The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(126)

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.