29. Haelyn
TWENTY-NINE
HAELYN
“Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for them?” I asked Mr. Graves after he unbuckled my skis and guided me to the small restaurant at the bottom of the ski resort.
Now that we returned our suits, he was wearing a brown leather jacket, a black high-neck blouse, and a pair of dark pants. His muscles flexed under his clothes as he opened the door for me, looking my way as he nodded.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. They’ll spend at least one more hour on the trails.” The cold breeze carried his smell like a temptation.
I took a deep breath, struggling to peel my eyes off his body and follow him inside. As much as I didn’t want to come today, I had to admit I had a lot of fun despite how many times I lost my balance and tripped face-down into the snow. He was patient with me, though and while he tried to hold his amusement in, I could sense his shaky laugh whenever I became one with the white blanket on the ground.
As promised, he stayed by my side until we made it safely to the end. My legs were still shaking as if I were running a marathon, but the adrenaline pumping in my veins was strong enough to keep me on my feet.I hated it as much as I appreciated the way he succeeded in taking my mind off everything else going on.
“You can wait here.” He stopped for a moment in front of a wooden table with two benches without a backrest and I agreed with a bob of my head. “What flavor?”
“Chocolate,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder with a smile. “Thank you.”
Tristan moved a few feet away from me where a small bar was placed and I let my gaze wander around the space small as a one-person room. Apart from a man in the corner of the restaurant, the place was empty.
There were large windows everywhere and on the single wall inside lingered photos and banknotes from everywhere in the world. I stepped out of my seat and to the wall, taking a moment to analyze everything displayed. There were some banknotes I recognized—like euros, pound sterling, Turkish lira—and so many more I had never seen in my life.
Was this place that popular? Then why was it so empty?
I moved my finger on a white paper under all the money, where it was written with black ink. ‘If you wish to see your country’s currency here, please leave the smallest amount.’
What they did wasn’t about the cash, but about collecting and showing people the differences between cultures and not only that.
I took a step to the side, surveying the photos now. Christian Rincon, founder in 1954. Daniel Rincon, 1987. Noah William, new owner, 2002, and…
Tristan Graves, new owner, 2024.
My eyes bulged out of my head as I inched closer, squinting to make sure I got that right. His photo was the only one that wasn’t black and white and thanks to it, I found out the restaurant was called Bar . Unlike the rest of the images where the only people photographed were the owners, in Mr. Graves’ image he had at least ten employees around him.
This place was his?
“I bought it shortly after my father died.” A voice sounded behind me and I felt how my heart almost jumped through my throat. “I pushed everyone away and spent most of my time here. They wanted a photo in honor of my father, but I wouldn’t take one without the employees working here. This place is theirs more than it’s mine.”
I turned to him, taking one more glance at the wall before following him to another table next to the window he picked. I swallowed a lump in my throat. It was nice of him to do that.
“When you told me about skiing with your father, I didn’t think it had happened here ,” I said and took a seat in front of him, lounging my legs in front.
He pushed a plate with warm pancakes toward me, but I placed my elbows on the table and looked him in the eye.
“This is where he met my mother,” he said, then sucked in a breath. “And this is also where I started drinking,” Mr. Graves murmured, an absent nod moving his head. His jaw twitched and if I thought his father was a closed-off subject, his mother and alcohol topped that.
Suddenly, I was curious about more. Was his mother still in his life? Was she alive? Did he regret that he started drinking? Did he really have a drinking problem?
I inhaled deeply, focused on his locked jaw. He didn’t look at me, but instead glanced outside and offered me his profile as his fingers intertwined in front of him. The fact that he was ashamed and still told me sends a strange shiver down my spine.
“Alcohol turns you into someone you’re not,” I said, getting his attention. His eyes moved all over my face. “I don’t really remember how my father was before drinking—because he drank my entire life—but Mom told me he had big dreams, including having children and marrying her.” I barely pulled up a smile as my eyes swelled with tears and I placed a hand on top of his. “I saw what alcohol did to my father. How it killed him slowly, how it erased his whole self even before that. My father’s dreams died when he started drinking.”
After a while, for Nash and I, sleeping stories weren’t enough, so my mother started to tell us how her life with our father was when she met him. Maybe we liked to hear them because we had hoped a part of that person was still in him, but with each day that passed, he only showed us he was unrecoverable.
Mr. Graves might not have been in that state just yet, but that didn’t mean he was far away.
“I haven’t had a single drop in three days,” he confessed, caressing the bridge of my palm with his thumb. “These days away from the city are good for me. I don’t feel like drinking, not at all. I hope I can keep this feeling when we get back.”
I nodded. He was busy now and in the company of his friends, it was normal not to feel the urge he might feel when he was alone.
“When you get home and you want to drink, you can call me,” I suggested without thinking.
His eyes rounded in surprise, but it happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure I caught it. His eyebrows lowered and then he pointed at my plate. “It will get cold.”
I took my hand away with one last squeeze, then grabbed the knife and sliced a small bite. Truth was, I didn’t even know why I accepted to come to eat when I knew how this was going to go. Maybe because my stomach grumbled from the hunger or maybe because I hadn’t eaten pancakes in a year. Whatever the reason was, I realized now it was stupid of me to do so.
We weren’t around his friends anymore, nor in his car where I could dash out if he’d pry too much. I was standing right in front of him with no chance of escape.
With a shaky hold, I brought the fork to my mouth and almost moaned at the heavenly taste. I loved the taste of food, it was the chewing that made my stomach twist. I gulped the bite in one go and dropped the fork with a clink when I sensed the food rising back in my throat, a hand covering my mouth.
“You okay?” Mr. Graves asked, his brows furrowing.
I gave him a smile. “Mhm.”
His shoulders dropped and my heart skipped a beat at the look on his face. He wasn’t buying my shit anymore.
“Haelyn.” His tone warned.
“Yes?” I dropped my hand down, letting the food slide down to my stomach.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice sounded as if he was begging and his eyes softened on me.
I took a deep breath, glancing around the room.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
When he suggested coming here, I should’ve said I was full and didn’t need anything else to eat, but I was so surprised I didn’t have time to think. The fact that we were alone in a situation like this was entirely my fault.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied, but the way his head tilted to the side told me he didn’t believe me even if I paid him. My shoulders dropped in defeat and I glanced down at my shoes. “Can we not have this conversation? This day has been beautiful so far.”
“And I have no intention of ruining it, but if you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can help,” he offered, but I still didn’t dare to look at him.
How could he help? Shove food down my throat until I stopped feeling like vomiting?
There’s no escape, that I was sure of. But then, he offered me a part of himself when he talked about his father, couldn’t I make a sacrifice and give him a part of me as well?
I swallowed, a sigh falling past my lips. “Nothing is wrong,” I repeated, “I just don’t have a good relationship with food.” As soon as I let the words out, air whooshed out of my lungs.
There it was. I said it.
But when I looked at his face and saw his deepened brows and pointed stare, I knew he was going to push for more.
“Meaning?”
God, why couldn’t he just let it slide?
“Meaning…” I started, my throat dry. I glanced down at my cuticles, ripping one away before meeting his eyes again. “Every time I eat, I feel like throwing up.”
I waited for him to laugh, transform his face into a scrunch, and even get up or try to change the subject, but he just stood there, seeming to assimilate the information. He pursed his lips together, then slid off his seat.
My heart started racing in my chest.
That was it. I ruined whatever we had—whether it was professional or not—by showing him a piece of me. He had every right to run away from a complication like myself, after all, no one wants to take care of an adult baby who doesn’t feed properly.
The bench I was standing on lowered under a weight and I shot my eyes up, seeing Mr. Graves sitting down next to me. His expression was serious, not a single muscle on his face moving as he leaned down and grabbed the fork, lifting it to his mouth.
He chewed, then swallowed it with ease. “This is good.” He nodded, pointing at my plate.
What was he doing?
I was still at a loss for words when he cut another portion, then put a hand under the one that held the fork and guided it to my lips. I looked at him, unmoving, unblinking.
“If you don’t want to eat, I’m not going to force you. But I think it’ll be easier for you to start with something you like,” he said, still holding the bite in front of my face.
He was… feeding me? Why would he even bother when I’ve been trying for years and it didn’t work? And better, what made him think it would work now?
Truth was, what other choice did I have? I lost a lot of weight in the past few months, I lacked energy and faced headaches I’ve grown used to every day. As Merielle told me, I couldn’t go on like this, so why not give it a try?
I took a deep breath and kept my eyes on him as my mouth parted open and gathered the pancakes off the fork. I closed my eyes, swallowing what felt like a rock, and when I opened them again, Mr. Graves was chewing his bite.
“Should we try another one?” he asked.
A warm feeling settled on my chest, my stomach tightening into knots.
Why is he taking care of me?
The question was sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I brushed it away, deciding to enjoy the moment instead of ruining it.
I didn’t remember the last time a man cared for me—I was always the one to do that. So having him in front of me, with a smooth expression, deep eyes, and a patience that seemed unmovable, made me feel… important.
So I nodded, and let him feed me like a goddamn newborn without a single sensation of shame. After the third bite, the food started rising up to my throat, so I stopped eating. Tristan dragged the plate in front of him and finished the rest of the pancakes while sharing more childhood stories.
He didn’t judge. He didn’t insist. He didn’t make me feel ashamed. He just accepted how I was.
And I liked who I was around him.