I take our wine and walk back into the living room to see Patrick and Tristan sitting together closely and watching their movie. Tristan has kicked his shoes off and has his feet up on the coffee table, and Patrick
has done the same. I stand at the door and watch them in awe.
How has this happened? I did not expect my Friday night to turn out like this. He didn’t mention anything about coming over tonight. And here he is, hanging with my kids and not running for the hills.
Wonders never cease.
Harry’s door bangs open from upstairs, and I roll my eyes. God, this kid is a fucking drama queen. “Why is the internet not working?” he calls.
“I don’t know,” I snap. He’s really beginning to piss me off with all this stomping around.
“Reboot it,” Tristan calls.
“I didn’t ask you.” His bedroom door bangs shut again.
Patrick rolls his eyes at his brother’s dramatics.
I take a seat on the other couch and curl my legs up underneath me, but I’m not watching the movie; I’m watching these two together.
They’re talking and discussing things like long-lost friends, and I’m amazed at how well they’re getting on.
Harry appears again. “The damn internet keeps dropping out,” he yells.
“You’re a big boy,” Tristan says. “Go fix it.”
Harry glares at Tristan and takes off again.
Ten minutes later we hear slamming upstairs and Harry yelling in frustration.
“Harrison,” I call. “What are you doing up there?”
“This internet,” he cries. “It’s so crap I can’t believe it.” He marches down the stairs and checks the modem and walks into the living room. “I’ve had enough of this,” he cries. “It’s making me crazy.”
Tristan watches him with a smile.
“What . . . is . . . so . . . funny?” Harry sneers.
“Tick. Tock,” Tristan replies.
Harry’s eyes widen, and Tristan winks at him.
I look between the two of them; their eyes are locked.
Huh?
“What does that mean?” I frown.
“Nothing,” Harry snaps through gritted teeth. He marches upstairs and slams the door.
Tristan smiles into his wine and continues to watch the television, as if nothing has happened.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“I have no idea; the wizard has gone mad,” he mutters dryly.
It’s late. Harry and Patrick are in bed, and Tristan is talking to Fletcher in his room. They’ve been chatting for a while.
I creep up the hall and peer through the crack of the door. Tristan is lying on Fletcher’s bed, throwing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it as they speak.