Page 56 of Play Dirty

“Philippe is stupid,” Martin mutters.

That makes me want to laugh, but I can’t do anything that might get back to Brenna, so I play it cool. “What makes you say that, buddy?” I ask gently.

“He yells a lot,” Martin says. “And he told Mommy we were his big problem.”

I try not to react even though I’m furious.

Phil was always a dick.

Long before he slept with my wife.

This is one of many reasons I want custody of my kids.

“Sometimes grown-ups yell because they’re tired,” Stevie interjects softly when she sees me struggling to come up with a response. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to.”

“He yellsa lot,” Emma says, nodding. “Especially when Martin knocks his stuff over or touches his hockey sticks.” She rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t likeanyonetouching his hockey stuff.”

I grunt, squeezing my fist beneath the table.

It’s been such a good day up until this point.

I love spending time with Stevie, and she doesn’t seem to mind my kids, but this just pisses me off. They rarely talk about their life in Tennessee, but I figured they’re just young and innocent.

Now it seems there’s another reason.

“Does Mommy yell too?” Mom asks nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal.

Martin nods, since his mouth is full. “But not as much,” he says once he swallows.

“Mommy and Phil yell at each other,” Emma adds. “And then Bradley cries.”

“Well, I’ll try not to yell,” I say quietly. “Even if you’re naughty.”

“I’m never naughty.” Emma giggles.

“Yes, you are!” Martin yells.

“Burdle-urps-fucky.” Bradley’s contribution makes us all chuckle, easing the tension.

I’m frustrated, though.

I don’t like the idea that Phil yells at my kids. He and Brenna aren’t married so he’s not even their stepfather. He can step in if one of them does something dangerous or correct a child who’s doing something wrong, but yelling is off the table. And I intend to let Brenna know that.

“Who’s ready for a bath?” my mother asks, abruptly changing the subject.

Bradley gurgles happily and lifts his arms, so she carries him off while Stevie starts clearing the table.

“I can do it,” I tell her. “You’re a guest.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “Your mom fed me, so the least I can do is help clean up.”

“Can Stevie give me a bath?” Emma asks.

“Stevie is a guest,” I repeat. “I don’t think?—”

“I don’t mind,” she interrupts, smiling. “I’m happy to give Emma a bath.”

“I want Daddy,” Martin grumbles.

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