I let out a big sigh. “He can be a nightmare.”
“How? I mean, I know he’s a bit mischievous and all that, but isn’t that normal at his age?”
I sit back and sip my wine. “Oh hell, where do I start? He’s been suspended from school. He disappears for hours at a time and then lies about where he’s been, sneaks off to friends’ houses without permission. He’s fallen in with this party crowd but then denies he’s been with them.”
“Suspended from school—what for?”
I roll my eyes. “For some reason, he’s under the impression that the teachers pick on him. One day he got a project back, and he thought he should have gotten a higher grade, and he got into a full-blown argument with his teacher.”
“So . . . he was cheeky?” Tris frowns.
“No.” I shake my head in embarrassment. “He opened the window and threw his assignment out of it in protest.”
Tristan’s eyes widen.
“But that’s not the worst of it. It accidently hit a janitor who was walking past and scratched his head. They thought he needed stitches. It was mortifying.”
Tristan bites his bottom lip as he tries to hide a smile.
“It was so embarrassing—you have no idea, Tristan.”
He sips his wine as he pulls a straight face. “I can imagine.”
I smile and rub my foot up his calf muscle. “Thank you.”
His eyes hold mine as his fingers draw a circle on my shoulder. “For what?”
“For making the trek out to see me every night.” I shrug bashfully. “I know you hate the couch.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Well . . . I hate being at home without you more.”
I smile and lean in and put my head on his shoulder. It’s so nice having someone . . . wonderful, actually. He kisses my forehead, and we go back to watching television and our blissful silence. He doesn’t even have to talk to me.
Him just being here is enough to make me happy.
“You know, as I was walking in here today, a bowerbird swooped at my balls.”
I sit up with a frown. “A what?”
“A bowerbird.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes at my apparent stupidity. “Everyone knows what a bowerbird is, Claire. I suggest you google it.”
I stare at him in question, and after a while he replies, “A bowerbird collects blue things, Claire.” He raises an eyebrow as he waits for me to get it.
Oh . . . he’s telling me he has blue balls. I smirk. “Whatever.”
“Tristan,” a voice calls out from the kitchen.
He smiles as his eyes widen. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.
“What?” I frown.
He raises his eyebrows as he waits for it, and eventually, the voice calls out again. “Tristan.”
“That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”