: Chapter 21

The hour-long car trip to Long Island has been a living hell. Tristan is quiet and has his hand protectively on my leg, and I’m staring out the window, trying to hold back tears. I’ve called Harrison no fewer than a hundred times, and I know his phone is probably about to go dead. Fletcher and his friends are all out looking for him. No sign.

“He’ll be fine,” Tris whispers.

“Where could he be?” I whisper. My eyes fill with tears as I lose the ability to hold it in any longer.

“Baby.” Tristan puts his arm around me and pulls me close. “I’ll find him. I promise you,” he whispers into my hair. “I am going to kill him when I find him . . . but I will find him, regardless.”

We pull onto my street, and I see my friends’ and parents’ cars all at my house. My heart drops in my chest. I shouldn’t have gone last night. The car stops. “Thank you,” I cry. I get out and run inside, and my mother’s scared eyes meet mine.

“Mom,” I whisper. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know, love. We’ve looked everywhere.”

I screw up my face in tears. “Oh my God.” She pulls me into a hug, and the door bangs behind us. I turn to see Tristan awkwardly standing in the foyer, unsure what to do.

“Oh, Mom and Dad, this is Tristan.”

Tristan smiles and shakes their hands. “Hello, nice to meet you.”

“I’m going to kill that kid when I find him,” my dad murmurs.

Tristan raises his eyebrows, and I know he’s thinking get in line. “I’m going to call Fletch and see where he is,” Tristan says.

“Okay.”

He disappears out the front door.

“I’m going to call the police,” I stammer.

“Good idea,” Mom says.

“He’ll be somewhere asleep, Claire,” my dad reassures me. “Just give it another hour.”

“He’s here,” Tristan calls.

“What?” I stammer as I run out onto the porch.

Tristan points, and we see Harrison pushing his bike up the street. It looks like it has a flat tire or something. He’s dirty and wet and has a backpack on his back. He looks like he’s been through a war.

I drop my head in relief, and then a sudden surge of anger rages through me like a rapid. I march down the front yard until I get to him. “Where have you been?” I cry.

He rolls his eyes.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

“I lost it,” he barks with attitude.

“Where were you?”

“Out!” he yells.

“You . . . selfish little shit.” Something snaps inside of me. “You are grounded!” I scream as I lose all of my control. “Get in that house, and do not come out of your bedroom ever again,” I cry. I push his back to try to make him get there faster. At least when he’s in there, I know he’s safe. I can protect him from himself.

“Typical,” he mutters under his breath as he storms past me.

“Harrison Anderson, you are in so much trouble!” I yell after him. “You’ve lost it—the phone, the internet. Every damn thing you own . . . is gone.”

“I hate you.” He storms inside and marches up the stairs. “I hate you all!” he yells. His bedroom door slams shut.

Tears roll down my face, and I’m shaking in anger. I am furious . . . beyond furious.

Fuming.

“We’ll get going, love.” Mom smiles sadly as she rubs my arm. “Glad he’s home safe. Good luck.” They turn to Tristan. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He forces a smile, and they leave.

I begin to pace back and forth while I wring my hands. “What am I going to do with this fucking kid, Tristan?” I cry. “He’s out of control and doesn’t even care.”

Tristan exhales heavily. “I’ll go call Fletcher, let him know he’s here.” He disappears out the front door.

Tristan

I dial Fletcher’s number. “Hey, Tris.”

“Hey, buddy, he’s home,” I say.

“Are you kidding me?” he growls. “I’ve been riding around all night looking for him. I’m going to kill him.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks. Hey . . . your mom is freaking out. Can you come home?”

“On my way.”

I hang up, exhale heavily, and look out over the street. Where was he? I glance down and see his dirty backpack dumped next to the door, and I pick it up and go through it. Everything is sopping wet. Where the fuck was he? Did it rain here overnight? A sweater, a bottle of water, some wrappers from chocolate. I undo the zipper of the side pocket and pull out a crumpled, wet packet of cigars.

What?

I read the label. Not just any cigars—expensive ones.

Where the fuck did he get the money for these?

He smokes?

Jesus, what next?

He said he lost his phone. Is that a lie too, or did it just get wet? I dial his number again. “Hello,” a woman answers.

I frown, surprised. “Hello, I . . .” I hesitate, unsure what to say. “You found my phone?”

“Yes, dear,” the woman replies. She sounds elderly.

“Thank you so much.” I hesitate. “It’s actually a friend’s phone. Can I come pick it up?”

“Of course. I am at Sixty Napier Street.”

“Whereabouts is that?”

“Suffolk County.”

I screw up my face. Suffolk County . . . that’s at least fifteen miles from here. “Where did you find it?” I ask.

“On the street, in the gutter, just half an hour ago.”

“Was it raining there last night?”

“Yes, poured all night. Luckily the phone was in the ziplock bag.”

What?

This isn’t making any sense at all. “Okay, see you soon.” I hang up, scribble the address down, and walk inside to Claire. “I’m just going to the grocery store. I’ll need to take your car. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks.” She sighs heavily, as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I take her into my arms and softly kiss her. “He’s home now, babe. You can relax.” I brush the hair back from her face.

She smiles up at me. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Feels good hearing that. I smile and kiss her again. “Back soon.”

Half an hour later I pull up to the address and knock on the front door. “Hello,” the lady answers.

“Hi, I’m here for the phone. Thank you so much for answering my call.”

“Oh, that’s okay, dear.” She smiles warmly. “I’ll just get it.” She disappears inside and then returns and hands it over. I stare at the phone in my hand. Carefully placed in a ziplock bag.

“Where did you find it?” I ask.

“Up on the corner of Elm and Second.”

“Okay, thanks. I really appreciate it.” I walk out and get into my car and put the street names into the GPS.

What are you up to, Wizard?

I pull the car up slowly at the corner of Elm and Second and stare at the huge black metal gates in front of me and read the sign.

S C CUFFOLKOUNTYEMETERY

My heart drops. There’s only one person I know who may be here.

Wade Anderson.

He was coming to see his dad.

Sadness fills me as the pieces of the puzzle click into place.

With a heavy heart, I turn the car on and do a U-turn. I need to get back.

It’s just around six o’clock, and I finish up the dinner I’ve cooked for us—spaghetti bolognese. I need some carbs before I curl up and die. Claire fell asleep on the couch watching a movie, and Patrick and Fletcher are sitting on the bench talking to me.

My mind isn’t here with them; it’s up with Harrison in his room.

He’s grounded, and I’ve listened to Claire take his every privilege from him this afternoon.

It’s none of my business, and I can’t intrude . . . but I feel for the kid.

I dish him up a large bowl of dinner, slather it in grated cheese, and put some garlic bread and a drink on a tray.

He’s not allowed out of his room. I’ll take him dinner before Claire wakes.

I make my way upstairs and knock on the door.

No answer.

I slowly open it to see him lying with his back to the door.

“I brought you some dinner, Wiz.”

No answer. He ignores me.

Hmm . . .

I walk in and close the door behind me. I place the tray down on his desk and put my hands on my hips as I watch him. “You all right?” I ask.

“Get out.” He sighs sadly.

I sit on the end of the bed, trying to work out what to say. “I found your phone.”

His eyes flick to me.

“A lady found it, and I went and picked it up.”

His eyes drop to the floor.

“Why don’t you tell your mother that you go to the cemetery?”

He clenches his jaw but remains silent.

“Is that where you are whenever you go missing?”

His eyes meet mine, and I know that it is.

“How long does it take you to ride out there on your bike?” It’s fifteen miles—must take him ages.

He stays silent.

“You got a flat tire last night, and you couldn’t get home?” I ask. “And then it poured rain, and you were stuck in it for hours as you walked home?”

He still doesn’t answer me.

“I’m not against you here, Wiz. I’m on your side.” I put my hand on his foot. “I’m trying to work out what the fuck is going on with you. Why wouldn’t you just ask your mother to take you there? Why do you lie about where you’ve been?”

“Because whenever she goes there, she cries for a week, and I can’t stand seeing her sad.”

God.

I drop my head, and we sit in silence for a while. “Where did you get the money for the cigars?” I ask.

His eyes flick to me in horror.

“You’re not in trouble.”

He stays quiet, and then eventually he replies, “I saved my allowance for six months.”

I frown in confusion.

He turns away and looks at the wall. “They were for Dad,” he whispers softly.

I close my eyes as a sadness fills my chest.

Poor fucking kid.

“Just tell your mom where you were. She won’t be angry at you,” I urge.

“What for? She’ll just haul me back to the psychologist. I would rather her be angry than worried. I’m done with the shrinks.”

We sit in silence for a while, and I don’t know what to say. “Have your dinner, and then why don’t you come down, and we’ll build our spaceship for a few hours.”

He stays still, staring at the wall. “No, thanks.”

I put his phone on the bedside table. “Here’s your phone.” I turn toward the door.

“Tristan.”

I turn back to him.

“Can you not tell her?”

I nod. “Sure thing.”

I trudge down the stairs with a heavy heart and walk out to find Claire packing up the spaceship model and Fletcher standing nearby. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Putting this in the Goodwill bin.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s lying, and I won’t tolerate it. I’m not taking his crap anymore, Tristan. I’m done with it. There is no excuse for his behavior.”

“Leave it on the table,” I say.

“Tristan.”

“I said leave it,” I snap. How the fuck do I defend him without telling her what I know?

“Why are you suddenly on his side?” she snaps back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Just fucking ease up on him, will you?” I sigh. “Have your dinner, have a shower, and go to bed. The boys and I will clean up. Leave Harrison alone for the moment. You’re tired and emotional. Things will seem better tomorrow; deal with it then.”

Fletcher gives me a lopsided smile.

“Tricky, you ready for dinner?” I call.

Patrick comes bouncing in from the living room. “Yes, my favorite.”

I sit in my car and watch Harrison as he walks up the road. I’m outside his school, it’s just around three o’clock, it’s finished for the day, and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Well, I do, but I’m pretty sure Claire would go postal if she did.

Too bad . . . I have to do this. It’s been eating at me all day. I drive the car up alongside him. “Wiz,” I call.

He turns and frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Get in.”

“No.” He keeps walking.

“Get in, or I’m telling her,” I threaten.

He glares at me, exhales heavily, and walks around and gets into my car. “What?”

I hand him a packet of cigars, just like the ones that got wet. He frowns as he looks at them in his hand.

“Do you want to go see your dad?” I ask.

His eyes search mine, and he drops his head and stares at the cigars once more.

That means yes.

I pull out into the street, and after a very silent car ride, I park the car at the cemetery.

He climbs out, and I tentatively follow him through the tombstones. It’s beautiful here, with green lush lawns, and immaculately kept.

WADE ANDERSON

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

FOREVER LOVED, SADLY MISSED

I put my hands into my suit pockets as I look on. Harrison wipes the nameplate clean with his shirt and straightens the flowers, and I can tell that he comes here often.

Alone.

I get a lump in my throat as I watch him.

With a shaky hand, he opens the packet and gets out a cigar and carefully places it on the grave.

“Here they are, Dad,” he whispers. “Your favorite.”

I clench my jaw. This is too much.

He takes one out and holds it in his hand, and then he passes one to me.

I frown in surprise.

I take it, pull out a lighter from my pocket, and flick it on. He stares at me for a moment, shocked. I bend and light my cigar and inhale deeply, and then I hold it alight for him. He does the same. He takes in a big breath and coughs as he chokes, and I chuckle as I blow out the thin stream of smoke.

I hold the cigar up and look at it. “Not bad.” I smile. “You got good taste,” I say to the tombstone.

Harrison fights a smile as he takes another drag. He puffs the smoke out like a dragon, and I can tell he doesn’t normally smoke.

“This is Tristan,” Harrison says to the tombstone.

I smile and dip my head in a greeting. “Mr. Anderson.”

Harrison looks at me for a moment and then touches the tombstone. “You can touch it.” He pats it, as if to entice me.

He wants me to shake hands with his dad.

I walk over and put my hand on the top of the cold hard stone.

Goose bumps scatter up my arms, and a weird emotion overwhelms me.

In some strange way, I feel like this is the changing of the guard.

The family he loved . . . is now with me.

In my care, for me to love.

“Nice to meet you, Wade,” I whisper.

Claire

I watch the man in the expensive navy suit and perfect posture—the big-time city businessman who looks so out of place here. He slowly lifts the cigar to his lips and inhales deeply. He says something to the young boy he’s with, then exhales the smoke in a thin stream. His hand rests on the boy’s shoulder as they continue their conversation.

My heart constricts.

I lean up against the tree in the cemetery. Their silhouettes blur through tears as I watch Harrison and Tristan standing over Wade’s grave.

If someone cut my heart open with a knife, it would be less painful than watching this.

The man whom I love, taking my son to see his dead father . . . smoking a cigar with them. And I know that Harrison is too young to smoke, and they shouldn’t be doing this. I should be furious. I should be appalled . . . but then . . .

Wade loved cigars.

My chest shudders as I try to get a hold on my emotions.

This would be so special to Wade . . . having a cigar with his son.

I close my eyes, the pain unbearable.

I went to pick up Harrison from school so I could try to talk to him alone, and then I saw him getting into Tristan’s car, and I followed them here.

This is the last thing I expected to see.

I don’t want them to see me. I turn and walk back to my car, the tears streaming down my face. I get in, and without looking back, I drive home in tears.

I’m in love with a beautiful man.

I toss the salad in the bowl and glance at the clock. Seven o’clock. The

boys have done their chores and are watching television.

My heart is bursting with love, and I am totally in awe of Tristan.

He did something, he did something very special for me . . . and for Wade—and to know that he has Harry’s back when I didn’t cuts my heart wide open.

I’ve just realized that he has a specialized skill that, no matter what, I couldn’t give my boys.

Perspective.

This is what they’ve been craving. This is what they’ve been missing in their lives.

No wonder I was struggling so hard with them. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

Harry didn’t mention going to the cemetery, and I haven’t brought up anything about the weekend. I’m acting normal because I’m not sure what to say. Whatever he and Tristan have talked about, he wants to keep to himself. If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.

The Aston Martin pulls up in the driveway. “Tristan’s here!” Patrick yells as he runs for the front door.

Fletcher caught the subway home. I’m not actually sure where Tris has been since then. I watch through the window as Patrick opens Tristan’s car door and talks a million miles per minute. Tristan listens and laughs. He’s so patient with him. He passes him his laptop bag, and Patrick proudly carries it in. Fletcher goes to the door to greet him, and Harry stays sitting on the couch.

“Hello,” Tristan says as he walks into the living room. His eyes find Harry across the room, and he gives him a nod.

Harry gives him a lopsided smile, and my heart soars.

It’s going to be okay . . . it’s all going to be okay.

“Hello, Anderson,” he purrs in his oh-so-sexy deep voice.

I take him into my arms. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” I lean up and kiss him softly, and he frowns, surprised I’m kissing him in front of the boys.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“I had a meeting this afternoon and . . .” He hesitates as he thinks of a lie. “I had a busy afternoon.”

“Oh.” I smile up at my gorgeous liar. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

“Good.” He kisses me softly again. “I’m starving.”