Page 95 of Under Pressure

“To me?” he asks skeptically, shutting off the burner, the meat only half cooked. “Of course, sure.”

“You don’t have to stop cooking—”

“No, it’s fine.” He wipes his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, but seeing it there doesn’t annoy me as much now. A lot of things don’t seem to irritate me in the same way. It’s like I flipped a switch inside my brain from closed to open. “We could talk at the table,” he offers, turning the corner toward the dining room.

I follow, taking a seat across from him.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, attempting to keep his eagerness at bay. I can’t blame him. This is probably the longest I’ve gone being cordial to him, especially without Mom or Riley around.

I take a deep breath, still unsure where to start. “A while ago, I overheard you and Mom talking here after dinner. She said she purposely kept me apart from you and Brandon and Dylan back when you guys were divorced. And then I talked to Brandon and he confirmed it.”

He nods slowly, shocked at my sudden choice of topic.

“I always thought you hated me,” I tell him bluntly, looking him in the eye. “That you blamed me for breaking up the family.”

He grips the edge of the table, his eyes wide. “You what now?”

I stay silent, letting him process it. A range of emotions cross his face in quick succession. Shock. Concern. Anger. Sadness.

“Is that why you were always so mad? Why you wanted nothing to do with me?”

I nod.

“You’ve never been to blame for any of that,” he says vehemently. “That was between me and Lynn.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Why didn’t you ever say something? Just ask. I would have told you the truth.”

“I refused to hear reason then. I had my mind made up. And I didn’t want to admit I might… secretly wish for your approval.”

“Tyler.” He looks at me, exasperated. But there’s still affection underneath it. Funny how I never saw it before. “You’re my son. I love you.”

I bend my head down, staring at the table, my eyes suddenly irritated. Must be dust in the air.

He shifts in his chair, looking like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t know how to word it. “How—” He stops to collect his thoughts and tries again. “Why would you think I hated you?”

Now it’s my turn to shift. I’ve never said this aloud to anyone, other than Dr. Friedman. “I was excluded. Which I realize now wasn’t your fault, but also… the way you looked at me.”

He tilts his head, genuine confusion on his face. “How did I look at you?”

I blow out a breath, feeling like I’m six years old again, waiting for my brothers to come home Sunday night after a fun weekend at Dan’s. “When you would drop Brandon and Dylan off or pick them up, you’d stare at me. I felt… the weight of it. It was so heavy. Accusing. Resentful.” I pause, closing my eyes, not wanting to witness that stare again. “I started seeing a therapist last week. She said I may have been projecting those things onto you. A way to make sense of my world.”

“I admit, I stared at you,” he says quietly after a moment. “But I just wanted to see you. I knew nothing about you. You had been my baby, then suddenly, you weren’t. I asked for visitation rights in our custody agreement, but it made Lynn so upset, I dropped it.”

A muffled sob escapes me and I quickly cover my mouth to hide my reaction. Did Mia open some kind of emotional reserve within me?

“Hey,” he soothes, reaching out to grip my arm. “It’s okay to let it out. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you.”

I bend my head down between my knees, taking long, shuddering breaths. I see Brandon’s point now. Mom really did do a number on me. I know she loves me, but goddamn. How could she have let this happen?

I compose myself after a few moments and look back up at him. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, a gross understatement for everything that’s transpired between us over the years. “If you said any of this before, I wasn’t able to hear it.”

He squeezes my forearm, probably sensing I’m not ready for much more. “I’m the one that’s sorry. For ever making you feel that way, though I promise it was unintentional on my part. And your mother—”

“I’ll talk to Mom about it another time. Privately.” I still have no idea what to say to her.

“So, where does this leave us?” There’s hope in his voice, a small flame of that same emotion springing forth inside me too.

“I—I think there’s too much in the past to hash through. Can we just… start fresh?”

“Yes,” he says, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to respond. “I’d like that.”

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