you do, Wiz, don’t think about fish milkshakes or slimy brains or anything gross.”
Harry wails in pain.
“Tristan!” the whole car cries.
“If he throws up on me, I’m rubbing it on you,” Fletcher calls.
“Yeah!” Patrick yells. “Me too.”
“You do know”—I look over at the master teaser as he drives—“if he throws up, it is in your car. Who do you think is cleaning it up? Because it won’t be me.”
Tristan’s eyes dart to me in horror. He didn’t think of that, did he? He puts his foot down and steps on the gas. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and Harry. “Hang on, Wiz. Nearly there, buddy.”
An hour later, we walk out the front door and toward Tristan’s car, parked on the street. He came in for a little while but is leaving now. Patrick is holding Tristan’s hand. He hasn’t left us alone for a minute. Surprisingly, Fletcher and Harrison are lingering too.
“So . . . I wonder where I can buy cockroaches.” Tristan sighs. “Is there like a market or something?”
I smile. He lost the bet. Harry is picking what we eat tomorrow night. “I’m not eating cockroaches, Harrison,” I say. “Pick something more food-like.”
Harry twists his lips as he thinks. “Umm . . .”
“Something good,” Tristan says. “I want to show off my culinary skills to your mother.”
I giggle. Little does he know there is no need to show off—I am utterly impressed already.
“Mom likes pasta carbonara,” Patrick says. His eyes widen, as if he’s surprised that he remembers that piece of information.
“I do.” I smile.
“It’s Harry’s pick,” Tristan replies.
“Umm . . .” Harry looks over to me, and I know he wants to pick something horrible but now will feel bad if I don’t get my favorite meal. “Fine.” He sighs. “Carbonara it is.”
“Okay,” Tristan says as he looks among us. “Pasta it is.” His eyes come to me, and I know he’s internally navigating how to say goodbye with all our spectators.
“Tricky.” He messes up Patrick’s hair. “Fletch and Wiz. See you tomorrow.”
They all stand and wait for him to drive off.
Go inside, will you?
He reaches up and tenderly touches my face. “Anderson.”
My heart nearly explodes in my chest, and I want to throw myself into his arms. “Goodbye, Tris.”
Patrick still has Tristan’s hand in a viselike grip. He looks up the road with a worried face. “I don’t want you to go home,” he stammers.
“What?” Tristan frowns.
“What if there’s a drunk driver?” He looks around in a panic. “It’s very dark, and . . . it’s not safe.”
Drunk driver.
He’s referring to the way his father died.
“Darling, it’s okay. There’s no need to worry,” I say.
Patrick’s eyes are filled with tears. “What if something goes wrong?” he whispers as he looks between us. “Bad things happen to good people, Mom.”
My heart breaks.
Tristan drops to his knee in front of Patrick and looks up at him. “You’re worried about me driving home?” He frowns as he pushes the hair back from Patrick’s forehead.
Patrick fidgets nervously with his fingers and nods, ashamed.
Tristan stares at him for a moment and then stands. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” Patrick replies.
“Okay, I won’t go home.”
I frown.
He takes Patrick’s hand and begins to walk back into the house. “Come on. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Tris, it’s okay. You don’t have to,” I reply.
He turns back to me. “Yeah, I do, Claire. I don’t want him to worry about anything, least of all me.” He turns, and with Fletch and Harry trailing behind them, they disappear into the house.
I blink . . . huh?
What just happened?
I stand in the dark and stare at my house.
I don’t want him to worry about anything, least of all me.
Emotion overwhelms me, and I get a lump in my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this.
It feels nice.
Tristan
I toss and turn as I try to get comfortable.
Who fucking designed this piece-of-shit couch? They should be fired on the spot.
What if there’s a drunk driver?
Patrick’s words come back to me, and my heart breaks . . . that poor little kid.
He’s so small, half the size of other kids his age; he has reading difficulties; and now I find out that he’s so traumatized about drunk drivers that he worries.
God, what a nightmare.
I think about how excited he was that I was staying, and I smile to myself.
I hear the stair creak, and I glance up to see Claire tiptoeing down in the darkness. She’s wearing a white nightdress, her hair is in a messy braid, and