by T L Swan
My mind isn’t here with them; it’s up with Harrison in his room.
He’s grounded, and I’ve listened to Claire take his every privilege from him this afternoon.
It’s none of my business, and I can’t intrude . . . but I feel for the kid.
I dish him up a large bowl of dinner, slather it in grated cheese, and put some garlic bread and a drink on a tray.
He’s not allowed out of his room. I’ll take him dinner before Claire wakes.
I make my way upstairs and knock on the door.
No answer.
I slowly open it to see him lying with his back to the door.
“I brought you some dinner, Wiz.”
No answer. He ignores me.
Hmm . . .
I walk in and close the door behind me. I place the tray down on his desk and put my hands on my hips as I watch him. “You all right?” I ask.
“Get out.” He sighs sadly.
I sit on the end of the bed, trying to work out what to say. “I found your phone.”
His eyes flick to me.
“A lady found it, and I went and picked it up.”
His eyes drop to the floor.
“Why don’t you tell your mother that you go to the cemetery?”
He clenches his jaw but remains silent.
“Is that where you are whenever you go missing?”
His eyes meet mine, and I know that it is.
“How long does it take you to ride out there on your bike?” It’s fifteen miles—must take him ages.
He stays silent.
“You got a flat tire last night, and you couldn’t get home?” I ask. “And then it poured rain, and you were stuck in it for hours as you walked home?”
He still doesn’t answer me.
“I’m not against you here, Wiz. I’m on your side.” I put my hand on his foot. “I’m trying to work out what the fuck is going on with you. Why wouldn’t you just ask your mother to take you there? Why do you lie about where you’ve been?”
“Because whenever she goes there, she cries for a week, and I can’t stand seeing her sad.”
God.
I drop my head, and we sit in silence for a while. “Where did you get the money for the cigars?” I ask.
His eyes flick to me in horror.
“You’re not in trouble.”
He stays quiet, and then eventually he replies, “I saved my allowance for six months.”
I frown in confusion.
He turns away and looks at the wall. “They were for Dad,” he whispers softly.
I close my eyes as a sadness fills my chest.
Poor fucking kid.
“Just tell your mom where you were. She won’t be angry at you,” I urge.
“What for? She’ll just haul me back to the psychologist. I would rather her be angry than worried. I’m done with the shrinks.”
We sit in silence for a while, and I don’t know what to say. “Have your dinner, and then why don’t you come down, and we’ll build our spaceship for a few hours.”
He stays still, staring at the wall. “No, thanks.”
I put his phone on the bedside table. “Here’s your phone.” I turn toward the door.
“Tristan.”
I turn back to him.
“Can you not tell her?”
I nod. “Sure thing.”
I trudge down the stairs with a heavy heart and walk out to find Claire packing up the spaceship model and Fletcher standing nearby. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Putting this in the Goodwill bin.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s lying, and I won’t tolerate it. I’m not taking his crap anymore, Tristan. I’m done with it. There is no excuse for his behavior.”
“Leave it on the table,” I say.
“Tristan.”
“I said leave it,” I snap. How the fuck do I defend him without telling her what I know?
“Why are you suddenly on his side?” she snaps back. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Just fucking ease up on him, will you?” I sigh. “Have your dinner, have a shower, and go to bed. The boys and I will clean up. Leave Harrison alone for the moment. You’re tired and emotional. Things will seem better tomorrow; deal with it then.”
Fletcher gives me a lopsided smile.
“Tricky, you ready for dinner?” I call.
Patrick comes bouncing in from the living room. “Yes, my favorite.”
I sit in my car and watch Harrison as he walks up the road. I’m outside his school, it’s just around three o’clock, it’s finished for the day, and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.
Well, I do, but I’m pretty sure Claire would go postal if she did.
Too bad . . . I have to do this. It’s been eating at me all day. I drive the car up alongside him. “Wiz,” I call.
He turns and frowns. “What are you doing here?”
“Get in.”
“No.” He keeps walking.
“Get in, or I’m telling her,” I threaten.
He glares at me, exhales heavily, and walks around and gets into my car. “What?”
I hand him a packet of cigars, just like the ones that got wet. He frowns as he looks at them in his hand.
“Do you want to go see your dad?” I ask.
His eyes search mine, and he drops his head and stares at the cigars once more.
That means yes.
I pull out into the street, and after a very silent car ride, I park the car at the cemetery.
He climbs out, and I tentatively follow him through the tombstones. It’s beautiful here, with green lush lawns, and immaculately kept.
WADE ANDERSON
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
FOREVER LOVED, SADLY MISSED
I put my hands into my suit pockets as I look on. Harrison wipes the nameplate clean with his shirt and straightens the flowers, and I can tell that he comes here often.
Alone.
I get a lump in my throat as I watch him.
With a shaky hand, he opens the packet and gets out a cigar and carefully places it on the grave.
“Here they are, Dad,” he whispers. “Your favorite.”
I clench my jaw. This is too much.
He takes one out and holds it in his hand, and then he passes one to me.
I frown in surprise.
I take it, pull out a lighter from my pocket, and flick it on. He stares at me for a moment, shocked. I bend and light my cigar and inhale deeply, and then I hold it alight for him. He does the same. He takes in a big breath and coughs as he chokes, and I chuckle as I blow out the thin stream of smoke.
I hold the cigar up and look at it. “Not bad.” I smile. “You got good taste,” I say to the tombstone.
Harrison fights a smile as he takes another drag. He puffs the smoke out like a dragon, and I can tell he doesn’t normally smoke.
“This is Tristan,” Harrison says to the tombstone.
I smile and dip my head in a greeting. “Mr. Anderson.”
Harrison looks at me for a moment and then touches the tombstone. “You can touch it.” He pats it, as if to entice me.
He wants me to shake hands with his dad.
I walk over and put my hand on the top of the cold hard stone.
Goose bumps scatter up my arms, and a weird emotion overwhelms me.
In some strange way, I feel like this is the changing of the guard.
The family he loved . . . is now with me.
In my care, for me to love.
“Nice to meet you, Wade,” I whisper.
Claire
I watch the man in the expensive navy suit and perfect posture—the big-time city businessman who looks so out of place here. He slowly lifts the cigar to his lips and inhales deeply. He says something to the young boy he’s with, then exhales the smoke in a thin stream. His hand rests on the boy’s shoulder as they continue their conversation.
My heart constricts.
I lean u
p against the tree in the cemetery. Their silhouettes blur through tears as I watch Harrison and Tristan standing over Wade’s grave.
If someone cut my heart open with a knife, it would be less painful than watching this.
The man whom I love, taking my son to see his dead father . . . smoking a cigar with them. And I know that Harrison is too young to smoke, and they shouldn’t be doing this. I should be furious. I should be appalled . . . but then . . .
Wade loved cigars.
My chest shudders as I try to get a hold on my emotions.
This would be so special to Wade . . . having a cigar with his son.
I close my eyes, the pain unbearable.
I went to pick up Harrison from school so I could try to talk to him alone, and then I saw him getting into Tristan’s car, and I followed them here.
This is the last thing I expected to see.
I don’t want them to see me. I turn and walk back to my car, the tears streaming down my face. I get in, and without looking back, I drive home in tears.
I’m in love with a beautiful man.
I toss the salad in the bowl and glance at the clock. Seven o’clock. The boys have done their chores and are watching television.
My heart is bursting with love, and I am totally in awe of Tristan.
He did something, he did something very special for me . . . and for Wade—and to know that he has Harry’s back when I didn’t cuts my heart wide open.
I’ve just realized that he has a specialized skill that, no matter what, I couldn’t give my boys.
Perspective.
This is what they’ve been craving. This is what they’ve been missing in their lives.
No wonder I was struggling so hard with them. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
Harry didn’t mention going to the cemetery, and I haven’t brought up anything about the weekend. I’m acting normal because I’m not sure what to say. Whatever he and Tristan have talked about, he wants to keep to himself. If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.
The Aston Martin pulls up in the driveway. “Tristan’s here!” Patrick yells as he runs for the front door.
Fletcher caught the subway home. I’m not actually sure where Tris has been since then. I watch through the window as Patrick opens Tristan’s car door and talks a million miles per minute. Tristan listens and laughs. He’s so patient with him. He passes him his laptop bag, and Patrick proudly carries it in. Fletcher goes to the door to greet him, and Harry stays sitting on the couch.
“Hello,” Tristan says as he walks into the living room. His eyes find Harry across the room, and he gives him a nod.
Harry gives him a lopsided smile, and my heart soars.
It’s going to be okay . . . it’s all going to be okay.
“Hello, Anderson,” he purrs in his oh-so-sexy deep voice.
I take him into my arms. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” I lean up and kiss him softly, and he frowns, surprised I’m kissing him in front of the boys.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“I had a meeting this afternoon and . . .” He hesitates as he thinks of a lie. “I had a busy afternoon.”
“Oh.” I smile up at my gorgeous liar. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
“Good.” He kisses me softly again. “I’m starving.”
Chapter 22
Tristan
I stand in the elevator and turn up my nose.
What is that smell?
I got up and left early, trained with my personal trainer, and got dressed in the bathroom at the gym. I look around at my surroundings. This elevator stinks. What the fuck cleaning products are they using?
The doors open, and I stride out. “Morning,” I say to the girls at reception.
“Morning,” they all reply.
I can still smell it. Ugh, it’s horrendous. Must have permeated my nostrils.
It’s foul.
What the heck is it?
I walk into my office and begin to sniff around. Is it the carpet? I push the intercom. “Sammia, what is that godawful fucking smell?”
“What?”
“Can you smell something?”
“No.”
“I can smell something.”
“Maybe you wore too much aftershave.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Can you make sure my car is here to pick me up right at nine, please? I need to be early for my meeting this morning.”
“Already booked, boss.”
“Thanks.” I walk into my bathroom and wash my hands. Maybe I touched something at the gym?
I take a seat at my desk and turn on my computer. I wince from the odor.
“Oh my God, this is intolerable,” I mutter. I push the intercom again. “Sammia, can you come here for a moment, please?”
She sighs. “Fine.”
I go back to my computer.
Moments later she walks in. “Yes?”
“What is that smell?”
She screws up her nose as she inhales. “Hmm . . . I can smell something.”
“See. I told you.”
She sniffs . . . and sniffs. She walks around and then leans in toward me. “It’s you.”
My eyes widen in horror, and I sniff the sleeve of my suit. “What?”
She leans in and sniffs again. “Smells like cat piss.”
“What?” I explode. I jump from my chair and tear off my jacket. I glance down, and I see a faint mark on my shoes—my four-thousand-dollar fucking shoes. “That fucking Muff Cat has pissed in my overnight bag!” I scream.
Sammia puts her hands over her mouth and bursts out laughing.
I kick off my shoes, tear off my socks, and take off my shirt and tie and throw them into a pile on the floor. “Burn these fucking things. All of them!” I yell. “I don’t have fucking time for this.” I march out of the office and down past reception.
“Hell yeah.” Mallory from reception giggles as she sees me shirtless. “Boom.”
Sammia laughs out loud behind me. “I’ll say,” she chimes in.
“Not funny!” I cry as I storm into Jameson’s office.
He’s just arrived and glances up from his desk. “What the fuck are you doing?” He frowns.
“Give me your clothes.”
“What?”
I hold my hand out. “That Muff Cat pissed on my clothes, and I have the most important meeting of the year. Give me your fucking suit.”
He bursts out laughing.
“I’m not joking,” I bark. “Give me your clothes and shoes. Right now.”
Sammia and Mallory are laughing hard at the door.
“Not fucking funny, you two,” I cry. “Sammia, call Claire and tell her the cat is going to hell. When I get ahold of that thing . . . tick fucking tock.” I punch my fist hard.
The three of them burst out laughing again.
Jameson stands and begins to unbutton his shirt. “I thought Elliot and Christopher were coming in today. Take their suits.”
“They won’t be here until after ten. They have a breakfast meeting.”
“Sammia, can you find Jameson some clothes, please?” I stammer.
“Do I have to?” She sighs dreamily.
He hands over his shirt, and we suddenly become aware of the three reception girls standing at the door watching, and we both glance over.
Sammia gives us a goofy smile and shrugs. “Don’t mind us; this is the most exciting thing that’s happened in the office for like . . . forever.”
I glance at Jameson, and he rolls his eyes. What must we look like, both shirtless and half-undressed in the office?
“Fucking perverts,” I huff. “Go watch some porn or something.”
“This is better.” Sammia sighs again.
“Jesus Christ,” Jameson mutters under his breath.
The girls all giggle and slowly return to their desks.
Jameson hands over his shirt and tie and suit and shoes and socks, and I change into them. Elliot comes in the door unexpectedly,
and his face falls when he sees Jameson sitting at his desk in only his boxer shorts. “What the hell is going on?”
“Claire’s cat pissed on his clothes.” Jameson smirks. “He has a meeting. Can you go and buy me a new suit?”
Elliot’s brows rise in horror, and he looks to me.
“Don’t fucking say it,” I growl.
He bursts out laughing. “You fucking idiot.”
I storm out of the office as I do my tie. “Goodbye,” I call as I storm through the office. “This is not the morning I had in fucking mind.”
“Good luck!” the girls all call. “I hope you don’t run into any more cats out there.”
“Shut up,” I snap as I step into the elevator. “This isn’t fucking funny.”
It’s just around four o’clock when Sammia’s voice echoes through the intercom. “Tris, your mom is here.”
I hit send on my email . . . great. “Send her in.” I knew this was coming. I stand and go to the door and open it. Her lovely face comes into view, and I smile. “Hello, Mom.”
“Hello, darling.” She smiles as she walks past me. She takes a seat at my desk, and I hit the intercom. “Mallory, can you bring my mother in some tea, please?”
“Of course.”
She smiles and stares at me.
“Yes?” I smirk.
“Claire’s lovely.”
“She is.” I rest my elbow on my desk and steeple my fingers up over my temple.
She stays silent.
“But . . . ?” I ask.
She hesitates.
“Come on, Mother, you have come here for a reason today. What is it?”
“Tristan . . .” She pauses. “Why do you think you like Claire?”
“I don’t like her, Mom. I love her.”
She inhales sharply. “Tris.” She stands and walks to the window and stares out over the city. “Ever since you were a child, you have had a very strong personality trait.”
I frown as I listen.
“And so far in business, it has served you well.”
I stay silent.
“But now I feel I must make you aware of it, because I fear it is affecting you personally.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” I sigh, annoyed.
She turns to me. “Tristan, you like to fix things.”
I frown harder. What?
“You don’t destroy companies; you buy them to fix them. It is your natural ability to sense when something needs you. You have always been like this, even when you were a tiny little boy. You are attracted to people who need help.”
