5. Chapter Five Tristan
Chapter Five: Tristan
T he low winter sun slanted through the curtains, laying a golden sheen over the living room where Adriana and I sat together, our voices rising in a heated exchange that clashed with the serenity of the scene.
Amber and David Miller were gone.
But this conversation…this had just started.
The chill from the glass panes was a cold whisper against the warmth inside our Delaware home, the sunlight casting long shadows across the floor as it began to retreat, heralding the evening's approach.
"Ade," I said, my voice firm but trying not to let frustration seep into it too much, "you can't just go around telling people our real names. It’s like painting targets on our backs."
Her hands were on her hips, her short, dark hair framing her face in defiance as she shot back, "They're neighbors, Tristan, not hitmen. I need to talk to some normal people.”
I could hear the distant hum of traffic outside—the suburban calmness a stark reminder of how different this world was from the one we left behind. But even here, even now, old habits clung like shadows in the twilight. Adriana felt it too; I could see it in the way her gaze drifted toward the window, her fingers idly tracing the frame.
"Look, I get it. We don’t know anyone here. You’re probably lonely. But we agreed on discretion for a reason.”
The setting sun dipped below the horizon, its departure leaving the room dimmer, the warmth fading with the light. Silence fell for a moment, only the distant sounds of life outside penetrating the stillness of our home. It was a peaceful place, this quiet suburb, a stark contrast to the life we had known before.
If Adriana was right and our new neighbors weren’t actually hitmen.
“I don’t regret it,” she said. “They seem nice.”
I paced back and forth in my wheelchair, the squeak of its wheels over the plush carpet a jarring soundtrack to my agitation. Each turn felt like a tightening coil, frustration mounting with every change in direction.
"Adriana," I started, stopping short as my gaze fell on a book perched high on the shelf—a book that promised a momentary escape from this cage of tension. David had taken it out to play with the spine, to read the author’s name.
Circe by Madeline Miller.
He couldn’t see it from across the room. And it was crooked and it needed to be fixed. He hadn’t put it back properly, he hadn’t pushed it all the way in, and I was sure it was going to fall.
Reaching out was futile; even as my fingers grazed the spine, I knew it was too far up, too far out of reach for someone in my condition. Still, stubbornness drove me to stretch further, the wheelchair groaning in protest.
And then, as if to mock my efforts, a glass of water teetered precariously at the edge of the nearby end table, a casualty of my exertion. With a pathetic clink, it surrendered to gravity, sending a mini cascade across the polished wood surface and onto the floor.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, staring at the spreading puddle. It was just water, but to me, it looked like defeat.
Adriana kneeled down to clean it up. Her hair fell forward, shielding her expression from view as she mopped up the spill. A heavy silence settled between us, thick as the tension that had sparked our argument. I watched from my chair, feeling simultaneously guilty for causing the mess and irritated at my own helplessness.
"Tristan," she finally said without looking up, "I know we have to be cautious, but we can't imprison ourselves in fear."
I slammed my hand on the armrest of my wheelchair, a hollow echo bouncing off the walls of our quiet Delaware home.
"Seriously, I think you need to chill out," Adriana said. She sounded more defeated than angry.
"Chill out?" My voice rose, and I could feel the heat of anger flushing my cheeks. "You think this is about me needing to 'chill'? You revealed our real names to the neighbors, Ade. Our names. Don’t you get it? Anonymity is our shield!"
“I do get it. Despite what you might think, I’m not an idiot,” she replied. Her eyes, those deep pools that I'd fallen into time and again, held mine with a resolve I knew all too well. "They're just people, Tristan. Friendly. They brought over a welcome basket, for heaven's sake."
"Exactly!" I shot back, trying to keep my hands from shaking. "They're people who might want more than just to borrow a cup of sugar. You know what we left behind. What if they start asking questions?"
Adriana let out a sigh, and I could see her will battling against my paranoia, the same way my body fought against its physical limitations every single day.
"Tristan, we can't live like ghosts. We have new lives here. I..." Her voice trailed off, and I could see the plea in her gaze, silently begging me to understand. But understanding was a luxury I couldn't afford—not when every knock on the door could be the past, or worse, death, coming to greet us.
I forced myself to soften my tone, despite how much I wanted to scream.
"Adriana, you're not seeing the full picture here," I said, my frustration growing as I maneuvered my wheelchair closer to her. "They could be anyone, connected to anything. We don't know their intentions."
She shook her head, the evening light casting a soft glow on her determined face. "They're just neighbors, Tristan. Amber and David Miller are nothing but a nice couple. She seemed super sweet. And honestly, I need a friend."
I wanted to scream, to shake some sense into her, but the words lodged in my throat. Instead, I watched as she turned away from me, her gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the suburban calm of Delaware was settling into the pink and orange hues of dusk, a peaceful facade that seemed almost alien after the life we'd left behind.
There, standing at the window, Adriana's loneliness played out in silent motions—her fingertip tracing an invisible line down the cool glass, hands wringing together like she was trying to squeeze out the solitude that clung to her. She absentmindedly fiddled with the small pendant that hung around her neck, a nervous habit I'd come to recognize whenever the weight of isolation bore down on her.
"Look, I get it. The quiet here is deafening compared to what we're used to," I conceded, my voice softer now. "But letting our guard down for the sake of companionship... it's risky, Ade."
She turned back to me, her eyes carrying the weariness of a battle fought too many times. "I'm tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of suspecting every shadow." Her voice wavered just a bit, revealing the fissure in her steely resolve. “Aren’t we here to get away from all of that?”
"Trust takes time," I reminded her gently, knowing full well that our past lives didn't afford us such luxuries. "We've got to play it smart, that's all I'm saying."
“You can play it smart. I’m tired of playing,” she said. “I know this is going to make me sound like a little kid, but I want my mom.”
And then she turned around and walked away from me.
I watched in a mix of anger and desperation as Adriana's back disappeared behind the bedroom door, the sound of its closing echoing through the house like the final word in an argument neither of us truly wanted to have.
"Ade," I sighed, my voice now a low plea drowned out by the silence of our home. I maneuvered my wheelchair closer, knuckles whitening around the push rims. Could I blame her for wanting something more than this life in the shadows?
I waited for a few minutes, hoping she would calm down some so we could actually sort this out.
Pushing aside the frustration, I knocked gently on the door—a simple action that felt like lifting boulders with my bare hands.
The door creaked open, revealing her silhouette framed by the darkness that had settled in the room. She stood there wordless, her figure stiff, a clear challenge in the set of her shoulders even as the night wrapped around us both.
"Can we talk?" My voice was barely louder than the whisper of the winter wind outside, betraying the turmoil inside me.
But she stepped aside, a silent invitation into the room where moonlight spilled across the bed, casting it in a pale glow that seemed too serene for the torrent of emotions between us.
I rolled into the room, taking my place at the edge of the bed. The weight of regret was a tangible thing, pressing down on me as I sat heavily, shoulders slumping forward. I rubbed my hands over my face, the stubble scratching against my palms. It wasn't just the physical limitations that confined me; it was the fear—the all-consuming fear of history repeating itself, of becoming like him, like my father.
“What?” she asked.
"Ade, I’m not trying to be an asshole. As always, I’m trying to protect you. All three of you," I echoed, my own voice rough with unshed emotion.
There, in the quiet Delaware night, the distance between us was more than just the space in that room—it was the chasm of our pasts, our secrets, the lives we led before finding each other in this unlikely refuge. And as the stars blinked above, witness to our strife, I knew we'd find our way back to each other. We always did.
We had to.
Adriana sat down noisily on the bed.
Her form was a slump of defeat on the bed, her every line speaking of the storms that raged within. Her gaze found mine, eyes clouded with frustration yet edged with something more tender, something that tugged at the knot in my chest.
“Ade?”
“Hm?”
“For what it’s worth, I want my mum too.”