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Tristan clenches his fists, and I back slowly out of the scene. The two men are so absorbed in their dispute they don’t seem to notice me.
“She’s an adult. That’s her decision,” Tristan says, glaring back. “You can’t dictate her life forever.”
“I can if I’m paying her bills, and now that I know she’s wasting my money on you, I’ll have to make some adjustments. Isabel, too.”
Wait, what?
“You can’t do that,” Tristan says, fear in his voice.
“I absolutely can.”
“No. It’s… where else am I supposed to go?” he cries, now desperate.
“Not our problem,” Mr. Haverford says, starting for the door.
“Dad, please—”
“I’m not your father,” the man hisses, turning on him. “Never call me that.”
Tristan flinches, and a rock lodges in my chest. He looks shaken as he stares at the man who should have been his biggest champion. The man who should have stood as his pillar of support when his world crashed down. Instead…
“I know. I’m sorry,” Tristan says quietly. “I… I’ll try to find a new place. It’s just—”
“You won’t try. Youwill.You’ve done enough damage to this family. Get out of our lives and stay out!”
With that, his father yanks open the door and slams it shut behind him.
I can’t move after Mr. Haverford leaves. Tristan seems to have forgotten about me as he stares at the door in stunned silence. Finally, he slumps to the arm of the couch and lowers his head in defeat. I can’t see his face, but the way his chest rises and falls makes it clear he’s going through hell.
I don’t know what to do as I watch him shatter. Should I interrupt or leave him alone? Knowing him, he’d rather die than be reminded that someone just witnessed that attack. I decide to give him space, but my movement draws his attention. He looks up for the first time, and what I see takes my breath away.
“Isabel,” he whispers. “Shit, I…”
His wounded expression is still so fresh and raw, and suddenly I can’t remember why I was mad at him. All I know is that no one should have to endure what this person just experienced.
“He’s wrong,” I say firmly, staring him down.
He looks away, tightening his fists. “He’s not.”
“He is.”
I cover the distance between us and stand before him.
“Hey.” I take his hands and tug until he looks at me. “He is.”
His eyes are red, like he’s crying, but there are no tears. There never are. It’s weird how the sensitive artist I remember doesn’t seem capable of crying anymore.
“He shouldn’t have said those things to you.”
He averts his gaze again, and the clench of his jaw makes it clear my words aren’t helping.
“What did he mean,he’d have to make some adjustmentsregarding me as well?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a lot.”
He doesn’t respond, and my blood pounds harder as the horrible conversation echoes through my mind. “Why would he have any control over my finances? What did that mean?”
