Chapter Thirty
Thirty
Tristan
Everything seems lighter with Michelle here.
Which should be impossible, considering how much sunshine normally fills my house. Yet here she is, smiling and dancing around barefoot, clothes strewn over every conceivable surface as she picks out her favorite things.
Music blares from her phone, some band I’ve never heard of that clearly brings her joy.
She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her, and I’d like to imagine that I’ve had a hand in that, even if it’s just a little bit.
“I think I’m done,” she tells me excitedly.
I raise my finger, and she twirls in front of me. The polka-dot overalls don’t do a thing for me, but considering I know nothing about fashion and she’s thrilled, I couldn’t care less.
“You look happy,” I tell her, unable to resist leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead.
“Sometimes change is a good thing,” she says, jamming her hands into the pockets of the gauzy overalls. “Pockets are also a good thing,” she adds sagely.
I laugh. “Pockets are definitely a good thing.”
Her stomach rumbles, and I cock an eyebrow at her. “Hungry?”
“Starved, actually.”
“Good. I made lunch for us this morning.”
I head toward the kitchen, and when I glance back at her, her jaw hangs open, a look of utmost surprise on her face.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You made lunch for us…this morning?”
“Yeah, it’s just pasta salad. Nothing fancy.”
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
“It’s pasta salad, not a Michelin-starred meal.” I reach back for her, and she takes my hand, letting me tow her along behind me to the kitchen.
“Still,” she says, a note of disbelief in her voice. “You cooked for me.”
“Well, for us, but yeah, of course I did. You know I like cooking. Do you think I wanted you to go hungry?” I snort as I pull open the door to the refrigerator.
The stainless-steel bowl I threw together the ingredients in is up front, and the basil’s so fresh I smell it through the silicone lid.
“Besides, meal prep is life when you’ve got to keep up with a bod like mine. ”
Flexing, I press a kiss to my bicep, and she laughs.
I love that I can make her laugh.
It takes me no time at all to dump some pasta salad on two plates for us and yet Michelle stares at me like she can’t believe I know how to survive on my own, much less make her a meal.
“It’s a little unsettling to see how shocked you are by me cooking.”
“I haven’t had anyone cook for me in a really, really long time.” Her fork tings against her plate, and I watch expectantly as she takes her first bite. “Except for snickerdoodles, I guess.” Her mouth is full as she says that, and I never would have thought that would be so damn cute, but it is.
When her eyes close in rapture, I grin, then take a bite, too.
“It’s so good,” she says through a full mouth, and I laugh, swallowing.
“You sound surprised. I don’t know who you dated last, but I don’t eat food that tastes like shit.”
She nods, covering her mouth as she swallows.
It’s fucking adorable.
I reach over and squeeze her thigh under the table, obsessed with how she looks eating my food, at my table, in my house.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s easy to throw together, and it’s easy to get out and eat cold, which means I make this kind of thing a lot during the season. Carbs”—I fork the bow-tie pasta, then spear a piece of chicken and a tomato—“protein, and veg. Can’t go wrong.”
She nudges me with her knee, taking a huge bite and again closing her eyes like it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten. “I love that you can cook.”
“It’s pasta salad,” I repeat, slightly flummoxed by her enthusiasm. “If I knew you were going to make a big deal about it, I would have made something more impressive.”
That gets her to open her eyes, and she regards me while she chews. “Like what?”
“Well…” I drag out the word, thinking it over. “Molten chocolate cake, for one, now that I know it’s your favorite.”
“I wouldn’t say no to that. I have no idea how to make it, though. I can cook okay, but I don’t bake,” she adds.
“I like cooking. It’s relaxing, you know? Come home, cook, unwind, then eat a meal that you know exactly what went into it.”
“Did you learn from your—” She winces, likely realizing too late that my family wouldn’t have taught me.
“Actually, one of my mom’s boyfriends, one I actually liked and wasn’t a jackass, was a chef. He taught me a lot on his days off, which weren’t many. He was a good guy. That’s probably why he broke up with her.” I chew silently.
It’s not that I’m angry at my mom, not really.
It’s more like I’m constantly grieving the mother I could have had, the one I could still have, but have to choose to protect myself from with distance.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Michelle says quietly.
“I’m not.” Shaking my head, I squeeze her thigh again. “It’s good to talk about it. I know you’re not judging me.”
“Judging you?” Her eyes widen in consternation. “Why would I be judging you for how your mom treated you?”
I laugh at her reaction, pausing eating to consider my words. “Not so much that, but for not instantly forgiving her, you know what I mean? A lot of people…” I struggle, trying to tell her what I’m getting at.
“I don’t talk to my dad more than twice a year,” Michelle says, pushing a bow tie around on her plate before stabbing it. “I get it. I get a lot of shit from my family about that, too. ‘Blood’s thicker than water’ and all that.”
“That’s not even the quote,” I say, annoyed on her behalf. “You know that?”
“Oh, I know. Why would I sign myself up for more misery with someone who’s only too happy to take theirs out on me? I wouldn’t…” She pauses, her eyes going far away for a moment.
“You shouldn’t, either,” I agree. “Shit, I forgot to get you a drink. Are you thirsty?”
She nods, still not quite present in the moment, and I wonder what the hell it is that she’s just realized.
I stand, grabbing us two glasses and filling them with the fancy spherical ice my fridge makes. “Water or something else?”
“Water is fine, thank you,” she tells me, her phone in her hands.
Her fingers dance across the screen as she taps out a message, her lips turned down in concentration.
“Work?” I ask, setting our drinks on the table.
Something flits across her face, her eyes tightening in a way that makes me tilt my head.
“An old friend. Former teammate,” she clarifies, then reaches for my hand, squeezing it as I sit back down. “My old college soccer team, that is.” A tight smile thins her lips.
“You looked stressed.” I shouldn’t pry. If she doesn’t want to tell me what she was talking about, that’s her prerogative.
She shifts, and I instantly regret saying that. “Sorry,” I say, shoving a huge mouthful in my trap to keep from sticking my foot in it.
Can’t make room for feet if your mouth is full of pasta!
“No, you’re right, don’t apologize. I am stressed.” A sigh sweeps out of her, and she leans back in her chair, pinning me in place with her gaze as I chew.
And now I’m regretting putting so much food in my mouth, because I’m afraid if I try to make her laugh, I’ll end up needing the Heimlich.
“Not because of you, but…” She trails off. “Do you ever just feel like you’ve somehow ended up on the wrong path? Like all the choices you’ve made haven’t been the ones you would make if you could do it all over again?”
“Hopefully not all the choices,” I manage to get out around the chicken in my mouth.
She laughs, her face brightening momentarily before she gets serious again.
“No, you’re right, not all.” Her hand finds mine again, and her fingers are cold against my palm.
“Not all. But…I don’t know. I have been thinking a lot about friends lately, and I think…
” Her face scrunches up. “I think I haven’t been a very good friend. ”
“I doubt that.”
“Would we have been good friends before this? Would I have even tried?” She makes a disgusted noise, and I squeeze her fingers, knowing it’s not aimed at me, and likewise knowing she needs to just say whatever is on her mind.
Her shoulders lift as she shrugs, a sad smile on her face.
Sad, but it’s real, and I don’t need her to do her forced smile, the one I see at work all the time.
“It’s something Lauren made me think about, actually,” she continues. “She has this whole resolution to try to make more friends, to be a better friend, and it just got me thinking about the friends I had on my old team, before I was injured. We didn’t always get along.”
I nod and laugh at that, because don’t I fucking know it?
She grins, pointing a finger at me. “I knew you’d get that.
But then, after I got injured and quit, it wasn’t the same.
But now…now that I’ve thought about it, I think it was me who changed.
I was jealous that they could just keep playing after my entire life shifted.
I don’t think I gave them a fair chance to be my friend after. ”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and I decide she’s too far away.
In half a second, I’ve scooped her up into my arms, sat her on my lap, and pulled her plate over to where I am.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better.”
“I mean, carbs do help with mood,” she sniffles, and although her eyes are watery, she’s not crying.
“You can’t change the past,” I tell her quietly, pressing my chin against her shoulder. “All you can do is learn from it.”
“You know, you’re a lot wiser than you pretend to be, Tristan Gold.”
I sigh. “It’s a true hardship, having all of this wisdom and the sensibilities of a circus clown.”
She barks a laugh at that, and when she snuggles closer, leaning her head against mine, I feel less like a clown and more like the man I’d like to be.