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)
I pull into the driveway and stare at the house. I exhale heavily. It’s extra messy today. It looks like a junkyard. Bikes and skateboards and shoes everywhere.
Frigging kids. Ugh.
I grab all of my things and walk into the house, and Fletcher comes marching out from the kitchen. “What is this?” he cries as he holds his hand up in the air.
“Huh?” I glance over at Harry and Patrick. They both look scared for their lives.
What in the world?
“What are these?” Fletcher bellows. I can see he has something in his hand, but I have no idea what.
“What are you talking about, Fletcher?” I frown.
“Whose jocks are these that I found in your suitcase?” he yells as he spins Tristan’s briefs on his finger.
My eyes widen.
Oh shit.
“Yes, Mom. Who left their damn underwear in your suitcase, and what exactly were you doing in fucking France?”
My mouth falls open. “Do not use that language with me, young man. How dare you? What were you doing looking through my suitcase? You’re grounded.”
“You’re grounded, Mom,” he cries. “What the hell were you doing in France?”
I narrow my eyes and go to snatch the underwear from him, and he snatches it away.
“Did you even go to France, or was that a lie too?”
My mouth falls open. “You self-centered little . . .” I stop myself before I call him a name. “How dare you.”
“Oh, I dare, all right. Who is he?” he yells. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.”
Fuck’s sake. I march into the kitchen with him hot on my heels. I pour myself a glass of wine as Fletcher carries on and waves the underwear around like a lunatic.
“I mean it,” he yells. “I want his name.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose . . . God . . . I do not need this shit.
Tristan
I pull the car up and frown as I peer at the house. This can’t be it. I search for the address that Sammia found for me, and I frown. This is the right address.
Huh?
There are bikes and shit all over the front yard. I sit in the car for a moment and stare at the junkyard.
There’s no way she would live here.
I’m not giving up this easily. We are not over until I say we are over.
Oh well, guess there’s only one way to find out. I get out of the car and walk up to the front steps. Five bikes are strewed across the front yard, along with basketballs and catcher’s mitts. I look around at all the shoes. Does a fucking centipede live here or something?
How many children does she have?
I peer in through the screen door. I can hear yelling coming from the kitchen.
That’s weird.
I knock on the door.
“Hello?” I call.
I hear Claire’s voice. “That is enough, Fletcher,” she snaps. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Huh?
“Hello?” I call again.
“Hello,” a boy says as he appears in front of me.
I stare down at him. He’s little and has dark hair. “Is this the Anderson house?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I frown. What the fuck—she does live here? “Is . . . Claire Anderson here?”
“Yes. That’s my mom.” He swings his arms from side to side as he looks up at me, totally clueless.
I wait for him to go and get her. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Um . . . can you get her for me, please?” What the hell, kid?
“Yeah, okay.” He walks off, and I stand at the door . . . uneasiness fills me. This was a bad idea.
Another kid comes to the door. He has curly light hair, and he glares at me through the screen. “Who are you?”
“Tristan.” I smile.
“What do you want?”
Jeez. I frown . . . these kids are rude. “I’m here to see your mother.”
“Go away.” He closes the door in my face.
I frown and step back . . . what?
I wait for him to open it back up. He doesn’t. Okay . . . what just happened?
“Harry.” I hear Claire’s voice. “Don’t be rude.” She opens the door in a rush, and her eyes widen as she sees me. “Tristan,” she whispers as she steps out onto the porch and quietly closes the door behind her. “This is a really bad time. You need to go,” she whispers.
I can sense something is wrong with her. “What? Why?” I whisper back.
The front door opens up in a rush. “Is this him?” a big teenage kid yells.
Claire’s face falls, and I frown as I look between them. “Huh?”
“That means yes,” he growls. He turns his attention to me. “You!” the huge kid screams. The veins are sticking out of his neck in anger. What the hell? He looks like the Hulk.
“You!” he yells again at the top of his voice. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”