I smile. God. Harrison has no idea who he is trying to piss off here. Tristan can outdo anyone in any annoying contest. I walk out into the living area, and Tristan turns to me. “You got a coat, Mama? It’s going to get cold out,” he asks.
“I don’t need one. I’m fine.” I grab my bag and see Tristan disappearing up the stairs. “What are you doing?” I call after him.
“Getting you a coat.”
I smirk. Control freak. He wants it to be cold now so that he can say “I told you so.”
He reappears a few moments later with a cardigan for me. He flicks it over his shoulder and takes Patrick’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.” We follow him out the front and over to his car. The lights flash as we approach it. He opens the front door and pushes the seat forward. “Climb in the back.”
We all peer into the tiny back seat. “We’re not going to fit into this sardine car,” Harry moans.
“This is not a sardine car; it’s an Aston Martin,” Tristan replies through gritted teeth. “Nothing fishy about it, although I can always arrange a seat in the trunk, if you would prefer.”
I roll my lips to hide my smile. “Climb in, baby. It’s fine.”
Harry rolls his eyes and climbs in.
“You get in the middle, Tricky,” Tristan directs.
Patrick climbs in next.
“Now you, Fletch.”
We watch as Fletcher squeezes his way into the back seat. Their shoulders are all bunched up, and their knees are around their chins. Tristan frowns as he peers in at them. “Great, they don’t fit,” he mutters under his breath as he slams the door shut.
“We can take my car,” I offer.
“It will be fine this one time,” he snaps.
We get in and drive to the restaurant. The boys whine and moan about how squashed and uncomfortable they are, and with every mile we travel, I can see Tristan’s face becoming a little more red.
It’s fun watching him fight to hold his tongue. Maybe he won’t be so insistent on doing the family-dinner thing in the future.
We get to the restaurant, and the girl at the desk smiles broadly. “Hello, booking for Miles, please,” he says.
“It’s Anderson,” Harry whispers loudly. “There are four Andersons and only one Miles. It’s hardly a Miles booking, is it?” he huffs, as if outraged.
Tristan stares at Harry blankly.
I so wish I could read his mind. This is really quite comical. “That’s enough, Harry,” I remind him.
We are shown to our seats. “Your table.”
“Thank you.” Tristan smiles.
“Sit here.” Fletcher pats the chair next to him. Tristan moves to sit next to him.
“I want to sit next to Tristan,” Patrick whines as he taps the chair beside him. “Tristan, sit next to me, please.”
Tristan comes over to my side. “To save arguments, I’m sitting next to Mom.”
Harry rolls his eyes.
We all sit down, and as if he has been waiting all night to say it, Tristan blurts out. “There’s a reason I wanted to have dinner tonight, Claire,” he says loudly so that everyone can hear what he says.
I frown. “There is?”
The table falls silent.