by T L Swan
I won’t.
“They are Wade’s boys,” I bark. “You need to stop calling them your boys.”
The car falls deathly silent.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I glare out the front windshield and cross my arms, too angry to form words.
“You do know, Claire . . . that when we get married—”
“If we get married,” I fume.
“I will be adopting the boys.”
“What?” I explode. I stare at him for a moment in utter shock . . . what the fuck? He wants to adopt them. “That’s not happening, Tristan.”
“What?” he screams.
“They already have a father,” I snap.
“I want them as my sons in the eyes of the law.”
“Well, you can’t fucking have them legally. You get to live with them—that’s enough.”
“Mom!” Fletcher cries from the back. “Stop it.”
Tristan’s eyes bulge from their sockets. His eyes flick between the road and me. “So you’re telling me I can care for them, I can love them, but I can’t ever call them my sons.”
“They have a father,” I repeat. “And they will remember and respect his wishes.”
“He’s fucking dead, Claire,” he barks. “And I won’t be punished because he’s gone. I want them legally to be my sons.”
I lose the last of my control. “It’s never fucking happening,” I splutter. “They are my and Wade’s sons. Not yours. They will never be yours. I told you to find someone else and have your own children—you can’t have Wade’s.”
He punches the steering wheel as he loses control, and we all jump. Patrick starts to cry.
“You’re scaring him.”
Tristan grips the steering wheel with white-knuckle force. His eyes fill with tears as he stares straight ahead.
Why did I say that?
Tears well in my eyes, and I angrily wipe them away.
We drive in silence the rest of the way, and he pulls into the driveway. He leaves the car going.
“Are you coming, Tris?” Harry whispers.
“No, buddy,” Tristan replies as he stares straight ahead. “I’ll call you later.”
“No, Tristan,” Patrick begs. “Please come in.” He begins to cry. “Don’t go.” He grabs him over the back of his seat as he begs him not to leave.
Tristan closes his eyes.
I get out of the car, angry that my children would choose him over me. Surely they get my point? Don’t they have any loyalty to their father?
“Get out of the car,” I demand to the boys.
Fletcher gets out.
“Get out of the car,” I snap. Patrick slowly gets out.
Harry sits tight.
“Get out of the car, Harrison.”
“I’m going with Tristan.”
I’m furious. How dare he say that in front of the boys and put me in the position where they think I’m the bad guy? I’m being loyal to their father . . . and so should they.
“You will do no such thing.” I yank the door open and grab his arm as he fights me. “Let me go!” he screams as he kicks at me. “I want to stay with him.”
Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose, overwhelmed by the situation.
I struggle to get him out as the two other boys watch in horror, and I slam the car door hard.
The tires screech as Tristan takes off like a maniac.
I turn to the boys. Tears run down their faces as they glare at me. “I hate you,” Harry cries. “Make him come back.”
He runs inside and slams the door.
“You ruined everything, Mom!” Patrick yells.
They turn and run inside after Harry.
I close my eyes . . . fuck, how the hell did that escalate to this?
Chapter 24
Love is stupid. Love is blind.
Love is a fucking bitch!
I have the shower on full bore to block out the sound of my heart breaking . . . I don’t want the boys to see me cry. I stand under the hot water as the tears run down my face. The lump in my throat is big, the hole in my heart a giant crevasse.
Where the hell did that argument come from?
I had no idea any of that was on Tristan’s agenda.
It shocked me—scared the hell out of me, if I’m honest. I get a vision of the hurt in Tristan’s eyes, and my heart drops.
What have I done?
I pushed away the only person who has my back.
Tristan.
My beautiful Tristan, the man who loves me. The one who has cared for all of us . . . the man who would literally walk across fire to please me . . . wants to take on my children, and I just . . . can’t.
I can’t be that irresponsible and blinded by love.
Why would he want to adopt them? What benefit would it have for him?
If he’s with me, he has them.
Letting him adopt them only gives him the power to take them if he doesn’t need me anymore.
No woman in her right mind would allow a future partner to adopt her children by law. Not when they are already happy and stable. There is no reason for him to want it . . . other than if we break up.
He wants legal assurance that no matter what happens between us, he will always have them.
No.
I’m sorry.
I can’t give him that.
Because I know that if we ever broke up, it would be because he cheated or did something to have caused it. I would never do anything to end us—I love him too much. And in that event, there is no way in hell I would be packing up my sons to go to his house every weekend to play happy family with his new girlfriend.
No woman would ever agree to this. No matter how in love she was. No matter who the man was . . . no matter what her sons wanted.
I screw up my face in tears when I picture their broken little faces as he drove off.
You did the right thing, whispers my conscience.
“Did I?” I reply. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”
My shoulders rack with sobs; I have this sick, heavy, fucked-up lead ball in my stomach. I want to throw up or run away, and I want to go to him . . . but I can’t do any of those things.
I stand for a long time under the hot water. With every minute that passes, along comes a little more guilt.
The vile taste runs through my bloodstream like poison. I’m sickened by what I said to him this afternoon, mortified that I could be so cold and hurtful. He’s only ever loved us.
“I feel like I betrayed my best friend.” I see the tears in his eyes when I said those horrible things, and I cry harder.
“Oh God, I’m done with this stress. Why is nothing damn easy with me?” I sob. “Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?”
I want to live in this house with my boys . . . and Tristan.
That’s it. Nothing fancy, nothing different.
Why does he want things to change? It doesn’t have to be like this.
The boys aren’t talking to me. They’re all in their bedrooms, the house is quiet and sad, and I know Tristan is alone and heartbroken in his apartment.
I slide down the wall and sit on the hard, cold tiles. I roll into a ball to try to protect myself from the pain.
But there is no antidote for this situation . . . I’m going to lose him.
Maybe I did already.
Sadness is heavy. Sadness is still.
I lie in the darkness and watch the time tick by: 11:53 p.m.
My mind goes to my beautiful man. What’s he doing?
I can’t do this. I can’t lie here and do nothing.
I have to try to fix this. I can’t go to sleep without speaking to him. I lean over and grab my phone from the side table and dial his number. My heart beats nervously as I wait for him to pick up.
It stops ringing . . . he declined the call.
My stomach sinks.
He’s never rejected a call from me . . .
ever.
I think for a moment, and I text.
I’m sorry about today,
I don’t know what happened.
It spiraled out of control.
I’ll call you tomorrow.
Goodnight,
I love you.
xoxo
I watch and see the read symbol come up. I smile . . . he saw it.
I wait as I hold my breath.
“Reply,” I whisper. I hold my breath as I wait.
Nothing.
I watch and watch . . . and wait.
My eyes fill with tears. “Reply, baby.”
But he doesn’t, and I know he’s not going to.
My heart drops to a new low, and the tears come hard and fast.
I’ve ruined everything.
I sit and stare at the figures on my computer, trying to miraculously find an extra $200,000.
I’ve sold our holiday home, I’ve sold all of our shares. Everything that Wade and I accumulated in our time together is gone.
And now to keep the man I love, I’m expected to hand his children over as well.
That’s an unfair request. Surely Tristan must know that. How can he not see my point?
I feel like there’s this big black cloud hanging over me and that I’ll never truly be happy.
I must have been bad in my last life, because I feel like I’m being punished for something. I’ve loved two men in my life. One I lost to death.
The other . . .
I rest my hand under my chin and stare into space, wondering if I could have handled yesterday better.
There’s no question I could have.
But . . . I stand by what I said. I don’t want anyone to adopt my boys. I won’t give over that power to someone else.
Even if that someone is the love of my life. It’s not just Tristan—this isn’t personal. This is sensible.
They are Wade’s sons. They will always be Wade’s sons.
My every instinct is telling me this is something that I should never do.
Always trust your gut.
A message comes through on my phone. It’s from Tristan.
Can we talk?
Relief fills me. I write back.
Please.
He replies.
Our hotel,
1pm.
I smile, hopeful.
See you then.
I love you.
xoxox
At one o’clock I hold my breath as I walk into the foyer of our hotel. We’ve been here many times before. Always in excitement.
Today it’s in dread.
Tristan stands over near the elevator, and my stomach flutters when I see him wearing his power suit and standing the way he does, straight and proud.
I know that if he really wants something, it’s nonnegotiable.
“Hi.” I smile.
“Hello.” He dips his head, and in that moment fear runs through me.
He’s not going to let this go.
I’m going to lose him.
We get into the elevator and ride up to our floor in silence.
Oh my God . . . no. Don’t let this happen.
I stand behind him silently as he opens the door, and I walk in and take a seat on the bed.
He closes the door and walks straight to the bar and pours himself a scotch. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
In slow motion he sips his scotch. His eyes hold mine.
“Tristan . . . what I said yesterday—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off. “Let’s talk about that.”
Nerves begin to thump in my chest. “You need to understand where I am coming from. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” I pause.
“But?”
“But I made promises to my first husband. These children are his, and I need to honor his wishes.”
He clenches his jaw; his eyes hold mine.
“We decided to live in that house for a reason.”
“Such as?”
I smile, grateful that he’s at least listening to me.
“Wade wanted that house. We could have afforded better, but he wanted that house. He wanted the boys to grow up in Long Island.”
He stares at me, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.
“He wanted the boys to go to a public school, and yet I let you take them out.”
He screws up his face in anger. “You would keep them in a school that is no good for them, just to prove a fucking point?”
“No,” I stammer as I begin to panic. “You were right on that one. I know you were—it was for the best.”
I wring my hands in front of me. “I’m stressed out. I feel like I’m losing control, and I just want things to stay the same between us.”
He puts his hands in his suit pockets and smiles as he drops his head in amusement.
Oh no . . . I know that look.
“So . . . what you are saying, Claire, is that you want me to step in and be Wade.”
My face falls. “What? No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t. I swear.”
“You want me to live in Wade’s house, with Wade’s wife . . . with Wade’s children.”
I stare at him.
“What about fucking me, Claire?” he cries. “Where the fuck is my life?”
My eyes fill with tears at his anger. “Tristan,” I whisper.
“I want my own wife, Claire, with my own children and to live in a fucking house that we choose together.”
Tears overfill my eyes, and I swipe them away angrily.
“You told me when we met that there were three hearts connected to yours.” He begins to pace. “Did you not?”
I stay silent.
“Answer me . . . fuck it!” he screams.
I jump. “Yes.”
“So now that I’m in love with those hearts, and I want them as my sons”—he glares at me—“you tell me that I can’t have them?”
His silhouette blurs. “Tristan,” I whisper. “Please try and see this from my point of view.”
“You’re selfish, Claire.” His eyes fill with tears.
I drop my head as fear overwhelms me. I’m going to lose him too.
“I deserve to have my own family.”
“I know you do,” I murmur.
“I want the boys as mine.”
“Tristan.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He clenches his jaw. “You know . . . my mother told me way back then . . . that they would always be another man’s sons, that you would always be another man’s wife.” His eyes hold mine. “That you would never truly be my family—I would always be the stand-in.”
I screw up my face in tears. He’s so hurt.
He shakes his head. “I can’t live with that, Claire.”
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I’m saying goodbye . . . I’m nobody’s backup plan.”
I try to contain my sobs. “No, Tris,” I beg.
His haunted eyes hold mine . . . a silent beg for me to stop him.
We stare at each other, and this is it. The defining moment where I choose between my past and my present.
Regret hangs in the air between us, and I want to do as he asks. I want to concede to his demands.
Anything to keep him here with me.
But I just can’t . . . and it’s killing me.
Eventually, he turns and leaves. The door clicks quietly as it closes behind him.
I sob out loud into the silence.
He’s gone.
The days are long . . . but the nights are endless.
Sleeping without him is a hell that I can’t endure.
So I don’t.
I pace . . . all night. Back and forth, back and forth . . . until my legs ache.
It’s been nine days since Tristan left me.
Nine days in sheer hell.
The house is silent, the laughter gone. The boys are barely speaking
to me.
Not only have I broken my heart; I’ve broken the four others that I love the most.
My sons’ and Tristan’s.
I stare at my computer. I have no urge to be at work . . . to be at home . . . to breathe.
My phone buzzes across my desk, and the name Fletcher lights up the screen.
“Hey, buddy.” I smile. Hopefully he’s talking to me again.
“Tristan is leaving,” he whispers.
“What?”
“He’s going to Paris.”
“For how long?”
“He just transferred my internship to Jameson.”
I stand as my eyes widen. “What?”
“He said he’s not coming back, Mom. You really did it,” he whispers angrily.
I screw up my face in tears, so close to the edge of the cliff I can almost feel myself hitting the bottom. “I’m coming,” I stammer. “Keep him there; I’m coming.”
I grab my bag and run.
Marley stands up as I run past her. “What in the world?”
“I’m out for the day,” I call.
“Huh?” she calls after me. “But you have a meeting in an hour.”
“Cancel it,” I call as I run into the elevator. I hit the button with force. “Come on, come on.”
I can’t let him go.
He can’t go.
The doors slowly close, and I tap my foot nervously. “Hurry.”
I drag my hands through my hair as I begin to perspire . . . no . . . no . . . no, this can’t be happening.
The elevator slowly goes down, and the doors open. A heap of people are standing there waiting. “Sorry.” I slam the button to close the doors. “No time for you.”
The door closes as their faces fall. I get to the ground floor and sprint through the foyer and run out into the street with my arm in the air. “Taxi!” I call as a cab drives past.
Another man is waiting on the curb for a cab too.
“Oh my God,” I cry to him. “This is an emergency; my boyfriend is leaving me.”
He winces.
“Because I’m selfish,” I pant as I run up the street, arm stretched high. “Now he’s flying to Paris without saying goodbye.”
He rolls his eyes. “You are not getting my cab.”
“I don’t want your damn cab,” I bark. A cab pulls up, and I dive into the back of it like a maniac. “I’ve got my own. The Miles Media building, please,” I stammer.
“Hey!” the man calls as he watches me drive off. I give him a half wave.
“Bye.”
