by Jordan Ford
He’d even dreamed about Helena—her pale green eyes that sparkled when she smiled, and the way her wisps of blonde hair had clung to her cheek before she brushed them behind her ear. Her regal voice haunted him as he slept—the whisper of a princess promising to turn him into a brave knight.
Tristan’s eyebrows dipped and he shook the idea from his mind.
Brave knight, he scoffed. One chance meeting and it was turning him into a thespian playwright!
Taking the concrete steps two at time, he shuffled past a gaggle of high-pitched, squealing girls, wrinkling his nose and cringing. He’d never understood how chicks could get so excited about seeing each other in the morning…and how much they had to say to each other after less than twenty-four hours apart.
Veering left to avoid a football rocketing across the quad, Tristan scuttled around the bench seats and headed through the front entrance. As the gray day was left outside, he squinted against the bright florescent lights and the chaotic noise of the school corridor. The morning rush was always the worst. He coped by keeping his head down and trying not to bump anyone as he wove through traffic.
His shiny blue locker was in the third corridor on his left. He swiveled his hips and turned sideways to squeeze past a couple of seniors who were having their morning make-out session before taking a left and slowing his pace.
He looked up, prepping himself for what would no doubt be an attack of the Mikayla friendlies. Instead what he saw made his eyebrows dip into a sharp glare.
“Please, just give it back.” Mikayla reached up, looking hobbit-sized next to Owen Stalwart. The guy was probably around the same height as Tristan, but he was broad across the chest and fat around the belly. Plus he had this cheesy white smile that bordered on maniacal. The weird thing was, he only ever showed it around Mikayla. Tristan still didn’t know all the school gossip and he honestly didn’t care, but after two weeks, he had figured out that Owen liked to torment the pint-sized junior and no one ever stepped in to do anything about it.
“Owen, come on, please?” She jumped up, trying to grab her precious binder from his hand.
“What, you mean this?” He flicked it over his shoulder, laughing like a hyena while Mikayla’s shoulders slumped. The binder landed with a thud, loose papers spilling free and flying around the corridor. She dropped to her knees and started gathering the crumpled worksheets and scribbled notes.
Owen bent down, gently tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her ear and whispering something. Mikayla’s cheeks burned red and she flinched away from him, her face bunching into a tight scowl.
Tristan’s fingers tingled as he fought the urge to form a fist. He didn’t want to get into any kind of fight, even if he could take out the arrogant senior. He hadn’t come to Burlington to stir up trouble. So he hung back, even looking away when Owen stood and caught his eye.
Owen turned and sauntered down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, “Think about it, sweetness.”
Mikayla shuddered, wiping her chin on her shoulder and glaring at Owen’s back before reaching for the last of her scattered paperwork with shaking hands.
Tristan stepped forward, crouching down to retrieve the final few pages. He kind of felt like he should ask if she was okay, but he didn’t want her to start crying. Girls did that when you checked on them, took it as permission to open up and start venting. The second the tears appeared, you had to stay and hear them out, even if you couldn’t do anything to help them.
Clearing his throat, Tristan silently handed the papers over, feeling like a jerk for not saying anything.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
Her wide brown eyes were moist, but she sniffed and blinked a couple of times, shoving the papers haphazardly into her binder—so unlike her.
Brushing the hair off her face, she did another shudder as if remembering the guy’s words.
She caught Tristan’s gaze on her and shrugged.
“Ex-boyfriend stuff,” she murmured, stepping to her locker and burying her face inside of it.
“You dated that guy?” Tristan couldn’t help asking. It was impossible to hide his surprise.
“Don’t ask me why I did it.” Her voice sounded small and hollow, growing in volume as she slammed her locker closed and faced him. “All I know is that I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Or at least until he graduates.” Tristan gave her a half-hearted smile.
She mirrored it, shaking her head and walking away without even offering to show him to his first class.
He would have rejected the offer, even if she had asked, but the fact that she didn’t made him feel like crap. A heavy lump formed in his stomach. Swinging open his locker, he rearranged his books, checking his schedule and pulling out what he needed.
Faint-hearted adventurer.
He shook his head. If Helena had been standing by watching that exchange, her name for him would have probably changed to cowardly wimp. He cringed, slamming his locker shut before shuffling off to class.
Who cared what the girl thought anyway?
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he couldn’t deny that…he did.
9
For the Sake of Peace
The rest of the week went by without any drama. As much as Tristan wanted to climb the tower again, he resisted the urge. He didn’t want to admit his lack of action over the whole Mikayla/Owen debacle and score himself an even more shameful name.
Shouldering the kitchen door open, Tristan dropped his bag on the floor, in its usual spot, and walked through to the living room. He was kind of relieved his dad wasn’t home. His mother was due to collect him in a half hour and he hated the idea of them encountering each other for even a nanosecond.
As much as he was dreading the weekend, he wasn’t prepared to put his dad under any more financial pressure. He’d bailed on two weekends with his mom already and wouldn’t get away with a third.
“Just shut the hell up and get it over with,” Tristan muttered as he hurried up the stairs. He snatched a duffel bag out from under his bed and shoved a few clothes into it. The idea of spending the entire weekend with her and her boyfriend made his skin crawl, but if he didn’t go…the war would only get worse.
He balled up a sweater and shoved it into his bag before zipping it closed with an angry snort. Running a hand through his short dark locks, he scanned the room to make sure he had everything before bolting down the stairs. He hitched up his loose jeans and pushed up his sweater sleeves as he barreled into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator and checking on the drinks situation.
Only four beers—good.
Plus, there was enough spaghetti bolognese leftover to feed his father dinner. He could get takeout on Saturday, and Tristan would be home in time to organize something on Sunday.
Lifting the milk carton, he shook it and winced, annoyed with himself for not buying more on the way home. He snatched a pencil out of the glass next to the telephone and scribbled a note to his dad.
Hey.
With Mom for the weekend. Dinner in fridge—cover with a paper towel and heat for 2 mins in the microwave. You need to buy more milk and grab some eggs too.
See you on Sunday…if I survive.
T
Feeling like the parent, he smacked the note—at his father’s eye level—onto the fridge, then spun when he heard the sound of a car engine. It was all about the quick turnaround. He wanted to be on the road and driving for Albany before his father even pulled onto Booth Street.
Grabbing his school bag, he threw it over his shoulder and carried his duffel bag in the other hand. His mother was just getting out of the car as he jumped down the back steps.
“Hey, Mom.” He gave her a tight smile.
“My darling boy.” She grinned, clipping over to him in her shiny black heels and taking his face in her hands. He gritted his teeth when she kissed his cheek and squirmed out of her hold when she took his shoulders to study him. “You’re looking skinnier.”<
br />
He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
He stepped out of her grasp, walking around to the back seat and throwing his stuff inside.
“Do you need a jacket or something? Are you warm enough?”
“Mom, come on. Let’s go.” He yanked open the car door and slumped into the front passenger seat.
Her dark blue eyes narrowed and she shook her head as she no doubt lamented the fact that he was in the “surly teenager” phase.
“Is your father home?” She slipped into the car, staring up at the house…probably trying to find fault with it.
“No. He works late on Fridays.”
She threw Tristan a skeptical look. “Working or at a bar somewhere?”
Tristan sighed, his lower jaw jutting out. “He comes home.”
To drink.
But Tristan wasn’t about to say that.
“I just want to make sure he’s taking care of you.” She brushed her manicured fingers over his sweater sleeve.
“He is, Mom. You don’t have to worry. Can we just get going, please?”
“Okay, fine.” She sighed, starting up the engine of her swanky new BMW. She’d done pretty well out of the sale of their old family home. She’d been able to move in with her boyfriend, so half the house had simply turned into cash for her. Dad, on the other hand, had chosen to buy a home in Burlington and stretch them to the max financially.
Tristan tried not to judge either side, although from the dark way he felt sitting in his mother’s car, it was obvious where his loyalties lay.
“So, how’s school?” His mother’s voice was way too chipper for a Friday afternoon. Tristan could tell it was forced. He didn’t used to see that in her, but after she’d been caught cheating, Tristan saw a whole new side to the woman. She knew how to put on a show. It was probably what made her such a good events manager. Her clients trusted her because she knew how to hide any kind of disaster from them. Thankfully she was pretty good at averting all disasters too…except when it came to her marriage.
Tristan crossed his arms and shrugged. “School’s school.”
“Have you made any friends? Are you happy with your teachers?”
“Yes and yes.” Keeping the lie going with short, easy answers was the best way to bring the conversation to a close.
His mother braked at the end of the street, flashing him a dissatisfied glare before turning right and heading for the main road out of Burlington.
It was a two-and-a-half-hour trip south—a long, painful trip if Tristan didn’t do something to fix it. Having an intelligent conversation and making up some bullshit about how happy he was weren’t going to make the journey any better. It’d only make his mother jealous, and she would then try that much harder to get him to move back to Albany. But admitting the truth that he was mothering his father and dragging them both through each day would have them back in court before Tristan could blink. No, the best way to solve the problem was to keep his mouth shut…and put his headphones in.
Digging into his school bag, he pulled out his phone, shoved his earbuds in and cranked up his music. It pissed his mother off. He could tell by her white-knuckled grip on the wheel and the way her red-painted lips smashed together, like she was holding it all in.
She would. She’d keep her feelings locked up, because that’s what she did with Tristan. Their relationship had become all about plastic smiles and a desperate need to woo him back to the mother side of the fence. He wasn’t doing it. She had someone to keep her company at the end of each day and he’d be damned if his father was forced to come home to an empty house every night because she’d forgotten the meaning of the word ‘loyalty.’
Turning up the volume a notch louder, Tristan kept his gaze out the window, watching the world rush by as he silently bemoaned the weekend he was going to have to fake his way through.
“Shannon, honey, where’s the saffron?” Curtis, decked out in a chef’s apron, was fumbling through the spice rack, trying to prove himself a cook as he prepared some fancy-sounding meal that Tristan was sure he wouldn’t like.
Having spent an evening and another full day in the company of his mother and CEO boyfriend, Tristan was well and truly done. He’d mumbled his way through multiple conversations—mostly small talk about school and sports.
Once again, he’d had to justify his reasons for not trying out for the school baseball team. His mother couldn’t swallow the fact that he wanted to focus on his studies, plus the fact that the season had already started and he’d missed tryouts.
“Go talk to the coach. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Mom, you know I was off my game. That’s why I pulled out last season,” he’d groaned.
“But don’t you miss it? Baseball was your everything.”
“Well, things change.” He’d shrugged, slinking out of the room to avoid continuing the conversation.
Against his will, he’d gotten to know Curtis a little better. The guy had pretty much stayed out of the picture when the separation first happened, sneaking around after dark to see Mom when he thought Tristan was tucked up for the night. As soon as the divorce went through, he invited Shannon to move in with him—yet another reason why Tristan chose his dad.
It wasn’t that Curtis was a nasty guy. He was actually nice enough and pretty damn intelligent. But he’d had an affair with a married woman and Tristan didn’t care that they’d stayed together and were obviously in love. Curtis McNeal broke up a happy home, and for that Tristan felt obliged to eternally hate him.
“Can you put that thing down and set the table, please?” Shannon snapped at Tristan as she breezed past him into the kitchen.
He gave her a slow stare, finishing his game of Candy Crush before rising from the couch and stalking into the kitchen. His mother was leaning against Curtis and smiling, holding up a glass jar with dark orange tendrils in it. He gave her a sheepish grin and pecked her nose, which then turned into a lip kiss with a little tongue on the side.
Tristan grimaced, slamming the cutlery drawer hard in an attempt to break them up. It worked and they jumped apart, Curtis letting out an abashed chuckle before quickly stealing one last kiss.
His mother doused Tristan with a simmering glare. He turned his back on it and set the table in silence. Curtis started to hum, no doubt wanting to break the tension, but if anything it was grating on Tristan’s nerves. He didn’t know how much more of Mr. Happy he could take.
“Done!” He slapped his hands on the back of the chair, then spun for the couch. He slumped onto the pillows and had every intention of continuing his Candy Crush saga, but his mother ruined it by snatching the phone out of his hands.
“Hey.” He lurched forward, trying to steal it back.
“I’m putting this away for the rest of the weekend. I can’t handle your silence anymore. You’ve barely made eye contact this entire visit. I haven’t seen you in nearly two months, even though you’re supposed to visit us every second weekend! I’m not wasting this time competing with your phone!”
“Give it back, please.” Tristan kept his voice as even as he could manage. He wasn’t used to his mother getting pissy with him. She usually spent all her time trying to charm him, but he’d obviously crossed a line.
“We have something very important we want to discuss with you over dinner. Curtis has cooked us an amazing meal, and we are going to enjoy it together as a family.”
“He’s not my family,” Tristan mumbled, tipping his head towards the chef.
“Well, he’s mine, and you will respect him.”
Like you respected Dad?
The words were sitting in his mouth but he swallowed them down, not wanting the battle. He’d heard enough yelling in his life and he wasn’t interested in an all-out scream-fest. He knew how pitchy his mother could get. Her voice took on this feral, repulsive timbre when she really got going. He hated it.
Digging his toe into the plush carpet, he reached out his hand. “Give me back my ph
one and I won’t use it at dinner.”
Mom gripped it. “I don’t want you using it for the rest of the weekend.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” He made a face.
“Talk to us! Spend time with me! Or go see your old friends. Does Natasha know you’re in town?”
“We broke up over a year ago, Mom.” Tristan lurched off the couch and gently snatched the phone back with a look that told her she was deranged. As if he wanted to spend time with his ex-girlfriend, or any of his old friends. Did she not get it? Her betrayal had destroyed him. He’d had to live with the gossip surrounding her shame. He’d had to live with the rumors that his father had turned into a raging alcoholic because his slutty mother had screwed her boss.
He’d had to live with all that shit, and his only coping mechanism had been to pull back and bury himself in solitude.
But of course he couldn’t say any of that, so he sealed his lips and stared at the floor.
“Please, Tristan, just talk to me. I need to know how you’re really doing. You’re my son. I want to share my life with you.”
He cleared his throat, his lips pursing to the side. Finally he lifted his phone and muttered, “I’ll go put this away in my room.”
She went to roll her eyes but stopped herself, crossing her arms with a sad smile. “But you’re not going to talk to me, are you?”
“I’m sixteen. I’m not supposed to talk about my feelings.” He tried to smile with his joke but couldn’t really pull it off.
His mother’s face crested with a slight show of agony before flashing with anger. “You’re just like your father.”
Tristan forced himself not to react, instead muttering, “I’ll take that as a compliment,” before brushing past her. “And don’t worry about dinner. I’m not hungry anyway.”
10
A Brewing Storm
Less than fifteen minutes later, his mom rapped on the guest room door. The sharp staccato sound was loud enough to puncture the music blaring in Tristan’s ears. With a soft curse, he rose from the bed and shuffled to the door.
