment unfold within its walls, and today, it’s our turn for our story to be heard. We park the truck and make our way to the entrance. The steps leading up to the grand doors are a mountain to climb, each step only making my heartbeat that much faster.

My heart almost beats itself right out of my chest as we pass through security. We get through the scanners and are officially in the courthouse. Inside, the hallway is long and imposing, the polished marble floors reflecting the stern faces of the judges whose portraits line the walls. They watch in silent judgment, their eyes seeming to follow us as we make our way to the courtroom. We reach the wooden doors. This is it—the moment of reckoning. I take a deep breath, feeling Brett’s hand squeeze mine. We’ve got this. I have to believe that.

Brett opens the doors, and we step inside. The judge’s bench is ahead of us, sleek wood and backed by the United States seal. Across from us is Darlene, standing with her hands held in front of her, wearing a dark dress with her hair pulled back as though she were attending a funeral. She shoots me a dagger-filled look as we go to our spot behind the table. I can see that she has “moral” support on her side of the room. Frank Mitchell, I recognize, he’s a deacon at the church that she attends. There are a couple of others with a similar look, but I’ve been away long enough that I don’t know their names off the top of my head. From my research online, custody hearings were normally short, lasting no longer than a couple of hours at most. I hoped that with how frivolous this all was, it would be even shorter than that, but, of course, it all depends on the judge.

My heart races, a frantic beat against my ribs. I’m trying to keep it together, to be the rock Brett needs me to be, but the nerves are real.

The courtroom is a mix of hushed whispers and the shuffling of papers. The judge, an older man with a stern yet fair demeanor, comes in from a door at the side of the room, and the bailiff asks that we all rise. Shafter Falls is small enough that it doesn’t have a separate family court, so we are getting the full formal treatment. The judge takes his seat without fuss. Not exactly the most liberal looking of guys. Fuck. His gaze sweeps over the room, pausing for a moment on our desk. I can feel every eye in the room on us, the weight of their scrutiny a tangible force. Brett’s hand is warm in mine, for a split second, I wonder if we should let go, but then that only makes me hold on to him even tighter. Everyone here needs to see how two men can hold hands, and the entire room doesn’t erupt into biblical hellfire.

The judge has us all state our names, reads the case name for the record, and just like that, we’ve started. Darlene’s lawyer, a tall, thin man with a hawkish nose and sharp eyes, rises to his feet. He begins with a tone of confidence, his voice echoing in the courtroom.

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