I closed my eyes and leaned my head into my fingers, rubbing circles on my left temple. It was still more than a year until elections, and if I won, I’d be in for even more invasion into my privacy.

“I mean, look at him,” my brother snapped, and I opened my eyes to see him gesturing to my kid.

I turned my head and watched my son, phone turned sideways, held between both hands as his thumbs shot out like bullets, tapping the screen.

That was practically all he did twenty-four/seven, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen his eyes. Every time I tried to spark up a conversation and ask what he was doing, he acted as if he’d barely heard me.

Jay was right. He was consumed. They all were.

“Do you have to be on that thing all the time?” I prodded, unable to hide the aggravation in my voice.

I knew he heard me, because I saw the minute eye roll he barely tried to hide.

“Christian,” I snipped, reaching over and grabbing the phone out of his hands in an attempt to get his attention.

Or maybe just a reaction.

His jaw clenched, and he let out a sigh, barely tolerating me.

He’d been ignoring me ever since his mother and stepfather had left the country on their research trip a week ago and he’d moved in with me.

“Okay,” he challenged, dropping his hands to his lap and looking at me with disdain. “What do you want to talk about?”

I cocked an eyebrow, taken aback a little. I’d expected him to argue – or maybe ignore me as usual – but had I wanted to talk?

I’d been trying to talk to him, connect with him, for years, but now I realized that I didn’t know what I was going to say.

And he knew it. He knew I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

He breathed out a laugh and gave me a condescending look. “Gimme a break,” he grumbled. “We barely resemble estranged brothers, much less father and son. Don’t start something we both know you won’t finish.”

Then he reached out for his phone, but I hardened my expression and pulled my hand away.

“I need my phone back,” he shot out, tension crossing his face. “Ms. Bradbury, or whatever her name is, lent me her battery, and I have to bring it back tomorrow.”

“Too bad,” I barked, stuffing his phone in my pocket and turning my burning eyes to my brother. “You know, that’s really the problem here. Role models like teachers who enable children to continue to disconnect from the world.”

“Well, you would know,” Christian bit out at my side. “You disconnect all the time, and you don’t need technology to do it.”

I tipped my chin down, tightening my jaw. Jesus Christ.

If I weren’t so fucking pissed, I might’ve laughed.

I remembered getting in my father’s face time and again when I was younger. Christian looked exactly like me, but even if he didn’t, there would be no doubt he was my kid. I’d been just as defiant at that age.

“Your energies belong elsewhere,” Jay pointed out, trying to reel my focus back in, “and your time is sparse,” he reminded me.

My energies belong elsewhere. My time is sparse.

Meaning my brother didn’t think fighting a losing battle with my kid was a good use of my time.

I looked over at Christian, watching him stare at nothing out his window and finding my chest tightening.

My shit relationship with my kid was my own fault. It had been no surprise when he’d fought his mother and me about staying here for the year instead of going with her to Africa.

He needed time. Of course, it was time I didn’t have, but even when I did try, he shut me out.

I knew I wouldn’t win any fatherhood awards, but I had supported him his entire life and I’d always treated him well. I’d taken care of his wants and needs, and maybe I’d never pushed hard enough and maybe I’d never put him as a top priority, but I’d had no idea it was going to be this hard to bond with him later on. I didn’t exactly get along with my father all the time, either, but I respected him.

Christian couldn’t respect me any less than he already did.

And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the voice in my head that said it was too late.

The car turned up Prytania Street, dipping along one of many of the broken, potholed roads of New Orleans.

I turned my eyes out the window as well, the conversation in the car having gone silent.

I took in the evening bustle of the city, with its array of boutiques, shops, and intimate restaurants. Out of every neighborhood in the city – the Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, the Warehouse District, Midtown, Uptown – it was the Garden District that captivated me the most.

Nestled between St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street, Prytania had some of the best architecture in a neighborhood adorned with vibrant colors, flowers, and foliage, and the best restaurants located in buildings that probably wouldn’t pass any health-code inspections. The wealthy and pristine blended effortlessly with the chipped and aged, and that was called character. You couldn’t buy it, and you couldn’t describe it.

But it was the same thing that made a house a home.

The nineteenth-century mansions loomed on both sides, protected behind their wrought-iron gates and massive live oaks lining the street. Gas flames flickered in lanterns hanging outside front doors, and cyclists cruised past with either backpacks strapped to their backs – probably students – or instruments secured to their bodies – street performers.