The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

25. Chapter Twenty-five

25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

July

Present Day

The business card was for a camp on the outskirts of town. Tristan called as soon as they got back to the truck and explained the situation to the owner over the phone, who immediately told them to ‘come on by.’

A winding road in the middle of nowhere led them to a ranch-style home perched at the top of a hill. The only lights came from the soft orange glow inside the house and the millions of vibrant stars scattered across the night sky, giving the impression that someone had thrown a handful of glitter onto a pitch-black canvas.

A woman with long white hair stepped out onto the porch as they pulled in front of the house. She had on a pink terry-cloth robe tied at her waist and furry mismatched slippers. “I’m guessing that’s Gloria,” Samantha whispered.

“Stay here,” Tristan said as he hopped out to the dirt covered driveway. “I’ll be right back.”

He bound up the steps two at a time, using his phone to illuminate his path, then stopped at the landing in front of her. Next to Tristan, the woman appeared to be four feet tall. Tiny as a button, and possibly about seventy-five years old—yet, she seemed bashful at the mere sight of him. Samantha shook her head, slightly amused, as she wrapped her hoodie a little tighter around her shoulders.

The two carried on with an easy conversation as though old friends, even though Samantha was positive they’d never met before in their lives. Tristan was good at that. He made people feel safe; listened to, and apparently little old women weren’t even immune from his charms.

Soon Gloria’s eyes shifted to the truck, and Samantha sat up a little straighter, meeting her eyes through the windshield. Then her attention drifted to Tristan, and something about the way he smiled at her caused heat to spread over her entire body. Her eyes shifted toward the passenger window, and Sam wondered what they were talking about while simultaneously contemplating what was happening to her body. She’d read about women having an increased libido late in pregnancy, but one look from Tristan made her body forget they were actually broken up.

She tried to gather her thoughts, but who the fuck was she kidding? Her heart was racing a mile a minute. All he’d done was look at her—no—she was lying to herself. It was so much more than that. He’d found her almost naked in a gas station bathroom, swooped her up as though he were Prince Charming without making her feel like a fool.

He was her knight in shining armor in the doctor’s office too, and although he was silent, she felt safe because he was with her. Now he charmed the panties off the little old woman so they would have a place to sleep tonight. So yeah, her body was melting as though she’d just entered puberty, and she had no control over it.

A minute later, before she had time to fully calm down, Tristan was back at the truck, climbing in beside her. Every cell in her body felt his presence. Every hair on her arms and legs stood on end.

“Does she have a room?” Samantha asked, hesitantly turning to face him again.

Tristan nodded, “Yep.” Then he shifted to drive and pulled the truck to the side of the driveway. Gloria then came out of the garage a moment later in a light pink golf cart, and they followed her up a hill—passing corn fields which seemed to travel to the ends of earth and orchards that smelled of orange blossoms. Finally, they stopped at a small green cabin a couple miles away, where Gloria hopped out to the dirt-covered path and unlocked the door.

“It’s not much,” she said when they joined her on the small wooden deck, “but the bed is comfortable, and you have your own bathroom.”

She pushed open the door and turned on the light. True to her word, it wasn’t much. Maybe a ten-by-ten room, with a bed in the center that took up almost the entire space. The woman scrunched up her nose and addressed the table, dusting it off with her sleeve. “Sorry.” She coughed. “We don’t have visitors this late in the summer, so I haven’t been out here to clean in quite some time.”

“Thank you, Gloria,” Tristan said, his tone soft and genuine. “It’s perfect.”

Gloria’s cheeks flushed as she angled herself toward the wall. She produced a set of sheets from a cupboard and set them on the mattress. “I did wash the bedding last week,” she told them, then instructed them on how to work the faucet in the bathroom and mentioned the herd of cattle a mile away that sometimes got loose from the neighboring ranch.

She was gone within minutes, leaving Tristan to gather their belongings from the truck. Samantha acquainted herself with the cabin, sure it wasn’t big enough for the both of them. All she could focus on was the single bed in the center of the room. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Bunk beds perhaps. Heat rose up to her cheeks and she forced her attention in the opposite direction.

Tristan was standing behind her, and from the look on his face, he’d been watching her for a while. He placed her toiletry bag on the bed without saying a word, then turned to go out to the truck again––possibly to give her more time, probably because he needed some of his own.

Deciding this was as good a time as any to get ready for bed, she picked up her bag and locked herself into the closet-sized bathroom. She plopped her stuff on the counter, gave herself a little pep talk in the tiny mirror, then washed her face, brushed her teeth, and swept her hair into a ponytail. The shot the doctor had given her earlier had already begun to work. The rash, although still tender, was almost undetectable when she applied the ointment he prescribed.

She unzipped her overnight bag and froze when Tristan’s old T-shirt ended up clenched in her fist. She’d been sleeping in his shirts for nearly a year, but somehow, wearing one tonight felt inappropriate. Digging through her bag, she searched for something else to wear, but aside from her too-short T-shirts, there was nothing. What would he think if he saw her wearing this tonight?

She’d made countless excuses over the past nine months to keep wearing his shirts, but the truth was, they felt like home. This one had been washed so many times that the Nirvana logo was faded—barely visible.

Maybe he wouldn’t even remember it was his to begin with.

“It’s fine,” she whispered to herself, even as her heart began to race as she slipped it over her head. Maybe he wouldn’t pay attention. Maybe it would be too dark––maybe...but she stopped herself, determined not to fret any longer. “It’s only a damned T-shirt,” she mumbled.

When she opened the door a moment later, Tristan was making the bed. He glanced up, paused, then moved to the next corner without saying a word. Sam marveled at how different he was from his sister. Renee couldn’t make a bed to save her life, yet Tristan’s corners could go head-to-head with Martha Stewart’s.

When he stood up, Sam noticed his cheeks were red as he grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his chin. He shimmied the pillowcase up, his jaw tight, as his eyes raked down her entire body.

He recognized the shirt.

She wasn’t sure if he was angry, upset, or something else, but she pretended not to notice as she picked up the quilt and fanned it out over the mattress.

She knew it was a full-sized bed, but somehow knowing she would have to share it with him made it feel minuscule. She worked the sheet up toward the head of the mattress, folded back the edge, then repeated it on the other side.

“Don’t worry,” he said, placing one pillow on her side of the bed. “I’ll sleep in the truck.”

She spun around to face him, but he didn’t say anything more.

“That’s silly,” she finally stated, forcing her shoulders down and back to appear more confident.

His eyes raked over her, and she couldn’t help feeling exposed. “I think it will be better that way,” he finally stated.

“You can’t sleep in the truck, Tristan.

He tilted his head to the side, grabbed the other pillow, and shimmied the next pillowcase up. “Why not?”

“It’s not big enough,” she said as a matter of fact. “You’ll get cramps and have a hard time sleeping.” While it was true, she found herself questioning her sanity. Why did she care so much? Why was it so important that she practically yelled at him?

She decided to go a different route, placing her hands on her hips. “Sleeping next to me for one night won’t kill you, Tristan Montgomery.” She’d meant to sound comical, playful, but as soon as the words left her lips, she knew she’d missed the mark.

He stared back at her, his eyes intense in a way that made her melt from the inside out, “Want to bet?” his eyes said to her, but he remained completely silent.

He stepped closer, stopping just a foot away. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, giving her every chance to back out. Tristan was usually loud and confident in everything he did, but hearing him like this—so soft, so uncertain—while standing so close left her almost breathless.

“Yes,” she said, taking the pillow from his hand to throw to his side of the bed.

He grinned, then took his bag off the floor and disappeared into the bathroom.

Alone, Samantha plopped down onto the mattress and began to pray. “Please lord, watch over me. Please help me make good decisions and not act like a total lunatic.” He’d said he’d sleep in the truck, which would have solved all her problems, yet… She couldn’t let him do it. Despite everything that had happened, she still wanted what was best for him, and she knew sleeping in the truck wasn’t it. At least, that was what she told herself. She wanted him comfortable—happy—and the thought of him trying to cram his body into that tiny cab was unbearable.

Still… in their two and a half years together, Tristan had slept every night in the nude, and now, that was the only thought lingering in her mind.

There was no TV, no radio, not even a book in the entire room to entertain herself with, which left her with nothing but her overactive imagination.

She’d always fallen asleep in his arms and woken up with him halfway on top of her by morning … sometimes kissing her neck. Other times …

Her pulse quickened, and she forced her mind to go blank. She pulled the covers down on the mattress and climbed under the sheets. What was she doing? Yes, she hadn’t had sex in a long time, but this was not the time to think about Tristan naked. Focus Samantha! She closed her eyes and rested her head against the headboard.

Every sound in the room became magnified—the wind rustling, the crickets chirping—was that the sound of cows mooing in the pasture a mile away?

When the bathroom door creaked, she jumped and her eyes flew open.

“What?” Tristan asked, spinning around, as though something were behind him.

She scanned over his body, thankful to see he had gray sweatpants on, and tried to think of something to say. “Sorry I—I was—relaxing—and you?—”

“You don’t look relaxed,” he said, scrubbing his head with the corner of a towel which draped from around his neck.

She shrugged, using all her self-control to keep her eyes from shifting downward. “I...” She shut her mouth and closed her eyes again. What does he know?

“Are you in pain?”

“No, why?”

“Your face is red.”

She shimmied down on the mattress, feeling like she was back in third grade when she accidentally farted during the quietest part of a spelling test and everyone turned to stare at her. She wedged a pillow under her head and stared in his direction. “I’m tired is all.”

He didn’t respond. Just moved toward the front door, checked the handle to make sure it was locked, then fastened the deadbolt. She watched the muscles on his bare back shift as he opened the windows, letting in a gush of fresh summer air that made the cabin feel at least ten degrees cooler. Every inch of him was familiar to her. Every muscle, every scar. She watched as he stacked their bags in the corner, making sure everything was exactly how he liked it. The action comforted her in a way, made her feel at home for the first time in a very long while.

She couldn’t help it, when she was sure he wasn’t looking her eyes dipped lower still, traveling down to his happy trail. His abs shifted as he worked, and she wondered if he realized how attractive he was. Even his scars added to his appeal. His hair was damp, unbrushed and disheveled, which made him look like a model in a swimsuit magazine. She knew he must have washed his hair in that tiny sink and the thought made her smile. Then her eyes traveled to his face, and she realized he was watching her––his jaw taut and face blank of all humor.

She flipped to her other side, found the light switch and flicked it off, casting the room in darkness.

Too soon, the mattress shifted beside her and her heart grew wings, fluttering so hard she felt like her ribs would soon burst open. She felt like a teenage girl again playing spin the bottle for the first time—not a grown ass woman in bed with the father of her unborn child.

The blankets tugged in his direction, and she felt him move closer to her. His warm skin radiated heat under the covers. At first, she thought it was intentional, but then she realized they were two adults sharing a full-sized bed, and one of them had shoulders the size of a linebacker. That fact wouldn’t have troubled her, except that Tristan was completely restless tonight. Tossing and turning every two seconds, probably sore and uncomfortable from the long drive. But then he moved again, flipping this time in her direction—like something was bothering him. Like there was something important he wanted to say. Like he planned to start a difficult conversation.

She turned to face him, glancing at his profile, which was only illuminated by the full moon beaming through the window. Exhaustion made her body sink a little farther into the mattress, but she wouldn’t avoid this conversation any longer. If he wanted to talk, she was here. She was listening.

His face remained still in the darkness, but she could see his chest rising and falling with his breath. The tension in the room was palpable. Her chest became tight, and just when his mouth opened, she blurted out, “Does this place remind you of High Meadows?”

Okay—maybe she wasn’t ready after all. Her heart was frantic, and she could feel her pulse quickening. One second passed, then another, while she waited for his response. Whatever he wanted to talk about needed to wait—because she wasn’t ready. For the fighting that was sure to come. For all the emotion. For the rehashing of something that happened months earlier. They still had days of travel ahead of them. Days trapped beside each other in that truck with no way to escape.

“Yeah,” he whispered after a beat, his voice quiet. “It kind of does.”

Her lungs sucked in air, and she wedged her hands beneath her pillow again. She could barely make out his features, but she thought she saw him smile.

High Meadows was the horse camp they’d spent almost every summer at when they were young. It was only about a half- hour drive from their suburban neighborhood, but to Samantha, it had been heaven on earth. “Remember when Miss Piggy got out of her pen and chased that little red-headed boy around the stable?” she whispered. She needed to get him talking––about anything else but the state of their relationship.

Tristan shifted, and his face turned toward the ceiling. “Tommy Woodward,” he said thoughtfully. “I remember him well.”

“Yes!” Sam breathed, almost manic with relief. “I thought he was going to pee his pants.”

“I’m pretty sure he did.” Tristan let out a breath. “He deserved it though. That guy was a dick.”

Samantha couldn’t help it—she giggled. She wasn’t sure if it was out of relief, the fact that her plan had worked, or that she’d always thought the same thing about Tommy. Tristan visibly relaxed beside her, and his body settled deeper into the mattress.

“Remember that day when Mrs. Andrews rented the cotton candy machine?” she recalled, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Every kid ended up with blue sticky fingers,” he remembered.

“And didn’t someone get their hands stuck in Dolly’s mane?”

Tristan placed both hands behind his head. “Yes. That happened too.”

“I don’t think we ever had cotton candy again after that day,” she added.

“I think you’re right.” But soon things grew silent again. For so long that she began searching for another topic.

“I remember,” his voice was raspy and distant, “that day you got thrown from that brown horse. What was his name?”

“Westly,” Sam replied, though a lump formed in her throat at the tone of his voice, freezing her in place. She remembered that day all too well, almost as if it were yesterday.

Westly had been her favorite horse at the ranch, one she trusted completely. Every year, she raced to the front of the line to choose him before other kids could, convinced that he remembered her. They’d always shared what felt like a special bond. But one day, without warning, he’d thrown her from his back in the middle of the arena. To this day, she still didn’t understand why.

“I don’t think you could’ve been over twelve,” Tristan continued. His face found hers again. “Do you remember that?”

She nodded once, but the lump in her throat grew larger, preventing her from speaking.

His voice was distant, as though he was riding on the edge of a memory, his voice far off as though he were back there again. “Mrs. Stoney screamed at the top of her lungs, and I swear to God, I thought you were dead—you laid there so still—for such a very long time.”

Her breath grew heavy, and she could almost imagine being back in that space. Except now, she saw the scene through Tristan’s eyes, as if watching her prepubescent body lying there, completely lifeless.

“Everyone was panicking,” he continued. “Renee came to me crying and telling me to help you because no one was doing a damned thing. I was so mad. I knew I was going to have to go over there and give you mouth to mouth—but then you hopped off the ground, unaware that anyone else was watching. All you seemed to care about was the fact that the dumb horse had thrown you off his back.” He chuckled a little, as though he couldn’t get the vision out of his head. “You balled up your fists and placed them on your hips—then you laid into him saying curse words I’d never heard before in my life.”

Sam laughed. “I did not!”

He shrugged, but then his eyes met hers.

Her vision had adjusted to the darkness, and she watched his expression change from lighthearted humor…to something else entirely.

“I guess you’re right. I had no idea what you said that day, but I’d always imagined…” His tone grew serious again, his laughter fading, and suddenly, she knew they weren’t just talking about that horse any longer. “Whatever you said,” he continued in a low textured voice. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she forced herself to breathe. Fear, anger, and regret swirled in her chest all at once. She knew she couldn’t hide from this any longer. They needed to talk about what had happened, because ready or not, he wasn’t going to stay quiet.

At that moment, the baby seemed to urge her forward, kicking her ribs and making her jump.

Tristan sprang into action. “Are you okay?” he asked. But his eyes shifted to her stomach, like he half expected an alien to pop out of her abdomen.

She shook her head, fighting back a sudden burst of laughter. “The baby kicked,” she said. But seeing the sudden shift in his expression made her pause. This was the first time he’d seen the baby kick. The first time in all these months.

She reached for his hand and guided it toward her belly. “Wait,” she whispered, flattening his palm against her T-shirt.

Every movement became magnified. His breath, her pulse, the way his chest rose and fell as they waited. Even though his hand was settled above her clothes, she could feel the heat of him. They’d made love more times than she could count, stayed in bed sharing secrets, yet laying here now, waiting for their baby to move, felt like the most intimate moment she’d ever experienced in her life.

Then it happened. Another jab to her ribs, this time a little lower.

“Holy shit!” he called out, sitting up in bed like his favorite team had just won the super bowl.

There was so much excitement in his voice that her eyes filled with tears. He sounded like a kid at Christmas, a mixture of laughter and a cry, like a boy who’d scored his first touchdown.

The baby kicked again, and he moved his face closer to her belly. “Hi, little one.” He placed one ear against her abdomen. “It’s Daddy.” But then he froze, as though realizing what he was doing. “Sorry I...” He eased off her, but she quickly held onto him. Her palm on his cheek, her fingers in his hairline. “It’s okay,” she whispered, but there were so many emotions rolling around inside that she didn’t trust her voice to say more than that.

His eyes locked onto hers, and his ear settled upon her stomach again.

Her heart raced, but for the first time she didn’t care if he heard it. He needed this. Needed to connect with their baby. And she needed it too, more than she wanted to admit.

“Does this happen a lot?” he asked, his eyes intense as he held perfectly still.

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you think the baby can hear us?”

“I do,” she answered, fighting back tears that clogged in her throat.

The sounds of the outdoors filled the dimly lit room, yet all she could focus on was him.

“Hi baby,” he said, “It’s your daddy.”

A roll ran across her abdomen as though the baby moved closer to the sound.

“I’ve waited for this moment for a long time,” he began again. “I still can’t believe you’re real. I can’t believe we made you.”

His eyes met Samantha’s for a short time, but then he closed them, and began telling the baby all about the nights he’d laid awake wondering about who they were. If they were a boy or a girl, what sport they would play, and if they would like cheeseburgers as much as he did. He also worried about their future, about what they would do to make enough money to live, and how they would navigate this world that was even more difficult than the one he grew up in.

“But there’s something I need you to do for me when you get here,” he added quietly into the darkness, his tone softer still. “Have patience with me,” he whispered. “Because I really have no idea what I’m doing.”

Intense emotion surged through Samantha, and a tear slid down her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to keep any more from falling. His words struck a deep chord, though she doubted he realized how much she related to his fears. He always carried the weight of the world on his own shoulders.

She opened her mouth to admit she had no idea what she was doing either, but before she could speak, he continued.

“Your mom and I might not be living in the same place when you get here,” he began, his voice steady. “But we’re on the same team. And I know all the tricks.” He tapped her belly lightly. “So, when you say your mom said yes, just know I’ll be confirming your story.”

The baby gave a hard kick, growing more active. He chuckled softly. “I know, I know… Life isn’t fair. But I promise you, we’re going to do our best.”

He met Samantha’s eyes, and the promise seemed meant for her as much as for their child. “I’ve got dreams for you, little one,” he said, his eyes intense, as if willing those dreams into existence. “But I’ll promise you something…”

He took a deep breath, the weight of his next words visible in the set of his jaw. “Your happiness is what matters most to me. I’m sure there will be times when I won’t understand you, but I promise I will always accept you for who you are—even when I think you’re making mistakes.”

Samantha took a deep breath and lifted her gaze toward the ceiling, trying to steady herself as her emotions threatened to take over. He was offering their child something he had never received himself—the reassurance from a father that perfection wasn’t a requirement to be loved.

The room grew quiet after a moment, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the wind outside. She let her hand rest lightly on his head, her fingers brushing through his hair, as if trying to anchor herself in the moment.

His breathing grew heavier, slower. When she looked down, she saw his eyes had closed, his head resting heavily against her stomach. He had fallen asleep, his arms wrapped protectively around their unborn child, as though shielding them from all the uncertainty that still made Samantha’s chest heavy.

She considered waking him to move to his side of the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. He looked so peaceful—or at least, that’s what she told herself. Instead, she let her eyes flutter closed, the warmth of his presence lulling her into a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in months. And slowly, she drifted off.