He immediately threw his leg up and over to take up the empty seat.
She yelped in outrage.
"I don't have time for this right now," Ms. Benneton practically wailed. "Cynthia, I need you to be reasonable. Help me. I have girls who need help with their costumes, and hair ties have broken, and I am begging you to be the voice of reason and the leader you always are. Please."
Wow. She was good.
Tristan caught the look the teacher tossed him, and he realized the reverse psychology was actually working. Bad Mom Cynthia seemed to calm, composing her features in a mask of reason and hiding the crazy. Giving him one last murderous glance, she nodded and straightened her sweater set. "You're right. This isn't worth it when there's so much to be done. If you keep that extra seat open for me on the aisle, I'll help you and then sneak back quietly to my special seat."
His lips twitched. Ah, now it was a special seat, huh? Ms. Benneton nodded and escorted her away, leaving Tristan alone with his leg hiked up on the metal folding chair and a throbbing headache.
Son of a bitch. This was more stressful than real estate.
When the lights went out, he realized he should be videotaping the show, so he took out his iPhone and began recording. About ten minutes into the performance, Becca still hadn't danced, and he was falling asleep. All the little girls looked similar, and it was no Swan Lake. At times, it was almost painful.
A warm body slid beside him. Her breath whispered in his ear. "Thank you so much for helping me out. Any problems?"
He studied her in the flickering shadows. The fall of her fiery hair, the soft dew of her white skin, the smattering of freckles bridging her nose. She was wearing an interesting outfit of tight, bright leggings, furry boots, and an oversize shirt. She was sexy and adorable, and in that moment, he had so much respect for her for raising a daughter on her own and doing a slam-dunk job of it.
'Cause after only a few hours, he was ready to raise the white flag.
Slowly he smiled and reached out to squeeze her hand.
"Everything was perfect."
She relaxed and let him hold her hand for a little while longer.
And he remembered.
"My mother is dead."
He uttered the words with a numbness that caused a flash of guilt. He should be more upset. It had been two weeks of nonstop chaos, grief, and anger, and then nothing. He hadn't cried at his own mother's funeral. Cal had. So had Dalton. Not him. He'd just stood there on the muddy ground, staring at the casket while the priest muttered words that meant nothing. Her death should have brought him closer to his brothers and healed the growing rift between them.
Instead, the rift had only widened, until they could barely stand being in the same room with one another. They fought and blamed, and their father was in the background, muttering about their beloved mother's betrayal.
She'd left them all. Left her family. Left him.
For some strange man he didn't even know. She was going to run away with him with two tickets to Paris found in the wreckage.
One-way. She wasn't planning on coming back.
His entire life swiveled on its axis and shattered into fragments. He didn't know what was real any longer or what to believe in. He had no one to talk to. He had nowhere to go with this burning emptiness that slowly ate at his gut and devoured his soul.
He'd come to Sydney because she was the only one who'd loved his mother with a depth that shadowed his own. His secret affair with Syd had started off as a sexy, intense interlude that lasted through the summer months, but when fall returned and it still raged on, his brothers had discovered the secret. After an explosive fight during which he'd punched Dalton in the nose and Cal had given him a black eye, they'd reached an understanding. They stayed out of his business and backed him up by not telling his father. He'd convinced them he and Syd were friends, respected and cared about each other, but it wouldn't be a long-lasting relationship. Sydney had confirmed it. With a blush on her cheeks, she told his brothers to mind their own damn business.
Eventually they stopped giving him a hard time. The months drifted into almost a year, and he and Syd were still going strong. Tristan didn't like to think about it or classify what they had. Yes, she was young. Yes, sometimes they fell into ridiculous arguments because she was jealous of every other woman he talked to. Yes, she was insecure, and sometimes clung a bit too hard despite her guise of not caring.
But then his mom had died, and everything had changed. He was floating out there in space with no anchor to Earth, and for the first time, he was scared of who he was becoming.
There'd always been a coldness deep within him, an ability to shut himself off from the world to avoid messy emotions. But lately he'd been living in that place. His mother had always been able to pull him out.