Fourteen
Greyson
W hen we get home, I guide Trinity through my condo to my rooftop garden. Night has draped its velvet cloak over Black Bear Lake, the suspension bridge a necklace of lights that gleams against the dark water.
“Here,” I say, flicking the switch that awakens the gas fireplace with a soft roar. The flames leap up, casting a warm glow on the potted ferns and flowering vines.
Trinity’s eyes hold the reflection of the fire as we settle into the double chaise lounge chair that overlooks the lake. I stretch out first, offering her space beside me, a silent invitation she accepts, tucking herself against my side. Despite the heat from the fire, there’s a chill in the air.
I feel the tremor of a shiver that passes through her. It’s not like me to seek out closeness, to share warmth, but with Trinity it feels different. Her hair is a cascade of moonlight and shadows, releasing a scent of exotic flowers that somehow seems both wild and comforting.
“Are you cold?” I ask, already reaching for the plush blanket folded over the back of our seat.
“A bit,” she admits.
I drape the blanket over us, making sure to tuck it around her shoulders. “Better?” I ask, my gaze drifting from the dancing flames to her profile, lit softly by the fire’s amber light.
“Much,” she replies, her breath a contented sigh.
In the silence that follows, the world outside continues on, oblivious to the small, personal orbit we’ve created here on this rooftop, under the stars.
Trinity’s head finds a home on my chest, and my fingers trace small circles on her back, trying to spin away the tension that binds her muscles tight.
“How are you feeling about your mom?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. Today was really hard. She keeps referring to me as her sister, Ellen, who passed away a few years ago. And her flirting with you has a bit of an ick factor. You didn’t have to flirt back.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Sure, I did. It’s an easy way to talk her into doing something she didn’t want to do.”
“I draw the line at anything more than a hug.”
I pull her in close. “I’m good with that.”
For a moment we watch the headlights of the cars crossing the bridge.
“You know,” I murmur, “you don’t have to manage everything with your mom on your own.”
She shifts, lifting her gaze to meet mine, those fathomless eyes brimming with a stoic resolve. “I don’t really have a choice. It’s just me. No brothers or sisters to share the burden.”
“Maybe not,” I concede, “but you’ve got me. Let me help.”
A sad smile plays on her lips, a harbinger of the distance she’s about to place between us. “You can’t,” she says softly, and it feels like a door closing .
“Why not?” I ask, though I know the answer might sting.
“Because what we have, it’s going to end.” She sits up now, pulling away just enough to draw a boundary in the space between us. “We have an expiration date. So it would be foolish of me to rely on you for anything more than an orgasm.”
Her words sting. If it was anyone else, I’d be relieved she said that, but with her, I have trouble conceiving the end. My hands, which moments ago were a source of comfort, now rest uselessly on my thighs. We both know the terms of this arrangement, but hearing them spoken aloud, they sound harsher than I expected. “Trinity…” The name is a plea, but I’m not sure what I’m asking for.
“Greyson,” she replies.
I pull away gently, the warmth of our closeness fading into the night air. “We may have an end date, but until then, we’re together. And whatever happens, your mother is still my patient.”
Trinity’s eyes, reflecting the flickering flames, meet mine. “Greyson, you were her emergency department doctor, not her GP.” She sits up straighter, wrapping the blanket around herself. “I have to coordinate with her primary care doctor now. And since she’s out of the hospital, you’re not in the picture, medically speaking.”
That hits the bullseye. Now, the distance between us feels like kilometers, not centimeters. It’s clear that no matter how close we get, there’s always a chasm ready to swallow the ground beneath us. She sits up and looks at me.
I sit up as well, putting my feet on the ground. “Right,” I acknowledge. “Her GP will take over from here.” I can feel this whole situation slipping through my fingers like the smoke rising above us.
I stand, and Trinity’s shoulders tense, her posture defensive. I can feel the fight brewing in the air, it crackles with the same energy as the fire.
“You can trust me. Let me in.” I take a step closer. “Use me as a sounding board. Share the burden.”
Her silence is heavy as we stand in the bubble of light cast by the flames.
“It’s a bad idea. You’ve been fantastic, but eventually, I’m returning to Vancouver. My work, my life, it’s all there. Not here. If my mom can’t live alone, I’m going to have to figure out how to move her closer to me.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You saw what the two-mile ride from the hospital to Lakeview was like.” I close my eyes. I’m saying all the wrong things. I want her to feel like she can depend on someone other than herself, and instead, I’m making it worse. But now, I have to finish the thought. “How are you going to drive her five hours to Vancouver?”
She shakes her head, and I can see on her face how badly she now wants to run out and leave me here.
“Trinity,” I say calmly. “I don’t want to fight, and I’m not trying to worry you.” My hands fall to my sides, an intentional show of surrender, but inside, I’m in turmoil. I’m used to solving problems, fixing things. With her, it’s not that simple. Her resistance isn’t just a wall. It’s a mirror, reflecting my own fear that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. “You don’t have to go through all this alone.”
Tears well up in Trinity’s eyes, and she blinks rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. “I don’t want to fight either.” Her voice is barely a whisper, roughened by emotion. “I’m not good at letting people in.” She swallows hard. “And my heart, it doesn’t work like a switch you can flip on and off. I can’t just open up and depend on someone who won’t be here in a month.”
Her words land like punches, despite their soft delivery. It’s one thing to know there’s an expiration date for whatever this is between us. It’s another to hear her speak it aloud. I watch her struggle to maintain composure, her vulnerability laid bare under the starlit sky. It’s a side of Trinity I’ve never seen, and it draws me to her even more.
I take her head between my hands and kiss her softly, giving her space but not retreating. “I know it’s hard. But for what it’s worth, I’m here now.” I see the battle she’s waging—against herself, against me—and I can’t stop myself from adding, “And I care. More than I planned to.”
The words feel like a risk, daring her to push me away.
Without another word, I pull her into an embrace. I’m determined to wrap her in warmth, both physical and emotional. “Listen,” I murmur, my lips brushing against the softness of her hair. “You’re not leaving anytime soon. You’ll be here for at least six to eight weeks with everything that’s going on.”
Her body stiffens in my arms for a moment before she leans back, looking up at me. “If that’s true…I’ll need to go back to Vancouver.” Her voice is steady, yet it carries an undercurrent of distress. “I have a big project at work, and I’ll need to be there when it goes live. I’m doing the small parts from here, but the final stage of the migration is huge, and I need to be there.”
“We’re not that far. You can go for a few days and then come back.”
She nods, but then after a moment, her shoulders sag. “I don’t have anything other than sundresses and shorts. Liz picked things up for me today to bring this weekend, but nothing I can wear to a wedding. I’ll need more clothes.”
I chuckle softly at her practical concerns, though I admire her foresight. “We have department stores here, too,” I tease gently, hoping to coax a smile from her. “They’re not quite Vancouver chic perhaps, but they’ll have enough to hold you over.”
There’s a tentative pause, and then the hint of a smile. She steps closer, her cold nose brushing against mine. “Is that so?” she whispers.
“Absolutely,” I assure her, my hands finding her waist, steadying her as the world around us fades into a backdrop.
She rises on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine, a slow, sultry kiss that melts away the cool night air and sends a surge of warmth through every part of me .
I lean into her, enveloping her chill-bitten lips with the warmth of my own. My response is slow and steady, a silent conversation in which I try to convey the unspoken truths that words fail to capture. With each deliberate caress, I tell her she doesn’t have to be perfect, that her imperfections are facets of her beauty I cherish. My hands move up her back, pressing her closer, as if to say I’m not going anywhere, not now, not anytime soon.
I feel her fingers weave into the hair at the nape of my neck, sending tingling sensations down my spine. When our lips finally part, her breaths come in uneven tremors, evidence of the emotional tumult we’re navigating. She leans in, her forehead resting against mine. It’s in this quiet space between heartbeats that I understand the gravity of what we are to each other, however fleeting it may be.
She pulls away just enough to look at me. “I don’t want to need you,” she admits.
My heart clenches. I see her struggle, the way she clings to independence like a lifeline. Beneath that, there’s something else—a plea for connection, for support. Her words echo the fear of reliance, yet her body leans into mine, seeking solace.
“I know,” I whisper, cradling the back of her head, fingers lost in the softness of her hair. The floral scent that lingers there is intoxicating, grounding. “But you do. And maybe I need you too.”
The confession slips out, unbidden but honest. The thought of her leaving, of this delicate thing between us reaching its inevitable conclusion, twists in my gut. I need her resilience, her fiery spirit that challenges me, even as she needs my steadiness, my willingness to stand beside her in the storm. What could we be to each other?