Chapter 26
Jesse
Does it make me a selfish bastard that I was nothing but disappointed when, on Wednesday afternoon, the day after Tris’s second night staying with me, I caught the unmistakable sounds of Mr. Thorpe and a repairman next door?
Probably, yes.
I really don’t think anyone can blame me though for being relieved that, instead of hearing Tris let himself into his apartment later that evening, I’d heard the sound of feet bounding up my stairs, followed by a bouncy knock at my door.
Having learned from my mistakes the previous night, I’d already finished cooking dinner for us.
It wasn’t anything special, just a repeat of the garlic bread and herby cream sauce over pasta I’d meant to make the night before. At least I’d had the chance to run to the store though, which meant I’d been able swap out the plain spaghetti with tortellini and throw together a salad.
We’d sat together at the kitchen table, elbows brushing, his right leaning against my left, while he told me about his day and I tried my hardest not to think about how very easy all of this would be to get used to.
At least, until dinner was over. Then, after helping me clean up the kitchen like he’d insisted on doing, Tristan kissed me goodnight and slipped out the door, heading back to his own apartment.
I hadn’t been able to find the courage to ask him to stay the night.
That was last Wednesday. Since then, I’ve seen him of course. For dinner; once out and twice at my apartment. For a long walk and lunch on Monday, one of his days off.
On Tuesday night, we’d curled together in my chair and watched a movie. I don’t have a clue what it was.
Instead of taking in a single thing about the story as it played out on my laptop screen, I’d spent the two hours soaking in the feel of Tris’s body pressed close, the soft rise and fall of his chest against the arm I’d wrapped around him, the weight of his head on my shoulder, the fruity, minty-vanilla scent of his silky hair brushing my cheek.
When the movie ended, we’d stayed tangled up in the chair, kissing until I couldn’t think or see or barely even breathe. And I’d wanted more. God, I’d wanted everything.
I’d spent so much of the preceding days rationalizing and processing and reminding myself of what I’d want for Stephen if he had lived and I had died in his place.
What I know he’d want for me if only he could tell me, but still, the memory of what had happened that first night Tristan and I kissed held me back.
The fear that it might still be too soon, that I might not be ready.
That yet again, I might crumble the moment it seemed sure that something was about to actually happen.
And so, dick throbbing with frustrated desire, I’d made myself pull away. I’d walked him to the door. Kissed him goodnight; long and lingering and not a fraction enough.
Now it’s Friday, and I haven’t seen him since. Nor do we have any solid plans to see each other until his next day off on Monday.
It’s not like that’s all that long. Or like I haven’t heard from him.
Last week, we finally exchanged phone numbers. Rather awkward and silly feeling, all things considered, and yet that didn’t stop the nervously excited leap my heart gave when he handed me back my phone after creating the new address book entry for me.
He’d put himself in as “Tris”, not “Tristan”.
Even on the days we haven’t seen each other, we’ve texted all day, sending little snippets of stories and questions and answers back and forth. And every morning and every night, Good morning sunshine. Good night sunshine.
I don’t think there are words to sum up how ridiculously huge the smile plastered across my face is when I read those corny texts.
And of course, he still plays his keyboard through the wall. The first night, he started out just the same way he had before the two of us had realized who the other was. That handful of notes. His invitation for me to join him.
Maybe knowing now that it’s him on the other side of the wall might have made someone else in my shoes less nervous, but it had the total opposite effect on me.
I’m not too proud to admit that my hands were literally shaking on the keys when I’d held my breath and tried to plunk out the notes to the slow, jazzy piece I’d supposedly mastered a few weeks before.
My timing was off though, and what felt like half the notes came out wrong.
And seamlessly, from through the wall, Tris, with his supernatural and inexplicable magic, turned my fumbling disaster into a masterpiece, almost seeming to anticipate my mistakes and rushing in with the right chords or notes to weave them back into something cohesive and polished.
At the first remotely logical stopping point, I let my fingers fall silent on the keys and listened instead as he took the piece and ran with it, improvising it into something entirely his own.
Me: You make me nervous.
I’d typed it out of impulse, right after the last of his notes had faded into quiet, wanting to justify my crappy playing. The moment I’d sent it though, I’d regretted it.
Until his responses had come in a few seconds later.
Tris: I know *sun emoji*
Tris: Its fucking adorable *heart eyes emoji*
Tris: Told u I love it when u blush
Tris: Want to play something else?
For the first and only time, I was glad we had that damn wall between us. He definitely did not need to see the completely besotted look of gratitude with which I’d beamed down at his messages.
How does this man make everything right? How does he turn my awkwardness and introverted bumbling into something good?
Me: Can I just listen to you?
Tris: Anything for u *sun emoji*
And then he’d played, piece after piece, until finally his keyboard went silent. A few seconds later, my phone pinged.
Tris: Goodnight sunshine
The nights we’ve played together after that, I’ve done better.
Last night, we played so long that I ended up running through my entire repertoire of semi-decent pieces until I’d run out.
By then, that easy, comfortable feeling had overtaken me, and so with a grin, I’d plunked out “Hot Crossed Buns”, the first song from the early days of my foray into the online world of piano lessons.
Tris’s laugh through the wall set me laughing too, and for a long minute, my fingers hovered over the screen of my phone as a debate raged in my head. Text him? Invite him over? Tell him how much I miss him after just these few days apart?
Christ, I want him to know that I can’t stop remembering the feel of waking tangled up together with him.
That, aside from just missing the simple sight and closeness of him, my head has been full of non-stop fantasies.
Of touching him, kissing him, peeling away his clothes and exploring every inch of his beautiful body.
That, each time, the nervous kick of guilty anxiety has been less and less. That I think, maybe—
In the end, I’d just tucked my phone away and picked up my book. Not that I’d been able to read a damn word, just stared at them as all of them danced on the page, as dizzily restless as my thoughts.
These days of not seeing each other aren’t intentional. At least, not from me. It’s just that, until this last time we’d seen each other, we’d always agreed on our next date in person, before saying goodbye.
After the movie on Tuesday, by the time I’d forced myself to stop kissing Tris, the taste and feel of him had so completely filled my mind that there wasn’t room to think to ask him back the next day. To offer to make him dinner again.
I’d just kissed him that last time, fighting against the urge to drag him back into my apartment and not let him leave. By the time I’d realized that, apart from our vague plans to do something bigger on Monday, we hadn’t picked the next time we’d see each other, he’d already gone.
Now, I feel stuck waiting.
I don’t want to smother him. I don’t want to push him too fast or too hard.
While it’s true that I’m the one who needs to take things slowly with the physical aspects of our relationship, I want to make sure I give Tristan pace with the rest.
He doesn’t date, he told me. And from the little clues I’ve picked up from him, I don’t think his experiences with men have been all that great. The last thing I want to do is scare him off by letting him see how fast and how hard I’m falling for him.
That I can’t even wait a few days just to see him again.
Jesus, it scares me enough as it is. I have no desire whatsoever to know how it would make him feel if he were to find out.
And so, I’ve made it until tonight, Friday evening, before the last of my self-control crumbles.
At least, that’s how it feels. Alex, who’d told me at dinner tonight to just effing grow a pair and invite him over already, would say it’s a victory, not a defeat.
Which one of us is right depends on what happens next, I guess.
Either way, the reality is that I simply can’t wait until Monday. I can’t go through another two and a half days with that damn wall between us.
I’d spent the whole walk home from Alex’s buzzing with keyed-up anticipation and dizzying nerves, running through different ways to ask Tris over. Just like when I tried to come up with a way to ask him out, each one sounded worse in my head than the next.
Now, climbing the steps up to my apartment, I’ve reached the end of the arbitrary time limit I’d set for myself. Because if I hadn’t given myself that limit, I know I’d just be sitting here all night, staring at my phone, trying to make up my mind what the hell to say.
Adrenaline kicks in, making my hand shake around my key as I fumble to unlock the door. Still, there’s no way I’m letting myself turn back from this.
Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I’m pulling out my phone and swiping open my texts. And then I’m firing off a message, fingers shaking and breath quick in my chest.
Me: If you’re not doing anything, do you want to come over?
Please, please want to come over.
The ping of my phone’s text alert makes me jump.
Tris: Sunshine! *gasping face emoji* is this a booty call??!!
A bark of laughter bursts from me a split second before icy-hot mortification crashes over my body, warring with the simmering tension of anticipation that has been coursing through my veins ever since I’d made up my mind to text him.
Shit. That sounded exactly like a booty call.
Did I just make him feel demeaned?
Shit, shit, shit. I hadn’t meant it like that. I’d just wanted to see him.
See him…touch him…kiss him… Jesus, is he right that it really was a booty call?
And oh shit. What if he doesn’t realize that I really hadn’t meant it to be, and doesn’t find it demeaning? What if he thinks I’m telling him I’m ready for more, only to have it turn out that I’m not?
I’ve got to text him again. Clarify. But not like I’m backtracking. Because I’m not…not entirely…
Christ. Why can’t I think of a damn thing to say?
I’m still caught in my minor hyperventilation episode, wracking my mind for something, anything remotely clever to say to fix this, whichever direction I’ve fucked it up in, if I’ve fucked up at all, when a knock sounds at my door.