by T L Swan
I crane my neck to look at the traffic jam ahead.
“Can you drive fast, please? This is an emergency.”
“Okay, lady.” He swerves and turns down a side street.
My phone rings, and the name Fletcher lights up the screen. “Hello,” I stammer.
“He’s gone, Mom.”
My face falls. “What?” I stare out the window. I don’t believe this. “Which airport is he going to?”
“Hang on.” He puts the phone down and asks someone, “Which airport?”
“JFK,” I hear a woman reply. “Terminal two.”
“JFK,” Fletcher snaps. “Terminal two.”
“Okay, I got it.” I hang up. “Change of plans!” I yell to the driver. “JFK Airport. Terminal two. Please hurry; this is a life-and-death situation.”
The driver does a sharp U-turn, and I hold on for dear life.
Thirty minutes later we arrive. I throw him the money and get out and run.
The check-in area is busy and bustling, and I look around frantically.
Where is he? Where . . . I turn a full 360-degree circle. Where is he?
I dial Fletcher’s number.
“Hello,” he snaps.
“Where is he? I can’t find him. I’m at the airport. Call him, and find out where he is,” I cry as I look around frantically.
“Okay. Sammia, call him and find out where he is.” He comes back to me. “Stay on the line, Mom.”
I hold the phone really close, and I hear Sammia talking to Tristan in the background.
“He’s still in the car,” Fletcher whispers. “He’s just pulling up now.”
I hang up and run out through the front doors, and I see the long black limo pulling in at the other end of the terminal. I kick off my shoes, pick them up, and run.
Tristan gets out slowly. He takes his luggage out of the trunk. Three suitcases.
He’s leaving me.
I run as fast as I can through the crowd, and as I approach him, he glances up and sees me and stops what he’s doing.
I throw up my arms in desperation. “What are you doing?” I cry.
He drops his head, his armor firmly in place. “Claire, don’t cause a scene.”
“Don’t cause a scene?” I cry. “You’re just going to leave us.”
He stares at me and clenches his jaw. Damn it, I’ve hurt him.
I rush to him and take him into my arms. “Tris,” I whisper. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave. I’m just stressed about losing the business, and I said awful things.”
He frowns. “Losing the business?”
I screw up my face in tears. “It’s gone.” I wipe the tears out of my eyes angrily. “I can’t hold it any longer.”
“What?” His expression abruptly changes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know that I couldn’t do it,” I whisper. “I wanted you to be proud of me.”
He stares at me, shock on his face.
“And then you wanted to change everything and the house and the boys, and I was overwhelmed and . . .” I shake my head in despair. This is all coming out wrong. “If you have me, you already have the boys—you don’t need to adopt them.”
His back straightens. “It’s nonnegotiable, Claire.”
My face falls. “What?”
“If I marry you, I want to adopt the boys.”
“Why do you want to change things?” I stammer.
“Because . . . I want my own family.”
“But I love you.”
“It isn’t enough.”
My face falls.
Oh my God . . . this really is the end; my eyes fill with tears, and we stare at each other as everyone else in the airport disappears. I take a step back from him to try to protect myself from what he’s saying.
“I would give up having my own children, Claire, so that I don’t lose yours.”
A tear rolls down my cheek, and the lump in my throat nearly closes over.
“I love them. I want them as my sons. I want their surname to be Anderson-Miles.”
I shake my head, unable to push the word no past my lips. “You just want to take them,” I whisper. “You’ve already taken me over; you can’t take over my sons. They are not up for grabs. You want power. I know how you work, Tristan—you always have to be in charge.”
His face falls. “Is that what you think?”
I nod. What else could it be?
He drops his head; his face is solemn. “Goodbye, Claire.”
“Why?” I cry. “Why do you want this so much?”
He turns to me like the devil himself. “Because I deserve my own family, God damn it. And I love them, and if you can’t see that, I don’t even fucking know who you are.”
My heart drops.
He leans forward. “All this time . . . I thought you loved me,” he whispers through tears. He pauses as my eyes search his. “Guess not.”
“Tris,” I whisper.
He turns and marches through the doors and into the airport.
“Tristan,” I call.
He keeps walking.
“Tristan!” I cry.
The private doors open, and he walks through them without looking back. Security guards step in front of them to block me from running after him.
He’s gone.
Tristan
Fourteen days and fourteen nights . . . living without her.
Without them.
I sip my beer as I stare at the football game on the screen. I’m in the busiest American pub in Paris. People are everywhere. I hear their voices in the distance; the echoes of their jovial laughter fill the space. But I feel as if I’m hovering above them, not really here, not really there.
In a detached state, cut . . . to the bone.
If it were a physical injury, I would be in intensive care, barely clinging to life.
The heart hurts more than any injury ever could. It beats weakly . . . barely at all.
Every breath that I take feels like my chest is about to cave in.
Every exhale a struggle.
The walls have closed in, the dust has settled, and yet nothing has changed.
The world is spinning at a million miles per minute, but the silence without them . . . is deafening.
I never knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved. A heartbeat that once we shared, I can no longer hear.
I lost four pieces of myself on the same day.
My entire world.
I sip my beer as I stare at the television screen on the wall.
I want to talk to my boys . . . I want to kiss my girl.
And then I remember the painful truth.
That neither are mine—they will never be mine.
They belong to him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and the name Jameson lights up the screen. “Hey,” I answer.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine, Jay.” I sigh.
“Elliot and Christopher are on their way.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Hmm . . . I kind of think it is.”
I stay silent.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“In a bar.”
“Alone?”
“Yep.” I roll my eyes and catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar.
I see him, the man whom the world sees, the heartless takeover king in the expensive suit.
The one who’s dead inside.
This time, they’re right . . . I am.
“I got to go.” I sigh.
“Promise me you’re all right.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m fine,” I reply as I hang up. But I don’t know if I’m fine. I don’t even know what I am anymore, who I am . . . I frown and sip my drink.
This is an emptiness that I don’t know how to fight.
The waiter wipes the bar. “Another one?” he asks.
“Yes.” I nod once. “Keep them coming.”
; I read down the list of unopened emails, and I frown.
Anderson Media.
She emailed me from her work account. I click the email open.
Dear Mr. Miles,
I have fought all I can, I have nothing left to give. With no financial relief in sight,
I would like to accept your offer to acquire Anderson Media.
I would like assurance that all staff will keep their positions within the company or offered alternative employment.
Please find the attached financials and spreadsheets that you require for the due diligence.
Your first offer will be accepted.
Sincerely,
Claire Anderson
I stare at the email, void of emotion. How long has she been struggling to keep her business afloat?
Why didn’t she tell me?
My mind goes back to the first time we met and how aggressive I was with her.
I was so hell bent on taking her company that I didn’t care about anything else, no matter how much I was attracted to her—it was the company acquisition that I wanted.
I remember how determined she was to fight to the end.
The fire she had inside of her was so bright that I could feel it. It was the thing that drew me to her. Determination like that is so rare these days; it’s not often I come across it.
That very same determination to be independent has now driven a wedge between us. It has all along, if I’m honest.
I had to fight to be in her life, and now I have to choose between what I know I deserve and what she wants. Both things should be the same.
It’s heartbreaking that they aren’t even on the same page. I exhale heavily as these depressing thoughts fill my soul.
How did it get to this?
What must it be like to lose something that you fought so hard for so long to keep? I imagine how gutted she must be. The timing couldn’t be worse.
“Claire,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I exhale heavily and click open the financial spreadsheets.
Time to separate business and pleasure . . . or in this case, business and heartbreak.
There will be no winner here.
Claire
“Can we go away with Uncle Bob this weekend fishing?” Harry asks.
I smile in relief. This is the first time Harry has talked to me all week. “Where’s he going?”
“Down to Bear Mountain. He called and asked if Patrick and I could go.”
“Oh.” I stare at him for a moment. “You really want to go away fishing now?” I ask. Typical kids—don’t understand that I need them close right now. “Is Fletcher going?”
“No, Fletcher said he didn’t want to after working all week.”
“I’ll think about it,” I reply.
He stares at me for a beat, as if waiting for me to say something.
“Do you want to talk about Saturday?” I ask.
He puts his hand on his hip with attitude. “Are you going to call Tristan and apologize?”
“I already went and saw Tristan, Harry.”
His face lights up in excitement. “What did he say?”
I shrug as I search for the right words. “We decided that we’re just going to be friends for the moment,” I reply as I sip my coffee. He doesn’t need to know the ins and outs of our conversation at the airport. I don’t want to remember it myself.
He frowns. “So . . . he’s not coming back?”
My heart drops. “No, honey. Remember, I told you that he had to go to Paris to work for a while.” I take his hand and hold it in mine. “You need to understand why Tristan and I have a different opinion on the adoption thing.”
He stares at me.
“Tristan isn’t your dad, Harry, and although we all love each other, sometimes things don’t turn out the way that we want them to. Tristan was my boyfriend, and going forward, I’m not sure where we stand with that. I’m sad too. This is affecting all of us. But he will always be your friend, Harry. Nobody will ever take that from the two of you.”
“Dad’s dead, Mom. And he’s not coming back,” he spits. “And Tristan wants to be my new dad . . . and you won’t let him.”
My eyes fill with tears at his cold attitude. “Harry.”
“You ruined it,” he blurts out like a poison. “You’ve ruined everything.” He storms off.
“Harry, come back here!” I call after him.
He marches up the stairs and slams his bedroom door hard.
I drag my hand down my face. God, this is a fucking nightmare.
The first two months Tristan and I were together, Harry hated him with a passion, and now . . . he’s the one who’s unable to cope with all of this.
There are three hearts connected to mine.
I dial my brother’s phone number and wait as it rings. “Hey, sis,” he replies, and I can tell he’s smiling.
“Hey,” I breathe. I love my brother, and at times like this I just want to go and sleep on his couch so that I can be close to him. He makes everything seem better, and I have no doubt that’s why my boys are seeking him out.
“How you doing?” he asks.
“Okay.” I sigh.
“How you really doing?”
“Pretty crap.” I smile sadly.
“Thought so.”
“You really want to take the boys fishing this weekend?”
“Yeah, sure. When Harry called me—”
“Harry called you?” I interrupt him.
“Yeah, said he wanted to get away for the weekend with the boys.”
I get a lump in my throat . . . he’s really missing Tris.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I’m happy to go. I could use some time with them too.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll text Harry all the details and keep in contact with him,” he says.
“Thanks.” I sigh sadly. My heart feels like it’s about to break from guilt.
“Hey . . . sis?” Bob says.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing with Tristan? Everybody seems pretty damn heartbroken over there.”
My eyes fill with tears. “No, Bob, I’m not,” I whisper.
“You might want to work it out pretty soon . . . before it’s too late.”
I get a lump in my throat. “I know,” I whisper through tears.
Too late.
A feeling I am all too familiar with. After Wade died, there were so many things that I had left unsaid . . . it was too late to tell him.
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I lie as I wipe my tears. “It’s been a rough week. I’ll survive.” I smile sadly. “I always do.”
“Bye, darlin’. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
I sit and 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 t
o 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.
