Oasis—Don’t look back in anger
I listen to the message over and over again, pressing repeat each time it ends. Her voice is like music to my ears, and I shiver each and every time she speaks. I’ll never get tired of hearing it—not now, not ever.
Then I realize what she said. The kids are there? The blood in my veins starts to boil, the burning flowing throughout my whole body as I stand up and push my chair back in anger.
How dare my mom take them back there when I specifically told her that they weren’t to set foot in there again.
I’m not thinking rationally as I storm down the stairs before swiping my keys off the table and heading out the door to my car.
My mind works on automatic, taking me to my mom’s to get the kids as the anger simmers underneath the surface, ready to boil over and slip free. There’s no way that I’m letting her have them again, not after taking them there and not listening to me.
I park haphazardly when I get in front of her house, pushing my door open and leaving the engine running as I run up to her door and slam my hand on it, calling out for her. “I know you’re in there!” Silence. I bang on the door again and again, the palm of my hand stinging as I hit it as hard as I can to no avail. “Fuck!”
I spin around, my gaze flitting over the street and not seeing Edward’s car here. My gaze settles on my car as her voice floats back into my thoughts. If I can’t get the kids, then I’ll go and confront her first.
It’s nearly dark by the time I get there, the streetlight shining outside, illuminating the cobblestone path and flowers. I jump out of the car, slamming the door and rushing to the start of the path, my head tilting back as I see a light on upstairs.
She’s still here. Good, I can find out what the hell she’s playing at.
I don’t think, I push forward, opening the door and walking into the darkened space. It’s silent, except for the small sniffle coming from up the stairs. I take a deep breath, calming myself and trying to get my erratic heartbeat under control.
For some reason, it feels like a major choice; like if I walk up these stairs, everything will change and my life won’t ever be the same again.
Anger takes ahold of me and my fists clench, my knuckles turning white at the thoughts that are racing through my head. She’s playing one big game, trying to destroy me in the same way that I did with her.
My foot lifts onto the first step, slowly moving to the next one and by the time I’m halfway up, I know I’ve made the right choice.
When I make it to the top, my gaze flits around the space, searching for her. When I spot her on her stool, looking at a painting, I frown. Her shoulders are slumped over, her arms wrapped around her body, holding herself together. Then I hear her small sniffles again and my heart cracks. I could never bear to see her upset, it would rip right through me every single time. Just like it is now. I want to go to her, hold her and comfort her, but I can’t. It’s not my place, no matter how much I want to.
“Harmony?”
She spins around, her gaze catching mine as she wipes at her face furiously, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears. “You’re not supposed to be up here, I told you that last week.”
I widen my stance, my face stone cold as I stare at her. “You called me, so I came,” I say before taking a couple of steps toward her.
She frowns as she looks down at her lap for a beat then stands up, wringing her hands in front of her as she clears her throat. “I did… for you to see Izzie and Clayton’s painting that is.”
I watch her intently, waiting for her to say something else but when she doesn’t, I move my gaze toward the painting that she was sitting in front of.
My jaw clenches as I see the willow tree painted to perfection. If I was to reach out and touch it, I’m sure I’d feel the roughness of the bark that adorns the real thing against my fingers. She’s painted every little detail and I can’t help but tilt my head as I remember her standing there, waiting for some kind of explanation. I should have said more, I should have done more.
“The painting,” I croak, my voice coming out hoarse. Don’t think about it, Tris, she’s playing you.
“Is none of your business,” she says, covering up the easel. “Shall we go downstairs and I’ll show you Izzie and Clayton’s painting?”
My frown deepens as I stare at her, knowing that she’s trying to put a Band-Aid over a wound that needs stitches. If I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s being able to see when someone is trying to cover something up, and I have to say, she’s not doing a very good job of it. I should know because I’ve become an expert.
There’s a reason she was crying, and there’s a reason that she still has tears in her eyes now.
Why the hell am I so bothered by it? Where has the anger that was flowing through me mere moments ago gone?
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking one last step toward her, an irrational want consuming me to know what’s happened for her to be upset. Now I’m within touching distance, and I know if I was to reach my hand out, I could feel her soft, silky skin against mine. “About back—”
“Don’t.”
Her voice is at a complete contrast with the look on her face and the tears that still shine in her eyes. Had she done this back then, back when we were a couple, I would have called her out on it. Told her that I know she’s lying, that I know her better than anyone else. But that’s not true anymore, she probably has someone who knows her better than anyone else.
It’s not me anymore.
I let my hands drop back to my side, taking a step back and waving my arm toward the stairs, signaling for her to go first.
Why am I letting her show me this painting? I should tell her that the kids won’t be coming back, that I know exactly what she’s trying to do. But I do none of those things, instead, I wait as she hesitates a second before blowing out an audible breath. She crosses the space to the stairs, walking down them as I follow close behind, not able to stop the invisible thread that pulls me to her.
She carries on walking to the right, into another room and toward where paintings line the wall.
“This is theirs.” She points to a painting of four people. “They worked really hard on it and Izzie wouldn’t stop talking about ‘Eddie.’” She chuckles but it holds no humor. “They were so excited for you to see it, they’ll be happy when you get home and tell them.”
I blanch as anger rolls through me at the fact that they’re not at home, they’re still with my mom. I tilt my head to the side, looking at the four people. There’s me, my mom, Amelia, and Edward; the plaque underneath it says, “my family” and my heart beats faster. Their mom should be on this painting and my heart breaks that she isn’t.
I stumble slightly at the thought, my eyes widening at Harmony. She’d have been the perfect mom. Showering them with all the attention they needed, reading stories to them before tucking them into bed and kissing them on their heads, telling them that she loved them—just like Natalia used to do.
My mind swirls with images of how our life would have been had I not made the mistake of being dictated to.
She spins around after I’ve been silent for a while, her brow furrowing. “Tristan? Are you okay?”
“I… I…” I swallow against the lump forming in my throat as I back away a step, my hand coming up between us. “I can’t do this.” I spin around, taking giant leaps for steps toward the door.
“Don’t do this again, Tris, this isn’t about us anymore,” I hear her mutter under her breath.
I halt in the middle of her studio.
I’m doing what I did all those years ago, I’m running away again. Only this time it isn’t just me and her, there’s two children who have built a relationship with her over the last six weeks.
That mixed with the thought of not seeing her again, not looking into her honey colored eyes or feeling her face in the palm of my hand; it breaks me. I can’t bear thinking of not seeing her again. I may have walked away from her once before, but I know in my heart and soul that I’ll never be able to do that again.
I turn around, my chest rising and falling on erratic breaths as I watch her. She’s so much stronger than she used to be, standing tall with a fierce look on her face but still the softness to her features that has always been there.
“I’m sorry,” I say, for the second time since I got here. “I know it’s not about us, I know that. But I can’t stand here and look at you—be around you—when I know what’s going on here.”
She frowns, tilting her head. “What do you mean, ‘what’s going on here’?”
My nostrils flare and I look away from her, knowing that if I keep my eyes connected with hers that I won’t be able to get out what I need to say. “This game you’re playing,” I grit out.
“Game?” Her voice wobbles and I snap my head back to her. “I’m not playing any game, Tristan.”
I laugh, but it’s not a humorous one. “You think you can pull the wool over my eyes, huh?” I shake my head. “The only reason you’re doing this is because you knew Clay and Izzie are my kids.”
She rolls her eyes, pushing her shoulders back. “That’s exactly what I did,” she spits out, taking a step toward me as her eyes fill with untamed fire. “I came back here, spent all this money to open my own studio, just on the off chance that you would bring your kids here.” She pauses. “Kids I didn’t even know that you had!” Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, her cheeks flush as she stares at me.
My eyes widen as I watch her, the cogs in my brain finally starting to turn as if they needed the oil to work again. And that’s what she is, the oil that gets them to turn.
“I...
“You’re unbelievable. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just accuse me of playing your kids off and be the bigger person. We're not those people anymore,” she says, dropping her arms by her side as the anger slowly ebbs away replaced with sadness. “You broke me beyond repair, or so I thought, but we’ve both grown up and moved on. The past doesn’t matter, all that matters is the here and now, and that is me being Clayton and Izzie’s art teacher.”
She’s right, the past doesn’t matter but I can’t stop living there.
She clears her throat. “Today was watching week. Izzie and Clayton missed you there. You’re welcome to come and watch next week if you’re not busy? I’m sure they’d love you to.”
Next week? I’m at war with myself on whether I want them to ever come again, never mind coming to watch them.
But the more I stare at her, entranced by her beautiful eyes, the more the anger starts to slip away and an incessant need to have her in my life rolls through me. I know that I can’t have her how I used to, that it will never happen again, but now that she’s back in my life, in our lives, I don’t know if I can turn my back on her again.
I know that I’ll take her any way that I can; even if that means we’re just friends, because having her in my life in any capacity means more than not having her there at all.
A smile slowly lifts the corner of my mouth as I step toward her, feeling her anger still rolling off her like thrashing waves in the sea.
“You’re more than ‘just an art teacher,’ you always have been.” My arm lifts automatically, my hand reaching out to touch her face, but she stumbles back a step before I touch her, almost as if she’s afraid for our skin to touch. What am I doing?
I shake my head, not quite believing that I was caught in her web again,—the same web that trapped me all of those years ago—before I spin around and storm out of there.
If he could hear my heart beating, I’d be embarrassed. It’s racing at the speed of light as I watch him walk out of my studio and to his car. I don’t even know what the hell that was. All I know is that I was right in what I said, all that matters now are Clayton and Izzie.
I scrub a dainty hand down my face and sit on a stool, staring at the spot his car has vacated. I never thought I’d see him again, never mind have him directly in my life.
Yeah, so he’s not in my life completely, but his kids are.
Thinking about Clayton and Izzie makes me think about their mom, from what I’ve gathered so far, she doesn't seem to be around.
Are they married? Divorced? Were they even together to begin with? They had to have been to have two kids together, right?
I huff out a long breath and walk into my office, picking up my cellphone and calling a cab before I start overthinking things. He was here to see his kids’ painting, not you, Harm.
So why did it seem like he wanted to say more than he did?
I shake my head, picking up my purse and locking up as my cab pulls up, climbing into the back and giving him Mom’s address.
We get there and I hand the driver a few bills, telling him to keep the change, I don’t want to wait around for him to find some.
Mom’s brewing up a storm in the kitchen and the smell is so strong and inviting that I can almost taste it on my tongue.
“Mmm, smells amazing.” I moan and she turns around, smiling at me.
“It was your daddy’s favorite.”
“I remember,” I reply. “Anything I can help with?” I sit down at the table without waiting for an answer because I know she will only shoo me away.
“No, no. Everything’s under control, you sit and relax.” She starts humming and I get lost in the tune.
“Harmony?” she calls, standing in front of me now. “Are you okay? I called you three times.”
I sit up straighter. “Yeah, just tired.”
She raises her brows at me and sits down, folding a dish towel in front of her. “Come on, talk to me.”
I sigh, looking around the brightly colored kitchen, feeling like I’m having déjà vu from the first night I arrived. “Gerry called, he’s coming to see his parents and wants to meet with me.”
“He asked you to meet up with him?” she gasps.
I snort. “He did, he said he wants to apologize in person.”
“Little too late,” she scoffs.
“My sentiments exactly.”
She walks over to the kitchen counter, picking up a manila envelope. “Maybe this will make you feel better?”
I take it out of her outstretched hand tentatively, opening it carefully and staring at the document in my hands. Divorced at twenty-nine years old. I laugh and place it on the tabletop. “I guess I should feel more relieved than I do.”
“Of course you should, you’re a free woman now.”
“A single, twenty-nine-year-old divorcee that still lives with her mom. Nothing more attractive than that.” We both chuckle at my comment. “I suppose I should find somewhere to live.”
“One step at a time,” she replies, smoothing a hand over my hair. “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
I nod. “I know, Mom. I just…” I shake my head. “You’re right, one step at a time.”
I lean back in my chair, not bringing up the second thing that is on my mind because I don’t even know what to think about Tristan turning up and acting the way he did, never mind talk about it.
The rapid knocking on the door and Izzie’s squeal echo through the entryway before she comes barreling in, straight into my legs and screaming. I chuckle at the shocked look on her face at seeing me standing there and bend down, picking her up and spinning her around in a circle.
I’ve been waiting here since I finally got ahold of my mom when I left the studio, demanding that she bring them home right away.
To say that it was weird them not being in the house is an understatement. They’ve never stayed out before and the house was too quiet and too empty without them in it.
I smatter Izzie’s face with kisses, squeezing her against me as she laughs and starts to peel away, but I don’t let her, pulling her closer. Her sweet laughter brings a huge smile to my face but when Clay walks in, it falters.
His eyes shine with sadness and his shoulders are slumped down, almost like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I set Izzie down on the floor and chuckle as she runs off, shouting that she’ll be back down in a minute.
“Clay?” I ask, crouching down and opening my arms to him. He hesitates, looking deeply into my eyes. My heart breaks from the broken, sad look in his as he takes a stuttering breath before he walks past me, his feet dragging on the floor. I turn, watching him as he walks up the stairs and down the hallway, closing his door with a soft click.
I keep my gaze fixed on the stairs, making sure that neither of the kids are here before I spin around to face Mom.
“How dare you,” I grind out between clenched teeth as I watch her face pale. “You took them there when I told you not to.”
“Tristan—” I hold my hand up to Edward, silencing him before turning toward him.
“This has nothing to do with you.” I set my gaze on his, not moving until he understands me, but he doesn’t shrink back like he normally would, instead he pulls his shoulders back.
“Yes, it does. You’re like a son to me and those two kids are the closest thing I’ll ever get to grandchildren. What you did was selfish and unfair.”
I reel back, my brows rising before I storm toward him. “Unfair? You want to talk about unfair?”
“Tristan… stop.”
My head whips back to my mom. “I’m their father. Not you, not him.” I point between them before slamming the palm of my hand on my chest. “Me! I decide what’s best for them.”
“I know,” she says softly, trying her hardest to tame the beast inside of me. “Take a breath.”
I do as she says, closing my eyes before they spring back open when I hear footsteps, I spin around, seeing a sad Clay as he stares at me from the top of the stairs, the sadness overtaking him.
“He’s not doing too well,” Mom whispers. “He had a bad dream last night.”
My heart sinks as he turns around and walks away. “He had a nightmare?” I ask, feeling like I made a terrible mistake letting them stay at her house. I should have been there when he woke up, I always have been and I always should be.
“Yeah, you should have seen him, Tris. He was sobbing so bad that I thought he wouldn’t be able to breathe.”
“You should have called me,” I fume, turning to face her before stepping toward the stairs, wanting to go up to him. Had she called me, she wouldn’t have been able to take them to her studio.
“Tris.” She takes hold of my arm, stopping me in my tracks. I spin around, raising my brows at her and silently telling her to get her hand off me and to say what she wants to say quickly. “This has to stop.”
“What?”
She looks behind her, her gaze catching Edward’s. “This isn’t good for them. You need help.” I open my mouth to tell her that I’m doing fine but she cuts me off before I do, letting go of my arm. “You have to stop this before it turns into us.”
I frown at her, hating that she’s hit the nail on the head. “You don’t know what it’s like,” I grind out.
“Then tell me, tell me what it’s like to have to do this on your own.”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “It’s none of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t!” She takes a step toward me, her face the same mask of anger mine was only moments ago. “Those are my grandbabies, Tris. I won’t see them go through what you did, I made that mistake once, I won’t let history repeat itself!”
With that said, she spins around, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she walks out of the house, Edward on her tail.
“Daddy! I want to show you something!”
“Coming!” I shout back to Izzie, my gaze not moving from the front door.
She’s right. However much I hate admitting it to myself, she is right. I can’t watch Clay go through what I did. I know how it feels and it’s time that I put a stop to it, once and for all.
I spend the next hour playing tea parties with Izzie and her array of teddy bears, leaving Clay in his room. I know he won’t talk to me about anything that’s bothering him until he’s good and ready.
Tucking Izzie in, I kiss her forehead and tell her I love her before walking out of her room, leaving the door open slightly.
I stop outside of Clay’s room, seeing the light shining from underneath the door. “Clay?” I ask, knocking gently on the door. “Can I come in?”
It’s several seconds before his muffled voice tells me that I can and I place my hand on the doorknob, turning it and pushing the door open slowly.
My eyes scan his whole room, searching for him and when I see his tent in the corner and a light coming from inside, I know that he’s in there. I walk over to it, kneeling down and pulling back his makeshift door, crawling inside the small space.
He holds his flashlight in one hand, shining it down on his book so I tilt my head to see what he’s reading. The Silver Chair.
“Already on the sixth book?” I ask, my voice low.
He shakes his head. “No, the fourth.” I frown at him, not understanding what he’s saying. “I’m reading them in the original publication order, so this is the fourth.” A smirk lifts up the side of my face at his answer. “This one is about Eustace.”
“What happened to the Pevensie children?”
He huffs and puts his bookmark on the page he was reading, closing the book and setting it down. “They grew up,” he says simply.
I nod my head in reply, not really knowing what he means. Clay is a bookworm in all sense of the word. You buy him a book and he’ll read it cover to cover, several times over, soaking in every word as he transports himself out of his own head.
“I think we need to talk, Clay,” I tell him, shuffling uncomfortably. “Nana said you had a bad dream again.”
He looks down at his legs, picking some invisible lint off his pajama bottoms. “I dreamed about Mom again.” His voice cracks and I hear his sniffle ring loud in the small, confined space. “Why did she leave me, Dad?”
My stomach bottoms out at his words and the utter devastation and confusion marring his face.
“I… I…” I stammer, my voice now a croak from the emotion bubbling up inside me. “She just… she’s…” I don’t know what to say or what to do.
How do I explain it to a child in a way that he’ll understand, because I still don’t fully understand what happened, no matter how many times I research it. And I have, I’ve researched it so much, even contacting the best OBGYNs in the country, looking for answers that nobody could give me.
“Come here,” I say, opening my arms and holding him tight when he moves forward. “I love you, Clay. I love you enough for a thousand people. Don’t ever think I won’t be there for you, I am, always.” He nods his head against my chest and I brush the hair off his face, connecting my eyes to his. “Things are going to change from now on, I promise.”
“Really?” he asks, hope filling his voice.
“Really,” I answer him, planting a kiss on the top of his head. “What do you say we go and make a giant tent in my room and have a sleepover?”
“A giant tent?” he asks, chuckling.
“Sure!” I say, shuffling out of his small tent and holding the makeshift door open for him as he grabs his book and follows me out. “We have the ten-man tent in the garage, I’ll go and get it and we can set it up in my room.”
“Can I come camping, too?” a small voice asks from behind me.
I turn around, seeing Izzie standing by his door, a teddy bear hanging from her hand.
“Of course you can!” I say, taking Clay’s hand and walking over to her. “Izzie, you get blankets, Clay, you get pillows, and I’ll get the tent.”