She watches me intently. “It’s serious, then?”
“Yes.”
“She’s divorced?”
“Widowed. Three boys. And yes, Mom, I’m in love with her,” I snap.
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “How old is she?”
My eyes drop to the ground.
“How old is she, Tristan?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“So-” She cuts herself off.
“So what, Mom? What do you want to say?”
“Tristan.” She pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. “If you end up with this woman, you won’t have children of your own. She doesn’t have much time-that’s if she even wanted to.”
“Probably not.” I inhale sharply. I hate the cold hard facts.
“And you’re okay with this?”
“I have to be, Mom. It is what it is, and I can’t turn off my feelings for her. I tried that already. And perhaps she could, Mom. She’s only thirty-eight, and you never know. We may be blessed with a child.”
“Tris,” she whispers. “It will take years for her to be ready to start again with another man. By then it will be too late. Deep down you already know that.”
I screw up my face. The truth hurts. “Don’t.”
“How can I not worry, darling?”
“Mom.” I shrug. “Trust me on this. Claire is nothing like anyone I’ve ever dated before. You will like her. There’s a lot to like about this woman . . . everything, actually.”
Her worried eyes hold mine.
“I’m bringing her on Saturday night.”
She rolls her eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“It means . . . I’ll see you on Saturday night.” She stands.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” She sighs.
I exhale heavily, annoyed with how our conversation has gone. “And cut ties with Melina, please. She’s my ex-girlfriend. It’s weird.”
“Tristan, I’m friends with all of your ex-girlfriends. I can’t just cut them off like you.”
I roll my eyes.
“I just don’t know how you can be so coldhearted to these women who love you. My heart breaks for them. Melina is absolutely devastated.”
“She’ll get over it.” I look my mother in the eye. “She doesn’t love me, Mom. She loves my money and my surname. Just like the rest of them did.” I shake my head in disgust.
“Why would you say that?” she snaps.
“Because it’s the truth. You be nice to Claire . . . she’s important to me.”
She marches to the door and then looks back. “I want my son to have his own family.”
“And I will,” I snap. “It just may not fit into your perfect little box.”
She shakes her head and leaves in a huff, and I stare at the door she’s disappeared through.
A knock sounds at the door. “Hello,” I call.
Fletcher pokes his head around the door. “Hi,” he says nervously. “I’ve got the tea you wanted.”
“Hey, buddy.” I fall into my seat, and I gesture to my desk. “Bring it in.”
He walks in and with shaky hands puts it down onto the desk. He lingers, as if waiting, and my eyes rise to meet his.
“I heard what your mother said,” he says softly.
I bite my bottom lip in anger. “I’m sorry. Ignore her.”
“She doesn’t want you to date my mom?” His eyes search mine.
I shrug.
“You don’t want your own kids?” he asks.
“I do.” I undo my tie with a sharp snap. “But I want your mother more.”