The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

“What is your problem, Fletcher?” I snap.

“If you don’t know what my problem is, then you’re purposely ignoring my problem,” he snarls.

I’m taken aback with his aggression. Fletcher never gets angry with me—never. “You are old enough to understand this, Fletch. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m acting on behalf of your dad.”

“What?” he cries as he screws up his face in disgust. “You think that you’re acting on behalf of Dad?” he scoffs.

I put my hands on my hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Dad sent Tristan for us, Mom.”

His eyes search mine.

“Don’t you see?” he yells. “Dad was the one who found Tristan and sent him to us.” His eyes well with tears. “What the hell would a man like Tristan Miles want with us . . . if Dad hadn’t arranged it in heaven?” he cries.

My face falls. Pain sears my heart. The thought of my beautiful Wade searching for a new dad for his children breaks my heart, because I know it is something that he would do.

If he could send the best man on the planet to me, he would have.

He did.

The room begins to spin. Everything becomes foggy as I imagine Wade watching me from heaven with my broken heart . . . his children with their broken hearts . . . unable to help us.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t see it,” Fletcher snaps.

“You think your dad sent Tristan for us?” I whisper.

“I know it, Mom. Harry and Patrick know it . . . why don’t you know it?” he whispers through tears. “How can’t you see it, Mom? When it’s all we can see.”

I drop my head and stare at the ground. Tears run down my face. They are hot and taste salty.

He runs out the front door, and it slams behind him. I put my face into my hands.

This heartbreak, this pain . . . I can’t do it anymore.

Make it stop.

The sun peeks through the curtains, and I listen to the lawn mower next door. Every now and then it runs over a rock, and it makes a jarring sound.

Why do they have to mow their fucking lawn every Saturday morning and wake the entire neighborhood?

They don’t even work. Why can’t they do it during the week?

Why so early on the weekend?

I get up and go to the bathroom and peer through the side of the drapes at the perpetrator. I should storm down there and give them a piece of my mind.

But I won’t, because this has been annoying me for years now, and I just smile every time I see them. They’ve had to put up with my hooligan kids throwing balls into their yard and riding their bikes across their lawn as a shortcut. I guess we’re even.

I grab my phone and return to bed. I cried all night last night. I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown or something. Things can’t get any worse. I do feel a little better today, though, so that’s something.

I go onto Facebook and scroll through. I go to Instagram and browse for a while, and then a video comes up from my brother’s story.

He’s dancing in a bar.

Huh?

I go back and watch it again. It must be old footage. He’s out in the boondocks camping with the boys . . . where is this bar?