30. Myles
THIRTY
MYLES
I blink awake, groggy. The room swims into focus. Empty. Cold sheets beside me whisper abandonment. Last night's emotional torrent replays in my head—Tristan and I, tangled limbs, confessions spilling like blood from open wounds, his tension, a storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Did he even sleep?" I ask the empty room. Of course, no answer comes.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting stripes on the floor. The house breathes quietly, Nix safely tucked away with George and Cynthia for a few days. My heart clenches at the thought of him, but it's good for him to reconnect with family, to rediscover old bonds.
"Where are you, Tristan?" My voice cracks, heavy with unshed tears.
I rise, restless. My feet touch the hardwood floor.
The absence of warmth stings. Memories of Tristan flash like lightning: the heat of our love igniting the air between us, bodies pressed together, Tristan clinging to me as if we were making love for the last time, mouths seeking solace. And now? A void.
"Can I fix this?" Doubt twists my insides. Fear gnaws at the edges of my mind.
A note sits on the kitchen counter. Tristan's handwriting is unmistakable. It screams urgency:
Called into work suddenly. Didn't want to wake you.
- T
The words betray the tremble in the pen strokes. Strained.
"Is this real?" I frown, clutching the paper.
Phone in hand, I text him. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating. Then, I press send.
Me: Hey, just saw your note. Everything okay?
Silence follows. Expected, yet painful.
"Please, Tristan," I mutter to myself. "Talk to me." Desperation seeps through my body, heavy as lead.
Minutes stretch into hours. The note sits on the counter, a mocking reminder that the cord connecting my heart to his is strained. The weight of unanswered questions presses down on my chest. I pull out my phone again, staring at the message thread.
"Maybe he's busy," I tell myself. But doubt lingers, dark and unrelenting.
I left home some time later for Little League practice. It's the first time I'm coaching the five-to-eleven-year-olds.
Thoughts scream in my head. Tristan, did I do or say something wrong? God, I hope that if I did, he'll know it wasn't intentional. I'd never set out to hurt him.
Sunlight blares through the windshield, a sharp contrast to the darkness in my soul. But I'm glad for the distraction. I need this.
As soon as Nix sees me, he races over and greets me with a hug. George and Cynthia are beaming. I know they struggled when I'd kept Nix away, but now that we're back in tune with each other, things are great.
If only Tristan and I were more in synch with each other. I want my sweetheart back in my arms.
"Hey Myles!" A cheerful voice pulls me back to reality. Karen, one of the other parents, waves at me from across the field. I force a smile. Nod. Pretend everything's fine.
"Great turnout today," she says, joining me on the sidelines. Her enthusiasm feels like sandpaper on raw nerves.
"Sure is."
"Have you met everyone yet?" she asks, eyes sparkling.
"No, not yet." An opportunity for distraction. Grasp it. "Would you introduce me?"
"Of course!" She beams, oblivious to my internal conflict.
Parents mill about, laughter and chatter filling the air. Small talk. Names exchanged. Surface-level connections forged. But beneath the pleasantries, Tristan's absence drills into my core.
"Mike, this is Myles, Nix's dad," Karen introduces. Firm handshake. Smile. Repeat.
"Nice to meet you, Myles!" Mike's grin is infectious, but I can't shake the weight bearing down on me.
"Likewise, Mike." Maintain composure.
As the introductions continue, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Relief floods me, quickly followed by trepidation. It's Tristan.
Tristan: Hey, sorry for the late reply. Busy day at work. Everything's fine.
Short and to the point, as always. But something's off. With each text exchange, the tension between us crackles like a live wire.
Tristan, please talk to me, I plead silently, fingers hovering over the keys.
Me: Are you okay?
I send the text, hoping for an honest reply.
Tristan: Yep, just tired. Talk later?
His response is evasive.
Me: Sure. Take care.
My heart sinks, heavy with disappointment.
Tristan: Okay, thanks. You too.
His words, like a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, are not nearly enough.
"Did you need to go somewhere, Myles?" Karen asks, observing my preoccupation.
"No, just checking in with someone," I reply, tucking the phone away and forcing a smile.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"Fine. Just fine." My reply is clipped, but not unfriendly.
The practice commences—kids running and shouting, parents cheering them on.
I watch the players with a sense of detachment, my mind elsewhere. I try to give them pointers, but my heart isn't in it. Their enthusiasm falls flat against my tattered emotions.
"Hey, Coach Madden," a little voice calls out, jolting me back to reality. It's one of the players, a small boy with a tangle of curly hair and a gap-toothed grin.
"Yes, buddy?" I crouch down to his level.
"Can you show me how to throw a curveball?" he asks eagerly, holding up his glove.
I grin despite myself, a spark of excitement igniting within me.
"Absolutely, let's do it." I take the ball and glove from him, positioning him just right.
"Okay, now watch closely. You want to grip the ball like this," I demonstrate, "and then twist your wrist at the last second before letting go. "
He nods, eager to try. I help him through a few practice throws, adjusting his grip and stance until he gets the hang of it. His face lights up with joy as he stares at the ball, watching it spin in the air.
"Wow, I did it!" he exclaims, beaming with pride.
"Great job!”
I try to focus on Nix, his laughter as he rounds the bases, but Tristan's absence gnaws at me. It's as if a piece of me is missing, replaced by a dull ache that won't subside.
"Great hit, Caleb! Faster, faster, faster, Zach! Let's go, Nix!" I yell, clapping along with the other parents.
As I engage more with the kids, my worries start to fade into the background. Their laughter and energy are infectious, and I find myself getting caught up in the joy of the game. For a while, everything feels right in the world.
But as the practice draws to a close and parents start to gather their kids, the reality of my situation hits me again. Tristan and I are still on shaky ground, and I'm not sure what to do about this growing chasm between us.
Can we fix this? I wonder, anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. The question lingers, unanswered, as I head home.
I finally can’t take it anymore; on day four of our impasse, I stand outside Tristan's apartment, my heart pounding in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I knock on the door.
When he opens it, he looks like shit—eyes bloodshot, face pale, and hair disheveled. It's a stark contrast to the strong, confident firefighter I fell for.
"Can I come in?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates, then steps aside, allowing me entry. The apartment is dimly lit, and the atmosphere is suffocating. Every muscle in my body tenses as I close the door behind me.
"Tristan, we need to talk," I say firmly, trying to keep my emotions in check.
He avoids eye contact, rubbing his neck nervously. "About what?"
"About us!" I practically shout, fed up with his evasiveness.
"If you want to break up with me, just do it!
Don't leave me hanging like this, feeling like I'm losing you.
And I'm thinking about Phoenix, too. He loves you, but I'm going to do my best to protect him from the pain of potentially losing you. "
Tristan's eyes widen at the mention of my son's name. He takes a step closer to me, his hand reaching out as if to touch me, then dropping to his side.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence. Then, finally, Tristan abruptly turns on his heel and stalks to the kitchen, with me following closely behind.
He grabs a beer from the fridge, popping the cap off and quickly chugging it down. Leaning against the counter, his hands shake as he begins speaking.
"It's about Cara,” he says, his voice cracking.
I nod, my stomach twisting in knots. "What about her?" I brace myself for the storm that will inevitably follow, hoping against hope our love is strong enough to weather it.
"I was one of the first responders when her car went over the bridge."
My heart drops. "You... you tried to save her?"
"Yeah," he says, eyes brimming with tears. "We did everything we could, Myles.
"Jesus, Tristan..." My head is spinning with this new information.
His voice breaks. "I've been obsessing over all the things I could've done differently to save her. I have nightmares, Myles. And I didn't know it was Cara before, but now I do, and I'm afraid you'll never forgive me."
"Oh my God..." I breathe out, feeling my own eyes welling up with tears. The pain in his voice, the guilt etched across his face… it's almost too much to bear.
He continues, detailing every futile attempt they made to save Cara that night.
“We secured ropes, tried to stabilize it, but the car just...
it slipped and plunged into the water. We desperately tried every conceivable idea we could come up with to save her, but...
" Each word cuts deeper, raw and visceral, as the horrifying scene unfolds in my mind.
Why didn't he tell me as soon as I'd told him what happened? Can I forgive him for keeping such a secret? I'm not sure.
I stand there, feeling the weight of Tristan's pain suffocating the air between us.
I want to reach out, to touch him, to tell him it's not his fault.
I want to be there for him right now, even if my heart is breaking too.
But my body feels like it's encased in ice, and I can't move.
My thoughts race, colliding with each other in a whirlwind of confusion and hurt.
"Tristan," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I... I don't know what to say."
He looks at me, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and I see the fear in them—the fear of losing me, of being left alone with his nightmares and his guilt.
It breaks my heart. But instead of comforting him, I do the unthinkable: I turn away from him, heart pounding in my chest, and flee his apartment.
"Wait, Myles!" Tristan calls after me, his voice cracking. I ignore him, pushing through his door, suddenly grateful Nix is sleeping over at his grandparents, so he doesn’t have to witness what's happening.
Dammit, Myles, what are you doing? I silently curse myself for my behavior even as I continue to run, unable to stop until I reach the door of my apartment. I hear Tristan's footsteps behind me, but I can't face him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Stopping in my tracks, I stand with my back to him, unable to look at his face and see the pain I know will be etched into his handsome features.
"Please, just give me a moment." I gasp out, breathless from the crushing weight of all the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "I need... I just need some space."
"Space? Myles, don't do this to me, to us," Tristan pleads, desperation seeping into his voice. "We can talk about this. We can fix it."
I spin on my heel to look him in the eyes.
I try to speak, but my mouth dries up and my throat constricts.
All I can get out is a raspy whisper. “Can we?
" I try to keep my voice strong and steady, but it sounds far away even to my own ears, as if I’m speaking from another room.
His gaze shifts away from me, and his mouth tightens into a thin line.
He kept this from me, gave me nothing but silence when I begged him for answers. I shake my head, regret and sadness making my chest ache. "I'm sorry, Tristan. I just... I can't. Not right now."
And with that, I push through the door of my apartment, leaving Tristan standing there in the empty hallway, his heart probably shattering into millions of tiny pieces…
just like mine. Tears blur my vision. On autopilot, I strip down to my boxers and flop onto my bed, unable to shake the feeling that I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.