Chapter 9
Jesse
“So,” Tristan’s smile widens to a grin as the server retreats from our table, menus in hand. “Seems like it’s time to even things out, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” I blink at him in confusion as he tilts his head slightly, his lips twitching with obvious amusement beneath arched, questioning brows.
“Well, sunshine, by now you know pretty much everything there is for anyone to say about me. I’m a barista who’s almost never seen snow, moves too much, and entertains himself painting and playing the piano.
All I know about you is that you grew up in the Midwest, also play the piano, and that you like soy lattes and spicy Thai food. ”
His pierced eyebrow quirks higher, the smile on his face turning expectant. The openness of the expression draws out a quiet laugh from me as I lean back against my chair, watching him track my movement.
“I seriously doubt that’s all there is to know about you.” I shake my head, returning his smile as I meet his intent eyes, that contactless connection making my stomach flip and my skin warm.
He shrugs, mirroring my posture as he too leans back in his chair, stretching his legs forward. “Then you’ll just have to wait and be surprised, won’t you?”
Beneath the table, his dark skinny jeans-clad knee brushes against mine. The touch is brief, only a split second before it’s over, but it sets my blood pounding and makes the warmth still creeping beneath my skin flare brighter and hotter than ever.
“But I wanted to know about you,” he snaps my attention back up to his face from where it had suddenly fixated, on the millimeter of space now hovering between our legs. “Tell me something.”
For some inexplicable reason, the first thing that bubbles up in me, threatening to burst out in a ruinously awkward and mood killing announcement, is Stephen—his loss and the healed yet ever-present heartache it left behind.
Thank god I catch myself in the nick of time, choking down that too-heavy story.
It's not that Stephen, or what happened, is a secret. If, by some miraculous gift of luck, this evening isn’t the only one I spend with Tristan, I’ll tell him about both. It’s just that that piece of me is one I hold close, not something I let out unless there’s a reason.
Besides, and maybe even more than anything else, I can’t stand for Tristan to look at me with that inevitable pity, or, worse still, to trade in his teasing and flirting for tiptoeing.
And so instead, in a blessedly normal sounding voice, I tell him that I’m a PhD student, working toward a degree in medieval European studies.
“Usually I work as a TA for undergrad classes too, leading study groups and grading papers for the professors. I decided to take this quarter off though, to really focus on my research.”
What I don’t tell him is that it’s because I’m chronically behind on my ever-extending timelines and thought the break from other responsibilities would help. Spoiler: it hasn’t.
Nor do I tell him that the reason I’m able to take this quarter off is that the insurance settlement I got after the accident is more than enough to cover my living expenses for the foreseeable future, even if I never do actually get my shit together and graduate.
“I’ve just got my dissertation left,” I continue, glad he seems content not to ask why I’m not currently working.
“What’s it about?” Tristan leans in again to prop his chin on one fist, elbow rested on the table, his eyes trained on my face, their expression soft and curious.
Damn, the sincerity of his attention is irresistible.
“I’d started out focusing on tracking the correlation between outbreaks of the plague and rises in religious fanaticism.
Somewhere along the way, the tension between the old pre-Christian beliefs and religious reformation caught my attention, and from there, I ended up falling down the rabbit hole of witch hysteria events. ”
“Like Salem?”
“Exactly, except I’m focusing just on western Europe.
” There’s no stopping the smile from spreading across my face as I take in the genuine interest in Tristan’s watchful eyes.
As I’d started on my explanation, the words had felt pedantic, like I needed to cut them short and change the subject, but not now.
No matter how burned-out I’ve been feeling lately, there’s a reason I chose my obscure, niche area of study.
Now, sitting across the table from someone who’s listening the way Tristan is, like the esoteric world I’ve devoted myself to is not only worth hearing about but fascinating, is undeniably thrilling.
“The claim I’m trying to support is that the more isolated an area was; geographically, socially, in terms of resources, the more intense bouts of witch hunting panic were, and that the worst of them came after the barriers that created that isolation had started to break down.
Like a backlash effect to the prolonged preservation of the old ways. ”
Tristan’s genuinely curious questions keep me talking until our food arrives, despite the fact that I’ve tried to give him outs to end the conversation for fear that I’m monopolizing it.
“The conception of witch burnings is a bit of a stereotype really,” I say, distractedly plucking a cube of tofu from my curry.
“A large portion were hanged and then only burned afterword. And that’s if they lived to be executed.
In some regions, fatalities due to interrogation techniques, which were really just a justification for torture, were higher than the number of actually condemned witches.
“Garroting before burning was also popular. That’s where the executioner took a sharp rod and rammed it through—”
The realization of where I am—a restaurant, not a classroom—and who I’m talking to—my unbelievably gorgeous dinner date, not a study group of undergrads—slams into me with such force that I’m surprised it doesn’t bowl me right out of my chair. What the hell was I thinking saying shit like that?
I look up, chopsticks in hand, face suddenly frozen in mortified horror, to find Tristan staring at me from across the tiny table, looking like he’s trying to force himself to stay silent, pressing his lips together.
If it wasn’t for the upward twitch at the corners, I’d be afraid I’d actually made him sick.
“—Through?” he prompts when several unacceptably long seconds tick by in silence.
There’s a wobble to his voice, but thank god, it distinctly sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
Maybe that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think I’m not a fucking psycho, but the amused glint in his eyes is slightly reassuring.
“Maybe this isn’t the best dinnertime topic,” I mumble, dropping my eyes, and my still full chopsticks, back to my plate.
Tristan lets out a laugh. Not a derisive, offended laugh like it probably should be, but a warm, entertained laugh. “Maybe not.”
Somehow, even with my eyes still glued to my now decidedly less appealing food, I can feel the brightness of his smile.
“Don’t worry, sunshine,” he grins at me as I force myself to glance up at him.
“It was interesting. I like that you’re so into your research.
You know so much, and I can tell you really care—not just about the information, but about the people who died ‘cause of the craziness of all of it. Yeah, I can tell a lot of it’s dark as fuck, but you aren’t.
“Shit, Jesse,” he goes on, “I wish I had something I knew so much about. Like, something I wanted to learn all about and tell everyone, even if they might think I was a weirdo for listing all the gory details on a dinner date.” The eyebrow with the ring in it lifts as his grin widens, pressing his dimple deeper into his cheek.
“That really was weird, wasn’t it?” I groan, fighting the urge to drop my head down into my hands and hide, even though the warmth of his smile and the sincerity in his voice have melted some of my mortification.
At least I’m not afraid he’s about to scramble up from the table and evacuate the restaurant anymore.
Tristan shrugs, tilting his head as he obviously fights down another laugh.
“Yeah, probably. I’m serious though. It’s cool you’re so into what you do that talking about it makes you forget not to say stuff like that when you shouldn’t, you know?
And besides, I like hearing about what you’re interested in. ”
“Even if it’s dark as fuck?”
“Even then, sunshine,” he tosses me an exaggerated wink that has me laughing with him, washing away the last of my embarrassment.
And then I process something he said— “But what about you? You have your incredible painting, and your music—”
The brightness fades a little from his face as he shakes his head, swiping a hand dismissively through the air.
“That’s all just messing around. I mean, I don’t even read music, and it’s not like I’ve ever had real art lessons or anything.
At least I make a damn good latte,” his tone brightens, even as the smile he shoots me doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I think you have it wrong,” I level my gaze at him, choosing to ignore that flippant last comment that feels somehow like just more self-deprecation.
Like he really thinks that’s all he’s good for.
“Shouldn’t the fact that you haven’t had lessons make how amazing your paintings and playing are even more remarkable? ”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly ill at ease, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Or maybe he doesn’t believe my words could be genuine.
I’m frantically racking my mind—should I backpedal out of this apparently awkward territory? Try to say something more to make him believe me? Just change the subject? —when his eyes that had drifted uncomfortably away from me go wide and his face lights with sudden excitement.
I turn to look in the direction he’s staring—out the fogged-up window, where, in the glow of the streetlight outside, small flakes are falling fast and thick, swirling on what has to be a bitterly cold wind.
The enthusiasm and speed with which Tristan bolts down the rest of his food is ridiculously endearing.
Tonight, I’ve seen a few little hints of a different side of him; insecurity and maybe even some deep unhappiness lurking under his easy, bubbly exterior.
Now, I love having this assurance that the brightness and lighthearted sparkle he exudes are real too.
Despite the almost painful smack of freezing air that greets us as we push out the door a few minutes later, Tristan’s grin is downright infectious as he tips his head back, letting the swirling flakes land to melt on his face.
Already, the pavement is more white than grey, and, typical of the first sign of snow in Seattle, the road is nearly empty of cars.
Taking a step nearer to him, I hesitantly reach out, holding my breath as I let my fingers brush over the smooth warmth of his shoulder, bundled once again in his sweatshirt and jacket. “Want to take a bit of a walk before we head back?”
On the surface, I’m offering him more time to take in the snow he’d been so hopeful to see. Really, I’m just not ready for our date to end.
He lowers his upturned face slightly, looking up at me with sparkling eyes beneath the snowflakes that have caught in his thick lashes, and suddenly I realize how close that step toward him brought the two of us. So close that the white cloud of his breath mingles with mine.
“Yeah,” he nods, another puff of frozen fog bursting from his lips with the softly exhaled laugh he lets out.
He doesn’t step back though, and neither do I. For a moment, we’re both caught there, him looking up at me, me staring down into his eyes, mesmerized by the faint warmth I can feel emanating from him through the cold air between us, until his breath hitches and he gives a violent shiver.
“Fuck though, it’s fucking freezing,” he laughs, wrapping his arms around his middle, tucking his bare hands under them as he gives another shiver. I swear I can actually hear his teeth chatter.
“In a jacket like that it is,” I shake my head at him, my gloved fingers already working to undo the buttons of my coat. Outside, it’s wool, and inside, it’s lined with a thick, padded quilting. Even without it, in just my sweater and scarf, I think I’ll still be better off than he is right now.
“Hell no, sunshine. I can’t—” he raises a warning hand, trying to step back as I quickly shrug out of the enveloping warmth.
Ignoring the way he tries to slip away from me, I dip forward, bringing my coat around his back. The moment my arms encircle him, he stills, going silent as he accepts the protection of the thick material I drape over his shoulders.
“Put it on properly or I’ve taken it off for nothing,” I warn, the firm, confident words welling up from some previously empty source of self-assurance.
He’s closer than ever now, close enough for me to smell that delicious scent that always lingers in his hair, and that, combined with the way he looks up at me through his lashes as he gives in, half grudgingly, slipping his arms into the sleeves, has my stomach flipping at the same time as a slow burning spread of arousal settles low at the base of my spine.