“On another topic, Mrs. Smithers, I would like a report on what you are doing to help Patrick Anderson.”
Her eyes widen. “For what?”
“He has dyslexia, and under state law your school receives special funding for extra help for him. Where is it?”
Oh, he’s good.
“I don’t appreciate you coming in here and slinging your accusations around,” Mrs. Smithers snaps.
Tristan glares at her. “And I don’t appreciate incompetence.” He stands. “You will be hearing from the education board with regard to this matter.” He takes Harry’s hand. “Harrison won’t be back. Nor Patrick, for that matter.”
My eyes widen . . . what?
“And where are you going to send him?” Mrs. Henderson smirks sarcastically.
“They’ll be attending Trinity School.”
“Ha,” Mrs. Smithers laughs. “He won’t get in there. They won’t take him with his behavior record.”
“We’ll see.” He smiles at the people in the room with an eerie confidence. “You know, intelligent people scare stupid people.” He turns to the woman taking notes. “Did you get that?”
She glares at him.
“What does that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Henderson snaps.
“What is that supposed to mean,” Tristan corrects her. “Let’s go; we are wasting our time here.”
He marches out the door, leading Harrison by the hand, and we walk out through the playground. I had considered moving schools before but thought the boys had had enough changes to deal with. “Do you want to go and say goodbye to your friends?” Tristan asks him.
“Nah, my friends don’t even go here anymore.”
Tristan frowns down at him. “Who do you hang around with now? Where are your friends from?”
“Sports and the skate park.”
“So . . . what about at school?”
“I sit alone every day.”
I stare at him . . . and my heart breaks. God, this is worse than I ever imagined.
We climb into the car, and Tristan puts his seat belt on. “Good riddance, Mrs. Henderson, you stupid old bag.” He pulls out into the traffic.
I smirk as I look out the window.
I’m in love with Superman.
My hero.
The boys all bounce in excitement on the couch, and Harry dials Tristan’s number. “You need to hurry!” he cries before hanging up.
I smile as I sip my wine. The big game is on, and the boys are really into it. It’s funny—they have never been into watching it before. Tristan has gotten them totally addicted. They all sit together on one couch and scream and laugh and yell at the ref.
Days of Tristan living with us have turned into weeks and then months.
Seven wonderful months, to be exact.
Our home is happy for the first time in a long time. The boys adore him, I am so happy, and even Muff is obsessed with my boyfriend. He follows him around, purring.
If I could just get over these work issues, my life would be perfect.
I’m losing control of Anderson Media. We have no advertising contracts left, and nobody is renewing. We’re on skeleton staff, and I lie awake every night worrying about money. Tristan has no idea. I have no doubt he will be furious with me for not telling him when he finally finds out, but I don’t want to tell him until I absolutely have to. He already does so much for me and the boys. He insists on paying for their private schooling. He drops them there every morning and has his driver pick them up every afternoon and bring them home.
Never in a million years did I think my sons would be picked up from the most exclusive school in New York every day by a limo.
And besides, I don’t want to appear weaker than I already feel. If he knows about my situation, then I have to talk about it with him, and at the moment, he’s my safe place, where nothing is corrupted.
I want him to be proud of me, like I am of him.
The door bursts open, and Tristan comes racing in. “What’s happening?” he cries as he stares at the television.
“You missed the kickoff!” Harry yells.
Tristan throws his jacket off and marches into the kitchen. “Hey, baby,” he says as he kisses me quickly.
I smile up at him, but before I have time to reply, he grabs a beer from the fridge and runs back out into the living room to the boys watching the game. “No!” he cries. They all begin to yell at something in the game.
I smile, and an unwanted resentment falls over me. I wish I could be so excited about something. I have this black cloud of fear hanging over