Hearing the sarcasm in my voice, he frowns. “I’m sorry if they weren’t friendly to you. They take a while to warm up to people. I’ll have a talk with them.”
“No. Don’t. You’ll just make it worse. I can handle them. I’ve dealt with guys like them before.”
“Just give it time. I didn’t give them much notice you were coming. I’m sure once school starts and things settle down around here, everything will be fine.”
“Hey.” I walk up to him. “Why didn’t you ever tell them about me?”
“Their mother and I decided it wasn’t a good idea.”
“Why would their mom care?”
“She was very protective of the boys when they were younger. She didn’t want us bringing people into their lives we didn’t trust.”
I huff. “You’re saying you didn’t trust my mom?”
“Miranda didn’t. But to be fair, she really didn’t know her. She was basing her opinion solely on your mother’s association with Devon.”
“And she doesn’t trust my dad.”
His brows rise. “Can you blame her?”
My dad’s addiction drove him to lie and steal, so yeah, I can see why she didn’t trust him, but that doesn’t mean my mom was that way.
“So this is Miranda’s fault? Why my cousins didn’t know about me?”
“Yes, but it was probably for the best. If they weren’t allowed to see you, why tell them about you?”
“Did my mom ever meet Miranda?”
“Yes,” he says, looking away.
“And it didn’t go well, or what?”
“Like I said, the relationship was tainted before it even began, given your mother’s relationship with Devon.” He turns and walks to the stairs. “Trystan! Braden! Get down here!”
“They’re going to dinner with us?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”
“I think Trystan’s at the gym.”
“He’s home. You can tell by the music.”
Music is booming from upstairs. Two different songs are playing, and they keep getting louder, as though Braden and Trystan keep turning up their music to drown out each other’s speakers.
Brock gets his phone out. “I have to text them. They’ll never hear me with that damn music so loud.”
He sends the text. Trystan appears first, sauntering down the stairs. “What the hell you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet your father?” Brock asks.
“Just tell me what this is about,” Trystan says, facing his dad, his arms crossed. “I have shit to do.”
“We’re going to dinner,” Brock says. “Go clean up.”
Trystan’s wearing basketball shorts and a tank.
“I’m not going,” he says. “I’m going to the gym.”
