The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

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.”

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 to 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.

Something inside of me snaps, and I storm in after him. I find him in the kitchen.

“What is your problem, Fletcher?” I snap.

“If you don’t know what my problem is, then you’re purposely ignoring my problem,” he snarls.

I’m taken aback with his aggression. Fletcher never gets angry with me—never. “You are old enough to understand this, Fletch. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m acting on behalf of your dad.”

“What?” he cries as he screws up his face in disgust. “You think that you’re acting on behalf of Dad?” he scoffs.

I put my hands on my hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Dad sent Tristan for us, Mom.”

His eyes search mine.

“Don’t you see?” he yells. “Dad was the one who found Tristan and sent him to us.” His eyes well with tears. “What the hell would a man like Tristan Miles want with us . . . if Dad hadn’t arranged it in heaven?” he cries.

My face falls. Pain sears my heart. The thought of my beautiful Wade searching for a new dad for his children breaks my heart, because I know it is something that he would do.

If he could send the best man on the planet to me, he would have.

He did.

The room begins to spin. Everything becomes foggy as I imagine Wade watching me from heaven with my broken heart . . . his children with their broken hearts . . . unable to help us.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t see it,” Fletcher snaps.

“You think your dad sent Tristan for us?” I whisper.

“I know it, Mom. Harry and Patrick know it . . . why don’t you know it?” he whispers through tears. “How can’t you see it, Mom? When it’s all we can see.”

I drop my head and stare at the ground. Tears run down my face. They are hot and taste salty.

He runs out the front door, and it slams behind him. I put my face into my hands.

This heartbreak, this pain . . . I can’t do it anymore.

Make it stop.

The sun peeks through the curtains, and I listen to the lawn mower next door. Every now and then it runs over a rock, and it makes a jarring sound.

Why do they have to mow their fucking lawn every Saturday morning and wake the entire neighborhood?

They don’t even work. Why can’t they do it during the week?

Why so early on the weekend?

I get up and go to the bathroom and peer through the side of the drapes at the perpetrator. I should storm down there and give them a piece of my mind.

But I won’t, because this has been annoying me for years now, and I just smile every time I see them. They’ve had to put up with my hooligan kids throwing balls into their yard and riding their bikes across their lawn as a shortcut. I guess we’re even.

I grab my phone and return to bed. I cried all night last night. I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown or something. Things can’t get any worse. I do feel a little better today, though, so that’s something.

I go onto Facebook and scroll through. I go to Instagram and browse for a while, and then a video comes up from my brother’s story.

He’s dancing in a bar.

Huh?

I go back and watch it again. It must be old footage. He’s out in the boondocks camping with the boys . . . where is this bar?

I read the caption: dancing the night away.

Huh?

I flick through to Bob’s Facebook page and scroll down. Sure enough, he’s posted a pic of himself getting on a plane, with the caption Florida here I come.

What?

I immediately dial his number. It rings out, and I call again.

“Hello,” he answers groggily in a very hungover voice.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Florida.”

“Where are the boys?” I snap.

“Huh?”

“Where are the boys?”

“What do you mean? They canceled and said they couldn’t go. I came here with my buddies.”

I sit up in bed. “Bob, they’re not here. I haven’t seen them since Friday morning.”

“What?”

“I thought they were with you?” I cry.

“I thought they were with you!” he cries back.

“Oh my God,” I whisper as my eyes widen.

“What?”

“They’ve run away, Bob.”

“Holy fuck, call the police.”