Tyler's Father
Chapter 04 - Tyler's Father
Tyler Ashworth arrived home that afternoon carrying the specific, sick dread of a boy who had just publicly humiliated the actual owner's son in front of witnesses, inside a store his own father had spent years claiming to own.
His father, Greg Ashworth, was waiting in the kitchen, already dressed for what he referred to, every single day, as "going to the office," though Tyler had begun, in the past hour, to wonder exactly what that phrase actually meant.
"I need to ask you something," Tyler said, setting his backpack down carefully. "And I need you to tell me the truth."
Greg looked up from his phone, expression casual. "What's up."
"Do you actually own that watch store," Tyler asked. "Or have you been lying to me."
Greg's face went through a specific, complicated series of shifts, surprise, calculation, and something considerably more guarded settling beneath both.
"Where's this coming from," Greg asked, deflecting rather than answering.
"A manager at the store called some kid Mr. Mark today," Tyler said. "Said his father was the actual owner. Said the kid was the owner's son. Not me. Some random kid in a white t-shirt and jeans."
Greg set his phone down slowly, his composure adjusting in a way Tyler now recognized, with a sudden, uncomfortable clarity, as the exact same expression his father wore whenever a lie needed to be quickly and carefully managed.
"There are different kinds of ownership," Greg said carefully. "I have a senior position with considerable authority. It's not inaccurate to describe that as ownership in a practical sense."
"That's not what you told me," Tyler said, voice hardening. "You said you owned it. You told me to tell people that. I've been saying it at school for two years."
"Tyler—"
"Do you own it or not," Tyler pressed. "Yes or no."
Greg was quiet a long moment before answering, the specific weight of a lie finally too heavy to sustain in front of his own son's direct, furious gaze.
"No," he admitted. "I don't own it. I manage the regional operations. I work for the owner, Richard Mercer."
Tyler sat with that confirmation, the specific, devastating humiliation of understanding every proud, careless claim he'd made at school, to his friends, to Mark himself that very morning, had been built on a lie his own father had apparently been comfortable maintaining for years.
May you like
"Why," Tyler asked. "Why would you tell me something like that if it wasn't true."
Greg had no immediate answer, the specific silence of a man who understood he'd just lost something considerably more important than the lie itself had ever been worth.
