Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
T ristan Evans sat on his couch, watching his girlfriend cut out thirty paper pumpkins with more precision than he would have thought possible. Her tongue was between her teeth, as it always was when she concentrated hard on a craft, her head tilting back and forth as she turned the paper. If someone had told him five years ago that he would be content to sit on a couch in the middle of a Saturday afternoon and watch a woman cut pumpkins, he probably would have punched them. Now, though…
“Are you happy in your new digs?” Josie asked, apropos of nothing. Or, more accurately, apropos of some internal dialogue he couldn’t possibly comprehend. How did she get from pumpkins to his apartment? He had no idea, nor would he understand the route, if she tried to describe it to him.
“Digs?” he repeated. It was a Josie word. She had a habit of pulling pieces of retro dialogue from somewhere and interjecting them into everyday conversation. Before Josie, he used to believe relationships were boring, that you must get tired of being with the same person on repeat. What he failed to realize back then was that you could be with the same person every minute of every day and never peel back as many layers as they actually had. Tristan could tell anyone what Josie’s favorite snack was—something called “puppy chow”—and her dream vacation—England, followed by Italy—and her most embarrassing anecdote—running over a curb and hitting the instructor’s car during driver’s ed—but he had still only scratched the surface of her life, as well as her unreadable brain.
She sighed, exasperated with his teasing, or possibly his lack of answer. “Your man pad,” she amended, and he snorted a laugh.
“Let’s go back to digs. Yeah, I mean, it’s not for real, so…” He shrugged, looking around the posh—to him—apartment. It was in the trendy part of Adams Morgan, several steps up from the Columbia Heights neighborhood where he actually dwelled. His actual neighborhood was so bad that he had forbidden Josie from coming to it and, miracle of miracles, she agreed. “It’s nice that you can be here.”
She smiled. “It is nice. Feels like I no longer have a secret boyfriend. Now that I’m free to visit, I might show up all the time.” She tossed the words out like a challenge.
“Is that supposed to upset me? If so, you are all kinds of terrible at reading my signals.” He pulled her into his lap, easing his grip when she squawked and reached to set aside the pumpkins. She nestled into his embrace, another Josie thing that he loved.
“What’s bothering you about this place?” she asked, her fingers brushing his temple. Since his hair was only a few millimeters long, it was affection rather than an attempt to smooth flyaways.
“I don’t know. Memories, I guess.”
She raised her brows, waiting for more. It still boggled his mind that she wanted to know anything about his dismal life before her, but she seemed to hold the same fascination with him that he held with her. And it was nice, that bit of interest in him. It was much more than anyone else had ever shown him, his family included.
He shrugged a shoulder, letting it drop heavily. “I had a place like this.”
“A place where a guy was murdered? You might be cursed.”
He gave her a squeeze and she smiled, nestling in to hear the remainder of the story. “A nice place. With a door on the bathroom and a stove where all the burners work.”
She whistled appreciatively. “Swanky. Tell me more.”
“After the academy, when I got a real job and started making money, I moved out of the hovel I’d been living in with three other guys, into a townhouse. It was in a nice neighborhood and I bought stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Her head rested on his shoulder, face perched inquisitively. He couldn’t resist kissing the tip of her nose, when she looked at him like that.
“Couch. Chair. Table. TV. TV stand. Stuff. Real people stuff.” He sighed, because this was the part of the story where things took a turn. His former life blew up and he lost everything; his job, his townhouse, his stuff.
“How did it make you feel, to have that stuff?” she asked. Josie knew he’d grown up poor because he told her, but he wondered if she could fathom actual poverty. Though not rich by any means, her family had been solidly middle class. Josie’d had her own bedroom, with plenty of clothes and food and a car all her own. Tristan had shared his room with two siblings and a cousin, often ate only when the school gave free lunch, and hadn’t been able to get his license until he cobbled together enough money to buy a rust bucket of his own, one that was literally held together with duct tape in some places.
“At first good,” he answered. “But then…” he remembered back to that time, the feeling of accomplishment that was soon replaced by the fear of not accomplishing enough. How much was enough? Would he feel it when he bought a bed? A dresser? A better car? A motorcycle? After the initial burst of euphoria, nothing ever filled that void. And when he lost it all, it felt like confirmation of the inevitable. Of course he couldn’t have anything, maybe didn’t deserve anything. The universe was merely restoring itself to its proper order. He’d stumbled around in blind misery until… He glanced down at Josie. Until her . None of the stuff ever made him feel the way she did, as if he was worth something, as if his life had value, as if he were a success.
He sighed, in contentment this time, his head suddenly swimming with visions of their future. “This place is okay, but I don’t think it’s my style. It’s a little too…something.” He wanted somewhere cozier, somewhere homier, somewhere Josier.
“Like it’s trying too hard? That’s what Eli says.”
“If he thinks that, why does he still live here?” Tristan asked.
“Sometimes you can figure something out but it takes longer to act on it, you know? He’ll get there. He’s…” She tipped her head, searching for the best words. “Eli’s insecure about some things. Everyone always liked him, but he was never that guy. The ‘it’ guy. I think there’s still a little part of him that thinks he wants to be. He’s getting there, but eventually I think he’ll realize he’s already exactly who he needs to be. In the meantime, he spends a fortune on Shangri-La here.” She motioned to the apartment around them.
It was hard for Tristan to imagine Eli being insecure. Smart, studious, steady, with a good job and a supportive family, he was so solid, everything Tristan had never been. How could you launch from that and still end up doubting yourself? “Everyone has junk in their past they have to work through, I guess,” Tristan mused.
“Yeah,” Josie agreed, resting her head on his shoulder and nestling again. “Unless you’re Gabe, and then you forgo any self-reflection in favor of projecting your insecurities onto others.”
Someone knocked on the door and they tensed. “I’ll get it,” Tristan said, easing her aside. He slid into his role of new guy, which was harder to do than usual because Josie followed him to the door, intent on talking to whoever it was. “Eli,” he blurted when he wrenched open the door and saw Eli’s hands extended, holding something in greeting. “And a chicken.”
“It’s like prom all over again,” Eli said, and Josie snorted a laugh.
“Why are you holding a chicken?” Tristan asked, still staring at it with puzzlement.
“It’s a Costco rotisserie chicken,” Eli announced, as if that explained everything.
Fortunately Josie interjected herself as interpreter, saving them both what would probably be a long back and forth until Tristan finally understood the implications of presenting someone with a chicken, if he ever did.
“When people move in, neighbors bring food,” Josie said.
“But I didn’t really move in, and I already know him,” Tristan said. He made no move to relieve Eli of the chicken, and now Eli began to shift, as if the chicken filled him with regret. All in all, it was a lot of pressure to put on a dead chicken.
“This is how it’s done,” Josie declared, and she reached for the chicken. “It’s proper. Now we invite Eli to join us while we eat it.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen, both men in her wake.
“Bringing a chicken justifies foisting your presence on others?” Tristan asked.
“You know I can hear you,” Eli said, closing the door as he fully entered the apartment.
“I don’t care if you stay,” Tristan amended, flicking him an impatient look. “I’m trying to understand how this works, in case it ever happens again.”
“No one where you actually live brought you food?”
Tristan looked horrified by that suggestion. “If they had, I’d probably have it tested for meth and have them arrested. No, no, no, no, no.” He gave his head a hard shake. “This is a suburban thing, I’m telling you. City people ignore each other completely, like all strangers should.”
“Who hurt you?” Eli queried, helping himself to a stool at the bar while Josie opened the chicken and Tristan reached for plates.
“My neighbors,” Tristan said. “I thought I just explained that.”
“We’re not ready to eat yet,” Josie said, stopping him when he reached for a chicken leg.
He froze. “Why not? The chicken is right there.”
Josie made an exasperated sound. “We can’t only have chicken. Obviously I’m making potatoes and a salad.”
Now Tristan stared at her, confused. “I don’t have any of those things. My fridge and cupboards are a wasteland oasis.” The company Darby hired to clean took away all of Asher’s old food, emptying the cupboards and fridge until they sparkled. It hadn’t occurred to Tristan to restock.
He watched in continued stupefaction as Josie bent, opened a cupboard, withdrew potatoes, scrubbed them, and popped them in the microwave before opening the fridge and withdrawing a tub of pre-made salad greens.
“What is even happening right now?” Tristan demanded. “How have I entered the Twilight Zone where food magically appears?” He stepped around Josie and opened the fridge, staring it mute surprise at the ingredients there. “I have butter and sour cream? And yogurt? Cheese? Jam? You bought me salsa?”
“You love salsa,” Josie said, sliding her arms around his waist.
“This is so normal and domestic. It’s freaking me out,” Tristan said, though he eased his arms around her and pulled her closer.
“You’ll get used to having salsa,” Josie assured him.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t get used to having salsa on standby; it was the fear that the salsa might go away, after he acclimated to it. But since that was the crux of everything he dealt with in his relationship with Josie—the fear of losing it—he didn’t say it, just gave her a little squeeze, to reassure himself she was still here and this was all real.
“This is fun, thanks,” Eli said, reminding them he was still present and bearing witness to their little tableau. They turned and saw him watching them with a bland expression, his chin resting in his fist.
“You’re the one who brought invitation chicken,” Tristan reminded him. “Don’t bring entitlement chicken and then complain when it comes with consequences.”
“It was just a chicken, man,” Eli said, holding up his hands in surrender.
Tristan squinted at him. “Why does a single man have a Costco membership? How many families are you secretly feeding?”
“I don’t subscribe for the food; it’s the pants,” Eli told him.
Tristan glanced at the chicken. “It’s not wearing pants.”
Eli looked to Josie to translate. Josie rested her hand on Tristan’s arm. “Costco sells more things than bulk food items. They sell clothing. Eli buys his pants from Costco.”
“You’re joking me,” Tristan blurted.
Eli stood. “No, I’m serious. They’re amazing. Look at these, you don’t even have to iron them, and they never wrinkle. And they were less than twenty dollars.”
Tristan’s confusion didn’t dim. “Why would you iron your pants? What are you, an eighteenth-century aristocrat?”
“If I were, I would have an Irish washerwoman.” Now he squinted. “That’s the second time that’s come up in conversation for me lately. Huh. And all this time I thought I wasn’t cool.”
Josie snorted a laugh and Tristan turned his attention on her. “I don’t understand anything that’s happened since he showed up.”
“You’ll feel better, after you eat. When you taste the magic Costco chicken, all will be revealed,” Josie declared, resting her hand on his impressive bicep. He turned to Eli, who nodded his agreement.
“Chicken and pants, my friend,” Eli murmured. “Chicken and pants.”
“Is my eye twitching?” Tristan asked.
Josie stood on her toes to look closely. “Not yet.”
“Good, we’ve got a while then,” he replied and took the stool next to Eli, who also sat down again.