Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1)

by Lisa Gillis

  Confused and conflicted, I listened to his interactions with Tristan. A piece of me felt I should demand he leave, and a part of me felt I shouldn’t deny the two of them any time together.

  Jack stayed for jambalaya, and Tristan didn’t seem to notice we weren’t speaking. After reading him a book for bed, before his bath rather than after, Jack hugged our little boy. I heard him quietly promise to return the following day, and saw Tristan bob his head in an agreeable nod.

  From the kitchen, where I had been a cleaning maniac, I again indulged my favorite pastime, running my eyes down his backside. My heart physically hurt when, without a word, he let himself out.

  The second Tristan heard my bedtime story and was in bed, I texted Olivia, asking my friend to call me, adding a code we had created between us. 9-1-1 combined with ‘call me’ was a real emergency and had been used twice—once when I was in labor and once when Tristan busted his chin open on the patio. 9-1-0 was an emotional emergency, used moments after Kel cheated on me, and now. Secure in the knowledge that my friend would call on her first work break, I curled miserably into a ball in the bed.

  The phone was still in my hand from Olivia’s late night consolation, when the doorbell pealed the next morning. In a panic, I jumped from the bed. Again, I had overslept on one of Tristan’s physical therapy days. Yanking a brush through my hair, I peered down at yesterday’s jeggings and wrinkled shirt still on my body. Hurriedly, I discarded the worn shirt and fit a fresh shirt on.

  Jack, not the young professional woman, stood just beyond the peephole. Dressed in his usual attire, his appearance, unlike mine, was groomed. His hair, hanging long and loose, was still damp. The only sign of stress was slight shadows tinting the area beneath his eyes.

  “You’re early,” I mumbled, stepping back so he could come inside.

  “Didn’t know I had an appointment.”

  “Speaking of, Tristan’s PT will be here in a half hour.” From down the hall, I heard Tristan’s tv, meaning that he was awake but not yet out of his room. “If I get a shower and dress, can you make sure he gets dressed? And there are some blueberry muffins on the—”

  “Sure, no problem.” His eyes ran sweetly over me, and although he moved on down the hall, for a moment, the atmosphere felt intimate.

  The shower restored my state of mind as well as energy level. Soon I was trying not to laugh when the young woman went all fan girl upon seeing Jack.

  “Oh!” With a twirl of her hair, she blurted, “Did anyone ever tell you— you look like Jack Storm?”

  “His name is Jack,” Tristan helpfully imparted.

  “Wait, you ARE Jack Storm? Oh my Go—” With incredible control, she halted the curse, replacing it with a simple breathless “Oh!” The coos continued as Jack, horrified, continuously shook his head with cautionary glances at Tristan. But, his arms, colorfully inked with music bars, notes, a guitar, and more, all captured in photos on the internet and in magazines, were a dead giveaway.

  Even more amusing was Tristan’s take on this. His wide eyes took in the scene, but he said nothing as his father signed the hem of the young woman’s scrub top, and his mother snapped a picture. Jack posed behind the girl, his hands resting companionably on her shoulders.

  During the therapy session, the young woman’s eyes were more on Jack than Tristan, and this was a shame, because Tristan took a half a dozen unaided steps. My heart paced with happiness, and Jack moved against me, lacing his fingers with mine. Despite the animosity and anger fogging my heart, I leaned against him, mutual with this momentous moment.

  “I did it! I’m walking like you!” Tristan happily sang to them, but he was exhausted and leaning heavily on his crutches once more.

  Jack saw the PT to the door, buying her silence with the promise of an autographed print of the picture taken on my phone. I listened as he took her name and number for passes to the next show of her choice. All in all, it was brilliant to subtly withhold the picture until he was safely out of town. He later explained that when his publicist contacted the girl, the VIP package came with the stipulation of her silence. I wondered how many ruses he had, and how many times he had to use them.

  Tristan was having his own thoughts, because he asked, “Why did you write on Miss Dana’s shirt?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Not knowing how to field that one, Jack looked to me. Tristan’s rapt gaze did not waver, so I gave it a go. “Well, she knows your—” Quickly, I clamped my mouth closed before resuming, “Jack. She knows Jack. I guess she thought it would be funny. But don’t you write on anybody’s shirt!” With a wink and a warning, I looked to Jack to see if he noticed the slip I had almost made. ‘…she knows your father…’

  Jack swooped in to the rescue, changing the subject before the tiny boy could ask any more questions. “I was thinking you and I would go out today and look at guitars. Did you still want to learn to play?”

  Tristan bobbed his head, eagerly rattling off enthusiastic words, and I skeptically entered the conversation. “A guitar? Isn’t he young yet?”

  “What?” Jack teased, and I grew warm and fuzzy when those dark eyes held mine with something other than anger. “Old enough for drums and the karaoke machine but not guitar?”

  It did sound silly, and I curved a relenting smile as I wondered, “How old were you when you got your first guitar?”

  Tristan babbled continuously about what he wanted to wear to the ‘song store,’ and we quietly spoke as we traipsed behind him to his room.

  Jack shrugged. “No idea. I was too young to have a memory of it. It was probably in my crib.” A short laugh and the dimple punctuated this remark. “My dad is a musician too. So, I guess that’s why.” Lingering in the doorway to the race car themed room, he turned in concern. “Do you think it’s pushing him? I mean, I just wanted to show him some easy songs. Not force him into anything.”

  A little surprised we were having a normal conversation when my vow just yesterday was silence for the rest of his stay, I curiously inquired, “Did you feel pushed?”

  “No. As far back as I remember, I loved it.”

  “There you go then. Get him a guitar.” Looking to Tristan, I found him dressed in his red guitar shirt. I was sure I had not done a load of laundry since grabbing the item in a dirty clothing sweep just yesterday.

  While they went, I stayed at the house, unable to commit to a day with Jack– not that he had invited me. There was still an underlying tension between us despite the relaxed conversation. I cleaned the house and called work, making arrangements to take two weeks personal leave. Vacation time would end at the end of this week, and although Tristan was getting around better than ever, I didn’t want to miss seeing the progress he was making. The extra days would not be paid leave, but I had a feeling my money problems were over when they concerned Tristan.

  Olivia came by, and abandoning the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the den, I shared Tristan’s therapy milestone. In Olivia’s excitement, she asked a dozen questions while unpacking two chef salads from a takeout bag. An order of chicken strips and fries, Tristan’s favorite, was set aside. Tristan being away from the house, without either of us, was an oddity, and Olivia had not known he would be absent from the meal.

  “So, he just showed up this morning, like nothing happened?” Squeezing a packet of ranch dressing, Olivia drizzled her salad as she spoke of Jack.

  Picking up one of the packets, I did the same. “No. It’s definitely like something happened. He barely looks at me, and when something does get us talking, it’s awkward at first.”

  “Here’s what I think. And I spent a long time thinking on it after you called last night.” Waving her plastic fork around, Olivia stared into space, and I knew she was such a good friend that she’d been kept awake by this most recent turn of events. “I think there’s a good possibility that you took everything he said wrong.”

  Chewing a cherry tomato, I looked longingly at the chicken strips. “How could any of that,” I roughly ref
erred to the custody dispute, “be taken any other way?”

  “From what you told me, it’s open to interpretation.”

  The smell of Tristan’s meal was getting to Olivia too. Or, maybe the carbohydrate lust in my eyes was contagious. My friend’s eyes also continually strayed to the chicken meal.

  Hearing Olivia’s view of the fight with Jack shed some hope in my heart. As I tried to remember the exact conversation, my eyes landed for the dozenth time on the chicken. “Jack and Tristan will eat somewhere, I know it. Jack can’t go two hours without eating.”

  “Jack, Jack, Jack,” Olivia teased.

  “Shut up if you want some of these!” Losing the carb battle, I broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into my salad and scooped a few fries into my mouth.

  “So, what you need to do is write down what he said and read it to yourself.” Olivia tossed a strip onto the lettuce in her box and, with perfect etiquette, cut it into cubes using the plastic knife and fork.

  Considering Olivia’s words, I was amazed my friend could be so wise with advice these days, when for years, she’d spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, I pulled a pen from the plastic peanut butter jar that Tristan had made into a pencil holder using stickers and glitter glue. Letting my mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, I jotted the conversation as recalled on the back of a junk mail envelope.

  Just as I began to examine the words, Bally’s deafening barking spree signaled Jack and Tristan’s return. Guiltily, I shoved the envelope beneath my purse on the bar, hid the empty chicken and fries container inside the microwave, and hastily rolled up the cord to the vacuum, which was a tripping hazard to Tristan.

  Tristan was glowing with happy excitement, and careful of his crutches, I wrapped him in a hug of greeting. “Did you eat, sweetheart?”

  “Jack had two hamburgers, and I had chicken,” he announced. “Then we had ice cream, and I told him you didn’t eat ice cream, but he brought you some anyway.”

  “I bet she eats ice cream today,” Olivia murmured beneath her breath. I jerked around, finding my friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.

  “Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, I ignored the sundae in question and shooed Bally outside. The dog knew enough not to knock Tristan down in welcome, but was jumping all around Jack, who was carrying in his other hand a kid-sized red Fender. A shopping bag hung on the crook of his elbow.

  “Why today, Mom?”

  It was the first time my little boy had ever called my anything except Momma, and dismayed, I searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, I narrowed my eyes again at Olivia.

  “Because ice cream is good. But, you’re right. I don’t want any right now.” When Olivia quietly sniggered again, I shot her a pointed look and crossed the room, bending slightly to snatch the plastic container. “I’ll put it in the freezer for later.” Olivia made another sound, and I ignored it this time.

  Jack paused to give me an entirely different pointed look. One that seemed hot and hungry, yet dispassionate at the same time– as if I were some random girl who caught his fancy for a few seconds. When I came out of this strange reverie, Jack and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and I felt silly. Maybe a hint to a polite introduction was all that had been behind his look.

  Olivia picked up her handbag in preparation to leave. Not wanting to be alone with Jack, I strongly hinted for her to stay, and hearing this, Tristan added his pleas.

  “Please stay, Aunt Liv. We got an Xbox and a race car game!”

  Pivoting around, I saw him hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and my accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An Xbox?”

  “Mom, wait till you see! It’s so dope!”

  Again, if my look could have slashed, a certain metal god would be bleeding. Jack seemed likewise startled at this new slang from the four-year old. Olivia wisely backed away from the altercation, and, once out of proximity, turned on her heels to run out the door.

  “You can play first, Mom,” Tristan offered, his eyes trained on Jack, who was now loading the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in my face put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.

  Pulling in a calming breath, I viewed his new guitar, making sure my exhilaration matched Tristan’s excited mood. Reaching for it, I lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. My father owned a few acoustics, and throughout my childhood, had taught me and my siblings various chords and keys.

  In stunned surprise, Jack eyed my ability to create a short riff. Laying the instrument aside and smiling at Tristan’s offer, I shook my head. “You and Jack play. I might later.”

  Without a word to Jack, I sequestered myself in the bedroom for an uncharacteristic nap. Tristan was not in pain, and without Tylenol, I doubted he would nap. Until this surgery, he hadn’t napped in over a year.

  Once, I heard the heavier footsteps of Jack advancing and then the click of the bedroom door easing completely closed. With the happy shrieks of Tristan and husky exclamations of Jack now muffled as they gamed, I dozed.

  Dully, over supper, I watched father and son. I continued to produce stiff smiles in response to Jack’s stiff smiles as we both kept up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. The shopping trip today was my newest internal objection. Never had I been able to wow my son with much more than the Hot Wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had me wary and jealous.

  Is this what joint custody, or God forbid, full custody would entail? Everything Tristan would ever want? Was that a bad thing after everything he had been through? Because he had such a good heart, it was hard to fathom the possibility of him becoming a spoiled brat.

  Again, Jack left that night with barely a goodbye, and it was daunting to think of another four days and nights of this routine.

  To make matters worse, my brother, who resided in Florida, inboxed me on Facebook to relate that our mother was not happy with the way I had “cast her aside.” While on the social network, I clicked over to Jack’s private page. We had friended while sitting in the hospital room among empty blizzard cups.

  Jack’s status read, ‘Chillin on the downlow.’ There were several comments beneath it inquiring where he was vacationing, but he had yet to answer, at least not on his newsfeed.

  Curiously, I clicked through his pictures, and halted, engrossed, on one of him wearing only swim trunks, posed on a beach with a female version of him. The picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and I scrutinized each person who Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv, or my parents, or even my distant siblings.

  Stopping on an older version of Jack, I studied the man and the equally attractive woman his arm curved around—a couple who Tristan would soon call grandparents. Suddenly, I felt guilty for leaving my parents out of the loop and resolved to call my mother the next day.

  I fell asleep on the couch and woke to the race game. Bally lay stretched out beside me. Only one of Tristan’s crutches lay in the floor area around him, and lifting my head, I looked, finding the other near the television. Every day he was getting stronger, less dependent on them. Carefully, I carried him to bed.

  The next morning Jack showed up with breakfast burritos, and I hungrily inhaled mine before going into the spare room to work it off.

  Music was pounding in my earbuds, keeping me immersed in an isolated world, when the prickle began. Hitching my chin, I found Jack malingering in the doorway, his eyes keenly attuned to my every movement.

  CHAPTER 25

  Clearing one ear of the music obstruction, I inquiringly waited. After one of those heated looks that tickled my every nerve and flushed my insides, Jack spoke. “My lawyer guy just called back. The paternity test is canceled, and he’s drawing up the papers for monthly child support and temporary visitation—”

  The jangle of his phone broke in, and after checking caller ID, he a
nswered, “Yeah, Doug?” Listening intently, he remained looking at me and then stepped out of sight. Curiously, I plucked the other earpiece out just in time to hear, “Yes, I’m still moving forward with that. Please get it done as quickly as possible. Yes, she is. I’m talking to her now about it. Thanks, bro.”

  He was right back with an apology, and this time, he stepped fully into the room as he picked up the interrupted conversation. “I’m just going to tell you what I’m thinking, and you tell me what you are thinking.”

  Warily, I gave him my silent attention, and he went on.

  “Tristan doesn’t begin school until next year. So staying with me for a week at a time, every five or six weeks, wouldn’t be hard on him in any way, you think? And about the holidays…” In my shock, his words lagged, and I gripped the handle of the exercise machine to stay upright. “My family has a huge Christmas, and I’d really like him to come this year.”

  The requests were not unreasonable. Jack had missed three Christmases already. And a week every month or so, rather than a weekend every other week, was sensible as two days would be travel days.

  Thinking of my baby on a plane terrified me. Thinking of my baby gone for Christmas, even though it was almost a year away, ripped my insides out.

  Through my entire childhood, a serenity prayer plaque had a place on the kitchen wall in our family home, bearing words of wisdom, which I saw every day. Now a random phrase came to mind… ‘give me grace to accept…the things that cannot be changed…’

  “When he flies, who will be with him?” Hearing the quake in my voice, I hastily cleared my throat and made a production of turning off the stair-master.

  “My father has a jet charter membership. An adult in the family will always fly with him.”

  I knew what he was speaking of, having once heard a VIP player at my craps table explaining the benefits of paying a yearly membership fee to access an extravagant jet fleet.