Brett

 

Thomas Heath wasn’t my dad’s boy. No fucking chance.

It made no fucking sense, not any of it. Not that Thomas Heath was Thomas Browning from high school. Not that he knew my dad at fucking all.

My dad had been a perfect father, ever since he’d rocked up at our dining table when I was five years old going on six. I remembered it, even now, all these years later. Just like it was yesterday. His smile. The way he ruffled my hair and helped my mum with the dinner plates. The way he patted me on the back when I got top marks for my homework.

The way he was always fucking there. Always. Always urging me to do better, do my best, be a winner.

How could he urge me to be a fucking winner if he had another boy cast aside somewhere else in our fucking town? How could he walk away from his own fucking kid to shack up with someone he barely knew?

I knew he loved my mum. He loved her until the day he died. They were good together. Perfect together.

Yet I knew from way back when that I had to keep away from Tina Hadley. Knew she was trouble. Remembered how my dad’s eyes darkened at the mention of her name, Mum’s lips pursing as she told me to stay away from those people. And by those people she’d meant him too.

Thomas Browning.

A kid I only vaguely remembered. Scrawny and pale, blonde hair and thick glasses. Weak and pathetic.

“Brett,” Mum’s voice sounded out. “What a nice surprise.”

But it wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t be a nice surprise at all.

“Tina Hadley,” I barked. “Tell me about Tina Hadley. Who was she?”

The pause was too pronounced. “Why do you want to know about Tina Hadley? Who’s been talking about her?”

“Her fucking son is right fucking here, in our fucking hotel!” My voice was too loud and I knew it. Beyond all reason.

And that’s how come I knew the truth of it. The truth festering in my gut.

Mum was quiet. Silent as I tried to get myself together.

“Tell me Thomas Browning isn’t Dad’s boy,” I told her, and my voice had a weakness to it I hated.

“Brett–” she began, but I cut her off with a bellow.

“TELL ME!”

She couldn’t tell me. Of course she fucking couldn’t.

“WHY?!” I boomed. “Why would he fucking do that? Why would he have another kid and never fucking mention it? Never see him? Never say anything?!”

“It’s complicated,” she said, and I couldn’t hold back the bitter laugh that pulsed right through me.

Complicated.

Isn’t it always?

“Try me,” I snapped, holding my breath until she spoke again.

“Tina was… difficult. Your father’s relationship with her was… strained.”

“Not strained enough that he didn’t knock her up and have a fucking kid with her.”

“He didn’t know that…” she blustered. “Not at the time… not for years. Tina was… easy… she liked men. Lots of men.”

“Is Thomas Browning my dad’s fucking son or not?” I demanded.

“He thought so…” she breathed. “By the end, anyway. But not at the beginning, Brett, I promise you. He’d have never left if he’d known…”

It didn’t matter.

My head was shaking as I weighed it up, and no matter which fucking way I looked at it, it didn’t matter.

Dad had a kid with another woman. He moved in with us and left him behind. Didn’t call. Didn’t venture fucking near the whole time we were growing up in the same fucking town.

“Why would he do that?” I asked her, hating how weak I sounded. “How could he do that?”

Her sigh was enough to choke me up. “People aren’t perfect, Brett. Relationships are complicated. Emotions are complicated. People don’t always make the right choices in life.”

But he did.

My dad did.

He was always right. Always strong. Always pushing me to follow in his footsteps. And I’d failed. So many times I’d failed. Never scoring enough goals. Never getting high enough marks. Always nearly. Always well done but better luck next time.

And the whole fucking time he’d slapped my back and told me to dig deep, son he’d been nursing the biggest fucking blip of all. Walking out on his own boy without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.

I’d gone to the same school as the son he’d walked out on and I didn’t even know it. Didn’t question the instructions to steer clear of those people because why the fuck would I?

I always did what he said. Always believed in what he believed in.

He was my fucking dad. My. Fucking. Dad.

But he wasn’t.

He was Thomas Browning’s fucking dad.

And Thomas Browning was in my fucking kitchen cooking steak with my wife’s fucking pussy juice still on his fucking dick.

“I’m sorry,” Mum said, too little too late. “He was sorry too. He thought about contacting Thomas, weighed it up for years, but Thomas was…”

“Was what?” I snapped. “What was Thomas?”

“Successful,” she breathed. “Thomas was very successful. He’s very wealthy now. Your father was worried he’d think he was after his money. He wasn’t after his money, Brett. He wasn’t like that, he just wanted to apologise…”

Fuck, how it hurt.

I was crippled in that bathroom, doubled over, fighting the urge to sick up my bowels through my fucking ribcage.

“There was a letter with the lawyer, part of the will,” she went on, like she hadn’t said enough already. “We couldn’t locate Thomas when the will was read. He’d changed his name several times and his contact details were unavailable. It’s still filed at the office downtown. If he’s there we should get it couriered.”

“A letter?” I wheezed. “A letter for Thomas? From Dad?”

Her sigh said everything. So fucking defeated I wished I could knock myself out and never wake up to this shit again. “Yes, Brett. A letter. I didn’t see the point in telling you… not then…”

“We’re not done with this,” I snarled. “We’ll never be done with this, do you understand me? WE’LL NEVER BE DONE WITH THIS!”

I jabbed the screen hard enough with my thumb that the screen turned black, then tossed the handset onto the tiles without two shits for the way it skittered against the shower tray.

I sat on the toilet seat with my palms against my sweaty temples as I struggled to make sense of this whirlwind of shit.

Grace’s tap at the door was light when it came. Her voice edged with the same desperation I was feeling.

“Brett, sweetheart, can I come in?”

“No,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

She didn’t.

The handle turned and the door inched open, her fingers curling around the frame before her face peeked around the side.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…”

I’d never been so grateful for my Grace as I was when she saw my despair and sprang into life. Her arms were everything I needed, holding me tight as she pulled my face to her chest and smothered me in all the love I’d need to breathe a single breath.

“You didn’t know,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault, Brett. Not any of this.”

Getting to my feet was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, but it was just the tip of the fucking iceberg.

Facing Thomas Browning was still to come.