Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
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.”
Chapter 25
Tristan
I sit out on the balcony of my hotel room in Paris. I just got back from the hotel gym and am going in to the office this afternoon. I’m still working on the due diligence for Anderson Media. I want the deal closed early this week if possible.
The sooner I move on to new things, the better. I need to drag myself off the floor here. I can’t go on like this.
I just want it over with.
My room phone rings, and I frown. Who would be calling me in the hotel? Nobody ever does. I walk inside and answer. “Bonjour.”
“Mr. Miles?”
“Oui.”
“Vous avez des visiteurs.” (Translation: You have some visitors.)
I frown. “Qui est-ce?” (Translation: Who is it?)
“Juste une minute.” (Translation: Just a minute.) He passes the phone to someone.
“Tris?”
I frown and screw up my face in confusion . . . what? “Harry?”
“Come and get us.”
My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets. “I’ll be right down.” I run to the door and hit the elevator button.
They’re here.
I watch the dial over the doors, and I tap my foot. Come on . . . come on.
The doors open, and I rush out and look around to see Harry and Patrick sitting on the lounge waiting for me. They look up and see me, and both come running at me at a million miles per minute. They nearly bowl me over as they grab a leg each to hug.
I put my arms around them and hold them tight. “Where’s Mom?” I whisper into their hair.
“We ran away.”
My mouth falls open in horror. “Your mother doesn’t know you’re here?” I gasp.
They both shake their heads. “Nope.”
“Oh my God.” I take out my phone. “She’s going to be fucking frantic.” I call Claire.
“Tristan,” she cries in a panic. “They’ve run away.”