stare at my phone for a moment until I can’t stop myself anymore. I text Tristan.
I love you,
xoxo
I hit send and stare at my phone, and eventually the word appears.
Read.
He’s read the message.
I wait . . . and I wait . . . and I wonder what he’s doing right now.
Text me back . . . please.
But he doesn’t, and I cry because I know that it’s probably already too late.
I sit in front of Fletcher’s building in the loading bay. It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m picking him up from work. The boys left to go on their fishing trip straight from school. It’s just the two of us for three days.
I watch him walk out the front doors with Jameson. They’re talking and laughing.
Does Jameson know about Tristan and me?
Jameson glances over at the car and nods his head. He turns his attention straight back to Fletcher.
He knows all right, and he’s pissed.
The whole world thinks I’m doing the wrong thing . . . maybe I am.
I love Tristan. With all of my heart, I love Tristan. I would give anything to have him back in my life. But I can’t give control to someone over my children; I just can’t.
It’s nonnegotiable.
And if he loved me, he would understand why.
This isn’t an acquisition; this isn’t just another takeover. These are my children.
Wade’s flesh and blood, and I won’t sign them over.
No matter how much it kills me.
And it might . . . I’ve never felt so sad. Well, that’s a lie—I have felt this sad, but it was a different sad. It was grief, a deep dark hole of grief.
This time, my love is very much alive and well.
It’s a torture that I can’t explain.
I know Tristan is hurting, too, and I can’t comfort him, and I can’t get through to him.
He won’t answer my calls. He won’t listen to me.
And I said some horrible things that I wish I could take back, but in the end, I stand by my decision.
Why can’t he see that?
Fletcher comes and gets into the car. “Hi,” he says as he throws his bag into the back seat.
“Hi.” I smile over at him. “How was your day?”
“Yeah, good.”
I pull out into the traffic. “Let’s go out for dinner, just the two of us.”
“Ah . . .” He hesitates.
“You don’t want to?” I frown over at him.
He scrunches his nose up. “Not really. I’m tired. It’s been a big week at work. I just want to go home and chill, if that’s okay.”
I nod, saddened. “Okay, takeout it is.”
The drive home is made in silence. I thought Fletcher was okay about Tristan and me, but maybe that’s just because he was quiet. Now that I’m alone with him, I’m sensing more of his feelings.
He’s angry.
With every mile we drive, the silence builds more animosity between us.
We get closer to home, and I pull into the bottle shop. “I’m just going to run in and get a bottle of wine.”
Fletcher rolls his eyes, unimpressed.
I get out of the car and slam the door, annoyed. Since when is getting a bottle of wine a fucking crime? I walk around the shop as I mutter to myself angrily.
I’ve lost Tristan for standing up for my kids on behalf of their dead father, and now they aren’t talking to me?
What a joke.
And no matter how much they love Tristan, they can’t love him as much as I do.
I march back out to the car with a bee in my bonnet. Damn kids. I start the car, and we drive the two blocks home. Fletcher gets out and slams the door and marches inside.
Something inside of me snaps, and I storm in after him. I find him in the kitchen.
“What is your problem, Fletcher?” I snap.
“If you don’t know what my problem is, then you’re purposely ignoring my problem,” he snarls.
I’m taken aback with his aggression. Fletcher never gets angry with me—never. “You are old enough to understand this, Fletch. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m acting on behalf of your dad.”
“What?” he cries as he screws up his face in disgust. “You think that you’re acting on behalf of Dad?” he scoffs.
I put my hands on my hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Dad sent Tristan for us, Mom.”
His eyes search mine.
“Don’t you see?” he yells. “Dad was the one who found Tristan and sent him to us.” His eyes well with tears. “What the hell would a man like Tristan Miles want with us . .