“They’re so proud, and then I watch their little faces fall when they remember that their dad’s not here to see it.”
Elouise nods quietly.
“So yeah . . .” I shrug. “Little League is the hardest thing about my life.”
The group remains silent, and I glance up to see Tristan standing to the side of the circle. His hands are in his pockets, and his haunted eyes hold mine.
I drop my head, wishing I could take the personal words back.
I don’t want Tristan Miles to know me, to know anything about me or my children and our daily struggles.
I’m keeping my distance. My attraction to him is just that—a physical attraction.
It means nothing.
“Okay, moving along. Richard. Tell me about your childhood.”
It’s just around ten o’clock at night when we are walking back from the restaurant.
The group is sleepy and subdued. Unlike last night, everyone is tired.
Today was a hard day and—I hate to admit it—a little cathartic. I had a lot of soul-searching moments and listened to a lot of the others have them too.
An unexpected bond has formed between me and my little group. I’m feeling deep and emotional and somewhat raw. It was unexpected, if I’m honest.
Tristan was at dinner but was sitting at another table with the other lecturers. He was chatting and talking and deep in conversation with another man.
He hasn’t been annoying me today, or flirting. In fact, he hasn’t come near me since he heard my little truth bomb this morning. It’s all a bit real for him, I think.
Even for me, sometimes.
We arrive at the hotel, and I see a convenience store up ahead. I might get some chocolate. A cup of tea and something sweet will end the day on a high. “I’m just going to grab something from the store. See you all in the morning,” I say.
“See you,” my group calls as they disappear into the hotel.
I cross the street and grab my chocolate and look through the books they have. Hmm. What can I read? I don’t read romance anymore, and horror is scary when my kids are on the other side of the world.
Nope . . . nothing interests me. Oh well, it was a nice thought.
I pay the cashier and head back over to the hotel. “Claire!” I hear from the side street next to the hotel.
I glance over and see Tristan standing in the dark. “Hi.” I clutch my chocolate tightly in my hand.
“I just wanted to see how you were,” he says.
See how I am . . . like a victim?
My face falls, and an unexpected surge of anger rises in my stomach. I hate that he heard my admission of weakness this morning. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go and get some granny tea?” He gestures up the street to a café. He’s not using it as a code for sex; he really means tea tonight.
Suddenly, I’m angry at his change of direction with me. I can handle flirty and fun.
This . . . I cannot.
“No,” I snap. “I do not.” Infuriated, I storm off, and then, unable to help it, I turn back to him. “You know what? Fuck you,” I say.