Chapter Nine
878 Words
Tyler shoves his way past me outside the kitchen, and I follow. We barely make it into the dining room, where Sophie and Lucas are now staring in confusion at the front door, when it swings open.
Heavy footsteps cross the foyer and Tyler straightens sharply, letting me know whoever is coming isn’t a stranger at all.
An older man, who looks just like Tyler - down to his icy-blue eyes, steps into the dining room doorway. His eyes sweep the room, and they only need to rest on Sophie for a second, before she scrambles off the table and stands upright.
The man in the family pictures on the walls of the living room swings his gaze back to Tyler. “Pull down your shirt.”
Tyler obeys that single command, his face void of emotion. This is the cold, untouchable king everyone at school knows. None of that fire is present now.
Disappointment clouds his father’s eyes as he stares at the bruise on his son’s shoulder with disdain. “It’s true then.”
“I got hit at practice,” Tyler says monotonously.
His father simply stares, unimpressed. “The same practice your coach tells me you let your backup score in a scrimmage?”
Tyler’s lips curl, but his face remains blank. “It was one play,” he says evenly.
His father takes one step forward, his voice lowered dangerously. “Do you think recruiters care about one play?”
The silence in the room thickens, but Mr. Brooks barely acknowledges me or his other children, except for the brief flicker of awareness that there are other people in the room - which he immediately dismisses.
“Is this how you intend to secure a Division One scholarship?” He asks. “By losing composure during practice?”
For the first time since his father appeared, anger barely contained flashes in Tyler’s eyes. “I didn’t lose composure…”
“You let him get under your skin like a weak little boy.” Mr. Brooks’ voice thunders like a whiplash across the room.
Lucas whimpers from where he sits, frozen in the chair. And Sophie clutches the edge of her over-sized T-shirt. I wish I could cross over to them, gather them in my arms, and shield them from their father.
The said man, oblivious to everything else, shakes his head. “I leave town for one week and you’ve done nothing but embarrass me.” He points a finger at his son. “Do not make me have to leave your mother again and come back before time is due.”
Tyler nods. “Yes, sir.”
Only then does his father properly look at me. Heat floods my skin as he slowly catalogues my hoodie, faded jeans, and scruffy sneakers.
“This is what you’ve been doing then? Socializing instead of practicing your throws?”
The condescending tone makes my throat tighten, but I force my voice to remain steady. “I’m the babysitter, sir,” I say with more bite than I intended.
He pauses, his gaze falling on colorful pile on the dining table. Sophie notices his attention and perks up, but her smile falls when he makes a small, dismissive sound before turning around and walking away.
Shortly after, the front door closes.
Lucas is the first to move. He crosses the room quietly and wraps both arms around Tyler’s waist. The latter stiffens for a second before letting his brother cling onto him.
Sophie, on the other hand, retreats back to the dining table. But this time, she sits rigidly on a chair and starts packing up her things.
I watch Tyler stare at the door long after the sound of a car leaves the driveway, and I don’t know what to say.
Tyler’s voice is hollow when he finally speaks. “Leave.”
“What? I still have an hour with the…”
I don’t get to finish my sentence. Tyler gently tugs Lucas’ arms off his waist. Then, he grabs my arm and proceeds to drag me with him, swiping my bag off the table with his other hand. He doesn’t stop pulling me until he opens the front door and shoves me out.
“I…” he starts to say, but shakes his head instead. Without another word, he pushes my bag into my chest and slams the door shut in my face.
The night air clings to me, and I wrap my arms around myself. Normally, I would put up a fight, maybe even bang on the door a few times and give him an earful. But seconds pass, and I continue to just… stand there.
I always thought Tyler Brooks was black and white. What you see was what you got, and he was cruel because he simply enjoyed it.
But the Tyler who simply stood there as his father called him “weak,” the Tyler who didn’t argue despite the fact that he wasn’t to blame, the Tyler whose brother sought comfort in his arms like it wasn’t the first time… he might just be broken too.
I pull my bag over my shoulder and finally walk down the driveway, all the while wondering which version of Tyler is real.
- Writer
