by T L Swan
“You got it.” I smile. “You like these cars?”
“I love these cars.”
I smile. “Maybe if you get your license, you can have a drive of it.”
“Really?” His eyes widen in excitement.
I shrug. “Sure, why not?”
Fletcher has grown on me. He’s not a bad kid after all. Smart and funny, like his mom.
He flashes me a broad smile and climbs into the passenger seat. I pull out of the parking lot with speed, and he smiles goofily through the windshield.
She better be home.
A long hour later we pull into his street. “Just up here on the left,” he says.
“I have been here before, remember?” I smirk.
He gives a subtle shake of his head, embarrassed.
My eyes flick over to him. “You know, I hate to admit it, but you impressed me that day.”
“Why would that impress you?”
I shrug. “I like the way you look after your mom.”
He smiles. “Yeah, well, she’s pretty amazing.”
She sure is.
I pull up out front and park the car. “I might just pop in to say hello to her—clear the air, so to speak?” I say. I think quickly on my feet. “We were angry with each other last time we saw one another in my office.”
He looks at me for a bit, as if carefully considering my request. “Yeah, okay, I suppose.”
We get out of the car and walk up to the house. I notice that there is no crap everywhere, unlike last time. The door opens in a rush, and Claire stands there, as if not realizing we were on the other side. She’s wearing a black dress, and her hair is up. She looks beautiful.
“Oh. Tristan.” Her face falls when she sees me, and she stares at me for a beat. “Hello,” she forces out.
“Hi.” I smile. Nerves dance in my stomach.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I drove Fletch home.”
Her eyes flick between me and Fletcher. “Did you forget about tonight, Fletch?” she asks. She seems nervous.
“What?” he says.
“Remember?” Her eyes widen. “I’m going out, and you’re babysitting Patrick for me.”
“Oh,” Fletcher replies. “Yes, I did. With Paul from Pilates. Sorry I’m late.”
What?
“That’s me,” a voice says from behind us. We all turn to see some blond dude walking up the path toward the house. He’s all dressed up.
I stare at him as my brain misfires. Huh?
“Hello.” He smiles. “I’m Paul.”
“This is Tristan, Fletcher’s boss,” Claire interrupts before I get a chance to say something.
“Hello,” I bark. I shake his hand and then turn to Fletcher and widen my eyes.
Are you just going to stand there?
Fletcher smirks and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Have fun, Mom.”
“Thanks, darling.” She turns to Paul. “Are you ready?”
“Sure am.” Paul puts his arm out, and she links it with hers.
I put my hands on my hips in disgust.
What the actual fuck is going on here? She’s dating someone else?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Don’t cause a scene in front of Fletcher . . . don’t cause a scene in front of fucking Fletcher. You are not dating her . . . you shouldn’t be pissed.
I am.
I want to cause a fucking scene.
“Won’t be late, sweetie. Bye, Tristan.” She forces a nervous smile, and I glare at her.
I watch as they walk out, get into his car, and drive away.
I turn to Fletcher. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Why aren’t you attacking him with underpants?” I snap, annoyed. “What good are you if you’re not going to be consistent?” I hit his chest with the backs of my fingers. “Consistency is key, Fletcher. If your mother isn’t allowed to date, she isn’t allowed to date anyone.”
He shrugs, uninterested. “You coming in?”
“Yes, I am, actually.” I walk into the house, angered that I’ve been discriminated against so abysmally.
She’s on a fucking date . . . of all the nerve.
I raise my chin in defiance. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her yet. I better wait for her to get home.” I look around the house. “Where does your mother keep her wine?”
“Hi.” The little dark-haired boy smiles up at me. “You came back.”
“Yes, I did.” I smirk. This kid is my favorite—cute and innocent.
“What’s your name again?” He frowns.
“Tristan.” I smile. “I remember your name.”
He bites his bottom lip. “What is it?”
“Patrick.”
His eyes widen in excitement. “It is.” He smiles proudly.
I look around nervously. “Where’s that other brother of yours?”
“Who?” He frowns.
“The Harry Potter one.”
“Oh, he’s at school camp. He gets back in the morning,” Patrick replies.
“Great.” One less crazy fucker to worry about.
“No way,” Fletcher gasps as he looks at his phone.
“What?” I frown.
“Oh my God.” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Alita VanDerCamp just messaged me.”
“And?” I frown.
“She’s the hottest girl in school.” His eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Hmm, okay.” I shrug as I open a kitchen cupboard. I need a fucking drink.
“Where are the wineglasses, and who the hell is Paul from Pilates? He looks like a real tool.”
Patrick smiles goofily up at me as he climbs onto a stool at the counter.
“Hey,” Fletcher says as he types.
“That’s it?” I pour a glass of wine, having found what I was looking for. “That’s what you’re going to write? You can’t write hey.” I screw up my face. This kid must be stupid.
“Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you are clueless with women too.”
“Well, what would you write?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t text a girl back unless I had a plan.”
“A plan.” Fletcher frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”
I swear, I need to drink out of the bottle in this house. Do they have any tequila? “If a girl texts you, she’s looking for more than a fucking hey.”
Patrick’s mouth drops open.
Oh shit. I point at him. “I swear sometimes. Don’t tell your mother.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “Harry swears too.”
Hmm, I bet he does.
“So?” Fletcher frowns in fascination. “Like . . . what kind of plan?”
“Like, do you want to get something to eat, do you want to go to the movies . . . something like that. Strike while the iron’s hot. If she texted you first, she’s into you. Move fast, before she changes her mind.” I sip my wine. “Girls are changeable, man. One day they like you; the next day they don’t.”
“Oh.” His face falls. “So I’ll call her tomorrow, then?”
“No, aren’t you listening?” I roll my eyes. “Call her now.”
“But I can’t do anything tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m minding Patrick.”
“On the off chance she says yes, I’ll stay with him.” I pour the wine so fast into my glass that it sloshes over the sides.
Fletcher looks between Patrick and me.
“I’m waiting here for your mother anyway. I don’t mind.” I give Patrick a playful soft punch in the arm. He smiles and punches me back as hard as he can in the thigh. It nearly knocks me over, and I double over in pain. Ahh, fuck’s sake . . . dead leg. “Ow, ease up.” These kids are so violent. “You got a good hook on you, kid.”
“I know; I made Harry cry the other day,” he announces proudly. “I pulled his hair and punched him in the neck.”
&n
bsp; I smirk. This one is definitely my favorite. “Hmm, not sure if that’s okay, but . . . well done.”
Fletcher begins to pace. “So . . . I say hi.” He waves his hands around in the air as he thinks. “And then . . .” He turns back to me. “What do I say then?”
I sip my wine. “Hello, my name is Fletcher, and I don’t know where I keep my balls, so call someone else,” I mutter dryly.
Fletcher throws his phone onto the bench. “I can’t do it. I’m not calling her.”
“Call her.”
“No. I don’t know what to say.”
“Call her,” I demand as I point to his phone with my wineglass.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” I grab Patrick’s shoulder and lead him into the living room. “We’re going out here. Do it now.”
“What if she says no?” he stammers in a panic.
“Who cares?” I shrug. “The world is full of hot girls, Fletcher.”
“Not as hot as her.”
“So why are you wasting time talking crap to us, then?”
Fletcher’s eyes hold mine. “Okay, I’m going to do it.”
“Good.”
“I’m going to call her right now.”
“Less talking, more action,” I call.
“Okay.” He begins to pace again, and I roll my eyes. Heaven help him if he actually gets the chance to do the deed . . . he’s as green as a fucking tree. Hell, I was fucking twenty-five-year-olds at his age. What in the world has this kid been doing all this time?
I sit on the couch next to Patrick. “Do you want to watch a movie while we wait for pizza?” he asks.
“There’s pizza coming?”
“Uh-huh.” He smiles and picks up the remote and begins to flick through the movies.
I glance at my watch. “What time did your mother say she was coming home?”
“She’s just having dinner. Not late.”
“Has she been out with Paul from Pilates before?” I ask.
“Yes, but she has to hide from Harry. She can only go out when he’s not home, because he’s very rude and embarrassing.”
I sip my wine as I act uninterested. That evil fucker is good for something after all.
Who knew?
This isn’t their first date? What the fuck? How long has she been seeing him?
I begin to see red.
Fletcher comes rushing back into the room. “She said yes.”
“She did?”
“We’re going to get food.”
“You are?” I’m as shocked as he is. “Great.”
His eyes widen in fear. “What will I wear?”
“Oh Jesus.” I roll my eyes, and Patrick slaps his forehead. “Just wear something nice. And have a shower. Girls like dudes who smell nice.”
Fletcher stares at me, as if I am an alien. “Since when?”
I screw up my face in disgust. “What does your mother actually teach you about girls?”
“Nothing.” He widens his eyes. “She thinks I’m too young to date.”
I tip my head back to the sky in disgust. “And anyway, how come you didn’t attack Paul from Pilates? Why is she allowed to go out with him?”
“Oh.” Fletcher shrugs. “He’s gay.”
I narrow my eyes in delight. “Oh, he is . . . is he?”
“Well, I don’t actually know that for sure.” He shrugs casually. “But he isn’t Mom’s type, so . . .”
“Why isn’t he your mother’s type?”
“Because she does Pilates with him. Nobody does Pilates with a guy they like . . . do they? And besides, he wears a pink sweatband around his head. He’s odd. Weird, even.”
“Hmm.” I think on this as I tap my chin. “That’s a very good point, Fletcher. Nobody does date a guy who wears a pink sweatband around their head at Pilates,” I say, thinking out loud.
“Precisely.” Fletcher turns to go take a shower.
“Oh . . . and, Fletch?” I call after him.
“Yeah.”
“Spank the pony in the shower.”
He sticks his head back around the corner. “What?”
I nod. “Do that . . . you know, the thing.”
Fletcher frowns. “What for?”
“Do you want the whole restaurant to know how happy you are?” I widen my eyes and look at his crotch. “You want to appear as least . . . excitable . . . as possible.”
He frowns in horror. “This is a thing?”
Patrick frowns. “Wait, what? There’s a pony in the shower?”
“It’s a song,” I mutter, distracted. “This is the thing, Fletch. Nobody goes on a date without listening to ‘Spanking the Pony’ before they go. Everybody knows that. It’s the dating rule number one.” Except me, of course, the first time with Claire . . . damn it. I got sloppy and didn’t even remember the basic rules.
“Are you serious right now?” He frowns.
I roll my eyes. “Trust me on this one.”
He shakes his head and mutters to himself as he walks up the stairs. I turn to Patrick. “What do you want to watch?”
“Godzilla?” he asks.
“Yeah, that’s a good one.” I nestle back into the couch. “I hope the pizza hurries up. I’m starving.”
Patrick smiles up at me like this is the best night of his life. “Me too.”
Where the fuck is she?
I get a vision of her laughing at dinner with him, and my blood boils.
Finally I hear the car pull up, and I glance at my watch: 10:45 p.m.
What time do you call this?
I slide out from underneath Patrick’s legs as he sleeps, and I walk over to the window and peer through the side of the drapes.
They’re talking in the car.
If you kiss him, you’re in deep shit, woman.
He’s leaning his arm on the steering wheel and looking over at her while they chat.
He’s not gay. No way in hell would he be looking at her like that if he were gay.
Damn Fletcher’s gaydar is off, way off.
Get the fuck out of his car, Claire.
Right.
Now.
Don’t fucking push me.
She climbs out of the car and closes the door . . . no kiss.
I dive back onto the couch and put a sleeping Patrick’s legs back over mine.
Moments later, the door opens, and Claire walks in and around the corner. Then her face falls when she sees me. “Tristan.”
My anger is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and I glare at her, unable to hide it.
She looks down at Patrick sprawled all over me, asleep. “What are you doing here?”
She seems pissed. Well, she’s got nothing on me. I’m fucking fuming. “I babysat for you tonight. I believe you owe me a thank-you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What?” she snaps.
“Fletcher had to go out.”
“To where?”
“That VanDerCamp girl that he likes texted him, and I said I would stay with Patrick. Fletcher is home now, though, asleep in bed. He wasn’t gone for long at all. I’m assuming the date didn’t go well.”
“Are you kidding me? He left you here alone with Patrick?” she whispers angrily. “Oh, Fletcher is in so much trouble you wouldn’t believe.”
“I told him to go,” I reply. “I don’t mind. Do you mind telling me who the fuck Pilates Paul is?”
“None of your business.” She gestures to the door. “Now . . . good night.”
“Well, that’s not a very nice way to treat your babysitter, is it?”
Her mouth falls open. “You are not my babysitter,” she whispers. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“Me?” I scoff as I point to my chest. “What did I do?”
“You annoy me,” she snaps as she storms into the kitchen.
I carefully move Patrick and then jump up and follow her. “And why do I annoy you?”
“Go back to your carefree dates, Tristan. Stay the hell away from m
y kids.”
Oh . . . this is about me dating other women.
She opens the refrigerator with force and then pulls out the nearly empty wine bottle and holds it up. Her eyes flicker with rage.
“It was nice . . . actually. Went with the pizza and all that.”
She looks at me deadpan. “You drank my wine?”
“Don’t change the subject. Why does me dating other women annoy you?”
“It doesn’t,” she snaps angrily. “I don’t have time for your shit tonight. Go home.”
I put my hands onto my hips. “I can’t drive. I’ve been drinking.”
“My wine,” she growls.
I cross my arms and look her up and down with a smile. “You’re in a very bad mood. Am I right in assuming Paul from Pilates is responsible?”
“No, you’re not, actually. Tristan Miles is responsible.” She storms out of the room.
My mouth falls open. Of all the nerve. I rush in behind her. She goes to Patrick on the couch. She bends to pick him up in her arms.
“I’ll do it.”
“No.” She slaps me out of the way. “I don’t want you anywhere near my devil children.”
“Oh.” I roll my eyes as she struggles to pick Patrick up. “This is about what I said about the wizard.”
“His name is Harry, and yes, I do take offense to some pompous, spoiled asshole telling me that my children are misbehaved when he knows nothing about what they have been through,” she whispers angrily. “Get out of my way,” she says as she struggles with Patrick’s weight.
I step to the side. “You’re especially bitchy tonight.”
She brushes past me and walks upstairs, and I follow her.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Following you. What does it look like?”
“I swear to God, Tristan, I’m going to push you down the stairs in a moment. Go home.”
“I see where they get it, Claire.”
She turns back to me. “Get what?”
“This violent streak you have is very unbecoming.”
She stops where she is and walks back down a step toward me, and I shrink back from her. “Tristan.”
“Yes, Claire.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’m going to shut it for you.”
“Violent,” I mouth as I follow her upstairs and watch from the doorway as she lays Patrick down in bed and takes his shoes off. She brushes his hair back from his forehead and kisses him good night. She then turns the light off, and we walk back out into the hallway.