He stays silent.
“You got a flat tire last night, and you couldn’t get home?” I ask. “And then it poured rain, and you were stuck in it for hours as you walked home?”
He still doesn’t answer me.
“I’m not against you here, Wiz. I’m on your side.” I put my hand on his foot. “I’m trying to work out what the fuck is going on with you. Why wouldn’t you just ask your mother to take you there? Why do you lie about where you’ve been?”
“Because whenever she goes there, she cries for a week, and I can’t stand seeing her sad.”
God.
I drop my head, and we sit in silence for a while. “Where did you get the money for the cigars?” I ask.
His eyes flick to me in horror.
“You’re not in trouble.”
He stays quiet, and then eventually he replies, “I saved my allowance for six months.”
I frown in confusion.
He turns away and looks at the wall. “They were for Dad,” he whispers softly.
I close my eyes as a sadness fills my chest.
Poor fucking kid.
“Just tell your mom where you were. She won’t be angry at you,” I urge.
“What for? She’ll just haul me back to the psychologist. I would rather her be angry than worried. I’m done with the shrinks.”
We sit in silence for a while, and I don’t know what to say. “Have your dinner, and then why don’t you come down, and we’ll build our spaceship for a few hours.”
He stays still, staring at the wall. “No, thanks.”
I put his phone on the bedside table. “Here’s your phone.” I turn toward the door.
“Tristan.”
I turn back to him.
“Can you not tell her?”
I nod. “Sure thing.”
I trudge down the stairs with a heavy heart and walk out to find Claire packing up the spaceship model and Fletcher standing nearby. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Putting this in the Goodwill bin.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s lying, and I won’t tolerate it. I’m not taking his crap anymore, Tristan. I’m done with it. There is no excuse for his behavior.”
“Leave it on the table,” I say.
“Tristan.”
“I said leave it,” I snap. How the fuck do I defend him without telling her what I know?