Eventually, they want their autonomy.
Me: Makes sense, I guess. Thanks.
Tiger: You’ll both be fine. Trust me.
Me: I do.
I’ve barely eaten all day, and it’s mid-afternoon, so I leave my office and head to the kitchen to make myself a snack. I’m going through the refrigerator to figure out what I’m hungry for when the front door slams. Braeden must be home.
I step out to find a sopping wet boy, sliding out of his shoes, and his face desperately trying to hold it all together. You can tell he’s about to cry. Fuck, what now?
“Brae?”
When he looks up and sees me, a sob escapes him.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” he says as he rushes past me, dripping as he goes.
I head back to the kitchen, grab a couple of dish towels, and wipe up the mess. Then, I pick up his shoes, bring them to the laundry room, and toss them into the dryer.
It’s not worry that starts to fuel my soul, but anger. There’s only one reason he’s soaking wet and looks like he was about to cry.Bullies. It has to be. What other reason is there, unless he fell into my pool by accident? In fact, I look out the window at the backyard to find that the tiles by the pool are completely dry.
Shit. Braeden has enough on his plate without kids fucking with him. I can’t explain how much this pisses me the hell off. This isn’t something I’m going to be fucking passive about. No way.
I sit at my computer and look up the school’s phone number. Then I call the principal. I have to leave a message because he’s not answering. Fuck. As an afterthought, I shoot him an email, asking if there are any reports of Braeden being bullied. Regardless, the principal should be aware of it.
As usual, I don’t know what to do, but it’s clear I have to do something. I’m reluctant to lean on Seth because I’m always leaning on him. I’m a grown, intelligent man, dammit. I should be able to figure this shit out.
I head upstairs to see if he’ll talk to me. His door is shut, so I knock, but he doesn’t answer.
“Brae, open up, bud. Please. I’d like to talk with you.”
“Go away!”
My brows shoot up to my hairline. That’s the first time he’s ever had an outburst like that. My concern grows exponentially. Should I walk in? Force him to talk to me? If I do as he asks and leave, will that negatively affect our relationship? I feel like if I leave him alone, he’ll see it as my lack of concern. But if he needs his space… Shit! This is so hard.
Screw it. He can be mad at me. I just need to make sure Braeden’s not going to withdraw any further than he already has. Thank fuck therapy is tomorrow. The kid really needs it.
“I’m coming in.”
I test the doorknob. At least it’s not locked. I push the door open to find Braeden curled on his side in bed, his back to me. He’s wearing different clothes, so at least he changed and is dry. I find his wet clothes in a pile on the floor.
His room is still devoid of anything personal. Everything in here is temporary. I know he brought some of his favorite things, but nothing is sitting out. Not even his instruments. His piano will be here next week. Perhaps he’ll play then. I doubt it, though, not as things currently stand. He’s barely practicing his music as it is.
With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, I step inside and slide onto his bed, sitting on the edge. I press a hand to his back, and he flinches me off.
At first, when he came here, he clung to me. Now, he wants nothing to do with me. I know deep down it’s not exactly about me. He’s suffering, and I don’t know what to fucking do about it.
“Did someone bully you, Brae?”
Nothing. Not a peep.
“Please, talk to me, kiddo. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”
He abruptly sits up, turns to face me with red eyes, and tears are streaming down his cheeks. How many times had I looked like that after my mother finished with me as a kid, making me feel small and unloved? I know our grief isn’t the same, but it still triggers me.
“Go away! Leave me alone! I hate it here!”
