good kid, and his only crime is that he’s too protective of me. To the point where if Harry is giving me grief, Fletcher goes ballistic, and I have to break them up from a fistfight.
Harry, on the other hand, is an entirely different kettle of fish. He’s naughty wherever he goes and no matter who he’s with. His teachers are constantly calling me about his behavior, and last year he even nearly got expelled from school. I’ve had him at therapy. I’ve had him at behavioral psychologists. You name it—I’ve done it.
Diet, exercise programs, no blue lights on screens . . . nothing has worked. It pains me to admit it, but Harry needs his dad. More than the other two, and I’m so out of my depth that I have no idea what to do with him.
At this point, my only goal is to get through each day without an all-out war. If I can get into bed at night, and I haven’t had a call from school about him, and we haven’t had a run-in, it’s been a very good day.
I let him get away with a lot more than I should, simply so that Patrick and Fletcher don’t have to put up with his dramatics and my screaming.
It’s not fair to them to have to live with it, so I tiptoe around Harry to keep the peace.
It’s not right, but at this point, it’s all I can do.
“Hello,” Fletcher calls as he answers the door. “Mom, Tristan is here.”
“What?” I hear Patrick call. He goes running through the house to the door like a maniac. “Tristan!” he cries in excitement.
“Hey, buddy,” I hear Tristan’s deep voice reply.
What’s he doing here?
Nerves dance in my stomach, and I walk out to see Patrick hugging Tristan’s leg.
Fletcher rolls his eyes in a “he’s so embarrassing” way, and I smile at the beautiful man before me. “Hi.”
Tristan’s eyes hold mine. “Hello, Claire.”
The air buzzes between us.
It’s there again, like it is every time we’re together—this feeling between us where I want to take him into my arms and kiss him. It doesn’t feel natural being platonic.
Tristan Miles was made for touching.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a navy cap. I love him dressed like this, all casual and hot.
“I came to watch movies with Patrick,” he announces.
What?
Patrick’s eyes widen in amazement. “You did?” Patrick looks to me. “He came to see me, Mom.”
I smile at my baby’s over-the-top excitement. “Thank you. That’s very nice.”
Patrick grabs Tristan by the hand and pulls him to the living room. “What do you want to watch?” He gasps. “Oh, Mom.” He turns to me, and it’s obvious his little mind is going a million miles per minute. “Do we have popcorn? Can you go and get some for us?” His eyes widen as he remembers something else. “Oh. Tristan, do you want pizza? I know it’s your favorite. Mom, can we have pizza, please?”
Tristan messes up Patrick’s hair. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” They fall onto the couch together, and Patrick sits so close he’s almost on top of him.
What is he doing here? It’s Friday night. Surely he has better things to do than hang out with my kids.
Maybe he wants to be here . . . excitement runs through me.
Stop it. Play it cool. He’s probably just being nice . . . so nice.
“Give Tristan some room, bubba,” I remind him.
Patrick’s face falls as he realizes what he’s doing, and he moves back. Tristan grabs him and pulls him close again. “It’s cool. Stay close, brother.”
Patrick smiles goofily up at him, and I bite my lip to hide my smile as my heart swells. Seeing Patrick with Tristan is chicken soup for my soul.
So. Cute.
Harry stomps down the stairs and stops still when he sees our visitor. “What are you doing here?” he snaps.
“Harry,” I warn him. Tristan puts his hand up to silence me.
“I’m here to visit Patrick and your mother and Fletch. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Harry gasps, indignant.
“We’re watching movies. Go away, Harry,” Patrick barks as he flicks through the channels with the remote.
Harry glares at Tristan, and Tristan winks back with a smirk.
“I thought your car broke down,” Harry blurts.
“Oh, it’s at the police station.”
“What for?” I frown.
“It turns out that somebody put sugar in the gas tank, but it’s okay. They’re getting the fingerprints from the car now that we know what is wrong.”