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“Well, while we’re on the topic of drug-testing, here’s your card,” Brian says to him. “Your color will be blue. You call in every day and when it’s blue, you go in, got it?”
“Yeah,” he mutters.
“Great. Well, let’s finish this paperwork so we can wrap up. I’ll be out once a month to check in, but you call me if something comes up. Remember, any police contact, even if they’re helping your friend change a tire, you call. You don’t want me finding out from them, understood?”
Tristan nods again, and I feel his blood boiling from across the room. They sit back on the couch as the PO pulls out a folder and starts reviewing more rules and conditions. Every time he says the word “violation,” my stomach churns. I can tell Tristan is humiliated that we’re all witnessing this. Even worse, Brian is practically handing Pierce an instruction manual on how to get Tristan in trouble, but I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to push my ex any more. His threat lingers in the air, taunting us with each new possibility. Will he take this further tonight? He got his jab in and won this round, so maybe it will be enough.
My wish is granted when Brian finishes his speech and Tristan signs the paperwork without incident.
“Brian. Great to see you,” Pierce says as the man passes. He holds out his hand, and they shake.
“Tell your dad I say hi,” Brian says. “Oh, and sorry, but you’ll have to take that back home with you,” he adds, waving at the bottle of wine still in Pierce’s hand.
“Right, of course. Will do.”
A strained silence follows once we’re alone. The simmering tension of the last few minutes is about to boil over, and I don’t know how to diffuse the situation. It’s my fault. At least, it feels like my fault, even though I don’t know how I would have avoided it. They’re right, Pierce is an obsessive, controlling asshole, but recognizing that does nothing to help me now. Part of me wants to explode this once and for all and just blurt out that I slept with Tristan. Tell Pierce that Tristan can’tsteal my heartbecause he’s always had it. He probably always will no matter how much neither of us seems to want that reality.
The other part is afraid such a declaration would result in a dead body on our living room floor—and I don’t even know which it would be.
“So Brian is your PO. Small world,” Pierce says, breaking the long silence. “Then again, my father is one of the top defense attorneys in the tri-state area, so he knows most of the parole officers in this county. He and Brian go way back.”
Tristan glares at him. “You can’t intimidate me. I don’t care if Brian is your fucking twin brother, they can’t do shit to me if I don’t violate my parole.”
“Maybe,” Pierce says in a smug tone. Dread sinks through me when he leaves it at that. I see his cruel brain scheming but feel more helpless than ever when he clears his throat and turns to me. “Well, it appears you were right. It’s not a good night to talk. Let’s reschedule. Call you tomorrow?”
I stare at him in stunned silence. “Pierce, please… Don’t do this.” I hate that it comes out like a plea, I just don’t know what else to do.
“It’s fine, babe. You get some rest. I know you’re under a lot of stress and said some things you don’t mean tonight.”
My blood goes cold when he smiles. “I’ll go see what Brian is up to. The man looked like he could use a drink, no? It would be great to catch up.”
I can’t breathe as he delivers a vicious smile and follows Tristan’s parole officer out the door.
“Fuck,” Tristan exhales as he drops to the couch.
He runs his hands over his head, clearly in distress. Elbows on his knees, he clenches his eyes shut and rests his forehead on his fists. My heart hurts, my whole body, really. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now, but it’s like we can physically see the weight of the world crashing down on him.
“We’re going to figure this out,” Kim says gently, lowering herself beside him.
He doesn’t look up, just shakes his head in slow arcs.
“I can’t go back, Kim,” he rasps in a broken voice. “Ican’t.”
“You won’t,” she says, putting her arm around him. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“Like you said, he can’t hurt you if you don’t break the rules,” I add.
He fires a glare at me. “Come on. That was a fucking front. Of course he can hurt me.”
I wince from his harsh response, and his expression falls.
“Shit, Iz. I’m so sorry. I’m just…” He scrubs at his face.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I understand.”
His apologetic gaze locks on mine, erasing any remaining anger I had. How can he look so broken and so beautiful at the same time? Vulnerable and strong? So lost, and yet this is exactly where he belongs. Why can’t he see how much I could care about him if he let me? That I’m desperate to fight his battles alongside him? Instead, he seems intent on pushing everyone away so he’s forced to face the impossible alone.
And just like that, the embers of frustration ignite again. Yes, he was dealt a bad hand, but he’s the one choosing to fold now. At what point does suffering become selfish?
