What the actual fuck is going on here? She’s dating someone else?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Don’t cause a scene in front of Fletcher . . . don’t cause a scene in front of fucking Fletcher. You are not dating her . . . you shouldn’t be pissed.
I am.
I want to cause a fucking scene.
“Won’t be late, sweetie. Bye, Tristan.” She forces a nervous smile, and I glare at her.
I watch as they walk out, get into his car, and drive away.
I turn to Fletcher. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Why aren’t you attacking him with underpants?” I snap, annoyed. “What good are you if you’re not going to be consistent?” I hit his chest with the backs of my fingers. “Consistency is key, Fletcher. If your mother isn’t allowed to date, she isn’t allowed to date anyone.”
He shrugs, uninterested. “You coming in?”
“Yes, I am, actually.” I walk into the house, angered that I’ve been discriminated against so abysmally.
She’s on a fucking date . . . of all the nerve.
I raise my chin in defiance. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her yet. I better wait for her to get home.” I look around the house. “Where does your mother keep her wine?”
“Hi.” The little dark-haired boy smiles up at me. “You came back.”
“Yes, I did.” I smirk. This kid is my favorite-cute and innocent.
“What’s your name again?” He frowns.
“Tristan.” I smile. “I remember your name.”
He bites his bottom lip. “What is it?”
“Patrick.”
His eyes widen in excitement. “It is.” He smiles proudly.
I look around nervously. “Where’s that other brother of yours?”
“Who?” He frowns.
“The Harry Potter one.”
“Oh, he’s at school camp. He gets back in the morning,” Patrick replies.
“Great.” One less crazy fucker to worry about.
“No way,” Fletcher gasps as he looks at his phone.
“What?” I frown.
“Oh my God.” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Alita VanDerCamp just messaged me.”
“And?” I frown.
“She’s the hottest girl in school.” His eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Hmm, okay.” I shrug as I open a kitchen cupboard. I need a fucking drink.
“Where are the wineglasses, and who the hell is Paul from Pilates? He looks like a real tool.”
Patrick smiles goofily up at me as he climbs onto a stool at the counter.
“Hey,” Fletcher says as he types.
“That’s it?” I pour a glass of wine, having found what I was looking for. “That’s what you’re going to write? You can’t write hey.” I screw up my face. This kid must be stupid.
“Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you are clueless with women too.”
“Well, what would you write?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t text a girl back unless I had a plan.”
“A plan.” Fletcher frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”
I swear, I need to drink out of the bottle in this house. Do they have any tequila? “If a girl texts you, she’s looking for more than a fucking hey.”
Patrick’s mouth drops open.
Oh shit. I point at him. “I swear sometimes. Don’t tell your mother.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “Harry swears too.”
Hmm, I bet he does.
“So?” Fletcher frowns in fascination. “Like . . . what kind of plan?”
“Like, do you want to get something to eat, do you want to go to the movies . . . something like that. Strike while the iron’s hot. If she texted you first, she’s into you. Move fast, before she changes her mind.” I sip my wine. “Girls are changeable, man. One day they like you; the next day they don’t.”
“Oh.” His face falls. “So I’ll call her tomorrow, then?”
“No, aren’t you listening?” I roll my eyes. “Call her now.”
“But I can’t do anything tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m minding Patrick.”