Chapter 48
Tristan
“I tolllld you he loves you,” Reagan singsongs, grinning from ear to ear the moment Jesse’s out the door.
“Better get your ears checked before you eavesdrop next time.” I chuck a cleaning rag at her. “He said he loves it. It, Reagan, not me.”
‘Cause apparently, Jesse loves that I’m impossible. That’s not the same as him loving me.
Except it makes my heart skip all the same.
“And besides, as I’m sure you heard, he was just agreeing with me anyway. He’s just too fucking sweet.”
Reagan rolls her eyes again, hard enough that the girl’s gotta be giving herself one hell of a headache. “Your boyfriend’s right. You are so impossible, Tristan. Did you not hear how he sounded when he said he loves it?” She drops her voice low. “I do love it, Tris.”
The god-awful impersonation of Jesse has me bursting out laughing, even as those crazy-ass butterflies I can’t seem to shake flap around my stomach like they’re trying to carry me away.
“And you’re no better,” she whacks me on the shoulder with the rag. “Staring at him like he’s hung the motherfucking moon.”
No, not the moon.
The sun, actually. All warm and bright and golden.
Just like he is.
Fuck.
It slams into me like a goddamn freight train, knocking me breathless and more fucked than I’d ever dreamed possible. I gave up my chance to run from this weeks ago, and now, there’s nothing between me and the totally fucking terrifying truth I’ve been trying to dodge.
I love Jesse. And not just a little. I fucking love him, more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. It’s the head-over-fucking-heels kind of love, and no matter what happens, I know there’s no going back.
I suck in a deep breath. Maybe there’s some shit I’m not ready to say aloud yet, but I’ve gotta get at least some of it out. “He took me to dinner at Alex’s house last night.”
Because she’s totally fantastic and just as crazy-ass random as me, Reagan doesn’t even blink at the change in topic. “Oooh, that was last night, wasn’t it? How’d it go?”
“Good. Totally awesome, really.”
“Oookay,” Reagan sets down the stack of fresh cups she’d been about to put out and reaches up to plant her hands on my shoulders.
“So, if you and Jesse are having flipping amazing sex, and last night at his friends’ house was totally awesome, why do you look like that now?
” She lifts one hand off my shoulder to sweep it around in a circle in front of my face.
“Like what?” Totally not me stalling. Nope.
She rolls her eyes. “Like Ollie does whenever we go someplace where there are balloons, and he spends the whole damn time convinced they’re all about to pop and scare the shit out of him.”
“Because it’s all too fucking perfect. And,” I drop my face in my hands, yanking at the hair on my forehead to distract myself from the totally stupid way my eyes are going all stinging and hot. “Because there’s shit I want way more than I should.”
Not that I’m gonna let myself think again about what that shit is. Let alone tell her.
“Oh, Tristan, hon.” She wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze back, careful not to smoosh her belly too hard. “Why is that a bad thing?”
“Because,” shit, why does my throat have to go all tight and chokey? “What if he can’t ever—” love me “—doesn’t ever feel the same way?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Because no one’s ever loved me.
“You listen to me.” Reagan pushes back from our hug and glares up at me like she’s just read my mind.
“That man loves you, Tristan. And even if he didn’t, he’d have every damn reason to.
Annnd that means him not loving you would make him an idiot, which you and I both know he is not.
If having a fucked-up past means that someone doesn’t deserve to be loved, then what the hell is Noah doing with me? ”
“Everything okay in here?”
I look away from Reagan’s full-on death stare to find Mitchel standing on the other side of the counter, eyes bouncing between the two of us.
Instantly, my heart rate spikes and my hands go all shaky, but instead of pissed, the guy looks like he’s trying to pick between worried and amused.
Thank fuck, ‘cause really, he’d have every right to be pissed off to walk in and catch his two employees having a totally intense, not-remotely-related-to-work heart-to-heart in the middle of their shift.
“Yup.” Reagan doesn’t even look at Mitchel, just keeps scowling at me. “Except for the fact that Tristan’s too blind to see how freaking awesome he is. Or to notice that his boyfriend’s madly in love with him. As he has every reason to be.”
Mitchel’s lip twitches. “Too busy to make me a mocha then?”
“Never too busy for you, boss.” Reagan grins. “So long as you tell Tristan that everything I’ve just said is right.” Her eyebrows rise expectantly.
“You are freaking awesome, Tristan,” Mitchel deadpans. “And your boyfriend is madly in love with you. Now can I please have my mocha, Reagan?”
“Extra chocolate?”
“Extra chocolate.” He turns back to me before glancing up at the wall where the remaining four of the canvases I’ve brought him hang. “You have a couple more paintings you can bring in tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Fuck but it’s still weird wrapping my head around the fact that people actually want my art. This’ll be the third round of paintings I’ve brought in to sell.
Which means I need to get my ass in gear and actually get to work filling those new canvases I bought last week.
Since Jesse took me to Pike Place, I’ve finished a couple paintings for the shop, but every chance I’ve gotten, AKA whenever I’m in my apartment painting without my sunshine there, I’ve pulled out my real project.
For the first weeks after Jesse turned my world upside down, strolling through the door here with his too-good-to-be-true-but-turns-out-to-be-true-after-all Jesse-ness and burning the shit out of me with that latte the two of us dumped down my front, all I’d wanted to paint was him.
He was all I’d been able to see in my head every damn time I’d pulled out my easel.
And the more I got to know him—fuck, the more I got to love him—the worse it got.
I gave in after that day at Pike Place, and now the painting’s almost finished. Still don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do with it, but whatever. Maybe just keep it hidden, pull it out and stare at it every once in a while.
Just like with the real Jesse, I’m kinda obsessed. He’s just so fucking bright and beautiful and perfect. My sunshine.
“Mocha for you, boss.” Reagan pushes past me to pass the drink across the counter to Mitchel, jarring me out of my head and back into the real world. “Don’t mind Tristan spacing out on you just now,” she waggles her eyebrows. “He’s been like that allll day ‘cause he and Jesse—”
The look I shoot Reagan is enough to shut even her up.
“Well then.” Mitchel presses his lips together like he’s barely not laughing, making it totally clear that Reagan didn’t need to finish her sentence for him to get the gist.
He’s about to go, probably ‘cause he doesn’t want to hear whatever’s gonna come out of Reagan’s big mouth next any more than I want him to, when he stops and turns back toward the counter.
“Almost forgot. Did that guy come back, Reagan?”
No idea what he’s talking about, but there’s something about his tone and the way his eyes have gone tight that I don’t like one bit.
“Shit, Tristan.” Reagan spins around to face me, looking actually uncomfortable for once. “I forgot to tell you. Yesterday, when I was filling in with Mitchel, some guy came in asking if you worked here.”
“Someone asking about my paintings?” The question feels all wrong. Totally full of myself and full of bullshit. Except why else would someone be asking around for me?
Unless…
Fuck.
Mitchel nods slowly, and I realize one of his dreads is loose and hanging halfway out of the ponytail he’s tied them back in.
Makes my skin itch and crawl, and if it wouldn’t be weird as fuck, I’d fix it for him.
“Maybe. Said he’d be back today when I told him you’d be working. Didn’t get his name.”
“What did he look like?”
Mitchel and Reagan exchange a glance. Probably ‘cause I’ve gotta be looking like they’re telling me they’ve seen a damn ghost. Maybe they have.
“Tallish guy. Dark brown hair. Wore it short and slicked over to the side.”
“Waaay too much gel.” Reagan wrinkles her nose.
The bottom has to have just dropped out of my stomach, ‘cause it feels like it’s just hit the fucking floor.
“Sound familiar?”
I shake my head, ‘cause what the fuck else am I supposed to do?
Could be anyone.
Just someone who wants to ask me about my paintings. Something good.
Except I fucking know it’s not.
“He gave me the creeps,” Reagan mutters, and the hairs along the back of my neck lift.
There’s a crumb on the counter by the register.
Someone didn’t line up their chair straight when they pushed it in at a table in the back.
My fingers itch to fix Mitchel’s dread.
Fuck.
“You okay, Tristan?” Reagan touches my arm, and I jump.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
Grab a rag. Sweep the counter clean.
Breathe.
Because fucking Josh is in fucking Tucson. Fifteen fucking hundred miles away. Doesn’t have a clue where I am. Not that I’m in Seattle, and sure as hell not where I work.
Whoever that guy was that was asking about me, it wasn’t him.
Just a goddamn coincidence, ‘cause there’s just no way the world’s that small or that fucking cruel.
And those motherfucking tea bags are all crooked again.
“You sure you’re okay, Tristan?” Reagan’s eyes are unusually soft as she tucks her folded apron into her bag.
Nod.
Look away.
“I’m good.”
Is it really a lie? Since Mitchel left, not a damn thing’s happened. Just the usual trickle of customers in and out.
No sign of fucking Josh.
Because he’s not here. He’s in Tucson. And whoever that guy with over-styled dark brown hair asking about me yesterday was, he doesn’t have a damn thing to do with him.
Fucker hasn’t even texted me in over two weeks. He’s moved on again, and it’s time I realize I don’t have to waste another moment of my time on him or on the shit he put me through.
“Noah’ll be here any minute to pick me up. We wouldn’t mind dropping you by your place…” Reagan leaves the offer hanging. Girl’s way too damn perceptive.
Mitchel might have bought it when I played it off like I was just spacing out again. Like Reagan had told him I’d been doing all morning.
Reagan though? Whole different matter.
I just couldn’t tell her though. I’m being stupid. Freaking the fuck out over nothing.
Tallish guy. Dark brown hair. Wore it short and slicked over to the side.
Too much gel.
Gave me the creeps.
I reach up. Rub a hand across my throat.
The moment we’ve locked up and Reagan’s gone, I swipe open my phone. Check my messages for the hundredth time.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No texts from withheld numbers.
Only the texts from Jesse I’d read a few hours ago.
Sunshine: I miss you, Tris. Dropping off your lunch today wasn’t enough.
Sunshine: I’m going to do some research on something that came up in my meeting with my professor, and I have to go to the library stacks and probably the special collections room to find what I need.
Sunshine: I won’t have service, and I probably won’t be home until after you. Promise I’ll make it up to you when I see you though *wink face emoji*
I’d almost dropped my damn phone when I’d read the last one, and for a solid thirty seconds, I couldn’t rip my eyes away from that one word.
Home.
Like his apartment isn’t just his but ours.
Even with all the shit bouncing round my brain, reading that word from him had done things to me. Warm, swoopy, heart-skipping things that not even fucking Josh is able to stamp out.
I know I’m stupid for feeling like this over that one little word. He probably didn’t even mean it like that anyway.
Except, try telling that to those motherfucking butterflies.
I’d been in the middle of making drinks for the staff of that dentist’s office up the block that always orders from us for their weekly meetings, so I hadn’t seen Jesse’s messages until they’d sat on my phone for a good ten minutes.
By the time I texted him back, I guess he’d already gone into the library, ‘cause my response—a string of kissy face emojis, ‘cause how the hell was I supposed to be expected to think up actual words after reading what he’d sent?—just sat on delivered.
Along with the ones I sent two hours ago, when I’d finally cracked under the thought of having to walk home on my own.
Me: U want to come meet me at the shop when I get off?
Me: If ur done in time
Me: Totally fine if not
And then an hour later:
Me: I miss u too *sun emoji*
Me: How r u planning to make it up to me?
And finally, twenty minutes ago:
Me: Some guy came into the shop asking for me yesterday
Me: Reagan and Mitchel told me
Me: I know it’s not Josh. Fuckers halfway across the country but I’m stupid and I can’t help thinking it’s him
Me: I miss you Jesse
Thank fuck the days are long enough now that it’s not dark out. And it’s not like there aren’t tons of people out and about. Add in the fact that I’m just being totally stupid by freaking out over nothing, and I don’t have a damn thing to worry about.
Except the whole walk home, I can’t get that nasty, creepy-crawly feeling out from under my skin.
By the time I finally get to our building, I’m tempted to head straight up to Jesse’s place and wait for him there. My stash of romance novels—all recs courtesy of Reagan—is there, and I could just zone out with the latest one I’ve been reading until Jesse comes home.
It’s a totally tempting thought. And, not gonna lie, so is making a dash up Jesse’s stairs and into his apartment rather than having to walk farther back down the dark alleyway behind our building so I can get to my set of stairs.
Being back here in the shadows, out of sight of everyone else on the street, is making me all kinds of jumpy tonight.
Not to mention the fact that, even without him there, just being in my sunshine’s space feels like home.
I can’t let myself forget about Mitchel asking if I could bring in more paintings though. If I don’t get my ass in gear and work on some pieces that aren’t my secret project, I’m not gonna have anything to bring in next time he needs more.
Am I gonna ditch whatever I’m working on and head straight over to Jesse’s the moment he gets back? Damn right I am. At least I can make a bit of progress first though.
So, ignoring the way it makes the back of my neck go all cold and clammy and the way my stupid-ass hands shake so bad it’s hard to fish my keys out of my pocket, I keep going.