Chapter 9 The Art of Effective Stalking #2
West inhales through his teeth, a sharp inhale that sounds like a hiss. “Best friend? Shit.”
“Yeah.”
His deep, rich laugh echoes all around me. I hate the sound of it right now, but it’s familiar—almost a comfort. “Does Tristan seem…interested?”
I’m drunk enough to tell him it’s not a girl. The problem is, he’s too drunk to get it. While I might be in the mood for a meaningful conversation, I’m starting to think it shouldn’t necessarily be with him.
“Fuck you, shut up.”
West passes out in his office while we’re listening to Radiohead, but I can’t sleep here.
I end up sitting for a while, listening to him snore and thinking about how he doesn’t really look that different after all.
The tattoos, grown out hair, and even his fuck-you wardrobe tell a story of a person who’s still finding himself.
Someone, despite how it always looked on the outside, feels things deeply and gets lost. He loves hard and is equally hard on himself.
I hate that I wasn’t here for him, and it makes me think of the one who’s about to get away.
For a second, when Tristan and I were on my kitchen floor, I’d truly believed he was there for a reason.
Is that a feeling I can trust? Or was that just my loneliness talking?
The only thing I know for sure is there is every chance in the world I’ll never see him again, and that’s the thought forcing me up from the chair.
I left way too much unsaid between us. I’m not finished talking to him yet.
More accurately—the conversation we started on the hospital patio back in June—it’s not over.
We keep getting interrupted. Tonight, I’m determined to see where this ends.
If it’s goodbye, it’s goodbye. Fine. Whatever. If it’s not—we’ll see.
Either way, I need to know. And I owe it to him to give him a better goodbye. I chug a large bottle of water as I wait for another rideshare to pick me up.
Ten minutes later, I’m getting dropped off in Barton Hills. I walk past Tristan’s house, then walk past it again.
I admit that from time to time, I’ve done some strange things—I’ve had kind of a fucked up life—but I have never, before or since, done anything as crazy as I do tonight.
My only excuse is that I’ve had a lot to drink today. My thoughts are clear enough, but there’s a discernible lack of judgement and impulse control.
I’m sorry about all this. There’s a part of me that really regrets it.
It involves a kumquat tree and cuts all over my face and body.
It involves stalking.
I’m a stalker now.
From the midsection of the kumquat tree, I find what I’m looking for.
Tristan’s second story bedroom window.
It literally could have been anyone’s window, and even in the state I’m in, I understand how lucky I am that it’s his, and he’s alone inside it.
The room has been stripped of whatever character it may have once had.
Only boxes are left, empty shelves, and a bed situated just beneath the window I’m looking through.
On the bed, in a flickering circle of candlelight, is Tristan.
He’s on his back with headphones on. His hands are folded over his lower abs and his legs are crossed at the ankle.
His eyes are closed, but the tap of one of his fingers against the back of his other hand tells me he’s not asleep.
He’s a fucking vision. I could paint this. I’m sure at some point, I will.
His boxer briefs are black tonight, and he’s shirtless.
As previewed, two silver bars decorate his dark pink nipples, and the sight of them is maddening.
It kills me. I’ve said it before—I don’t know that I’ll ever stop saying it—he is so fucking beautiful.
Perfect. Like he was made for me to worship.
I rest my forehead against my hand and stare at him for the longest time. Like if I look at him long and hard enough, I can keep him here—like I can make him stay. Not once does it cross my mind what a sick, perverted asshole I am.
His finger stops moving, and he reaches for his phone on the mattress beside him.
He sits up, his back to me, sliding the headphones off and turning toward his nightstand to set them down.
He pushes his hair back from his face as he leans closer to the candle to blow it out.
Before he can do that, I tap on the window.
His body goes completely still before he slowly turns his head to look my way. His wide, terrified eyes meet mine.
His hand comes up to cover his heart, and he drops his head when he recognizes me. His eyes close again, and he takes a deep breath.
When he looks back up at me, he’s pissed.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t hear him, but as far as lip-reading goes, the words aren’t hard to figure out.
I attempt to wave him over and lose my footing. I grab at the branch above me, somehow managing not to fall.
On his knees, he shuffles toward the head of the bed and opens the window a crack “What the fuck, Archer? Are you stalking me?”
“I just want to finish talking to you,” I explain.
“Have you heard of texting? Wait. Are you drunk?”
“Is that a deal breaker?”
He gapes, still blinking in disbelief. Finally, he says, “You need to sleep this off. You're freaking me out.”
“Tristan, come on. I climbed a tree.”
He gestures pointedly at the position I’m in. “Exactly. You climbed a tree in the middle of the night to spy on someone while you’re drunk.”
He has a point, but it’s not much of a deterrent. I already knew all those things. The difference is, I’ve come to terms with it. “Come outside and talk to me. Just for a couple minutes.”
He hesitates then shakes his head. “You need to go home.”
“Tristan—Jesus Christ—give me a break, okay? I need five minutes. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“You might,” he says coldly. “You did this morning.”
Ouch. If I needed any proof that we were remotely on the same page, that’ll do it.
“That’s more or less what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Again—I have a phone.”
My grip on the branch above me is becoming tenuous. “I’m not leaving until you come outside.”
“Or until the police get here.”
I’ll definitely fall before that. He’ll come outside for sure if I fall. “Are you coming?”
“Fine, Archer. Fuck. You win.” Then he hesitates again, a worried frown on his face. “Be careful getting down, okay? ”
I keep my smile to myself.
I get halfway down the tree before I lose my footing again and thump the rest of way to the ground. My knee lands on some kind of rock or spike. Whatever it is, it hurts like a bitch. When I get my act together, I limp over to the front walkway where he’s waiting.
“Shit, are you okay?” He approaches me like I’m a wounded puppy and not a crazed peeping tom.
“I hit my knee on something. I need to sit. Will you sit with me?” I drop onto the pavement, landing hard on my ass. He lowers himself to sit in front of me, muttering something about how insane I am.
It is a sad fact that he’s put on clothes. His black t-shirt and pajama pants cover so much, it’s criminal, but fuck. He looks amazing in black, too.
“You shouldn’t have been driving like this.”
“I didn’t. I Waymo’d.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving soon.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
I stare at him for a second. For the longest second where my lungs forget how to pull in air. I shake my head, like I can shake his words away, make them meaningless. The movement of my head hurts. “I cut my face on your tree.”
“I can see that.”
My cheek burns with the fresh scrape. I can feel it a little. Like sunlight through a tinted window. It isn’t a full-strength burn yet, and I hope the pain wears off before the whiskey does. The pain in my heart, however…that’s new, and it sucks worse.
“You want me to call Miss Beck to come pick you up?” he asks, tone sharp. “I'm sure she'd be happy to come get you.”
I close my eyes and drop my heavy head. “I’m an idiot.”
His sigh is heavy. “You’re a fucking mess.”
“Tristan, the truth is, Jayne’s not the one for me. I think you are.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. When I look at him, he appears stunned. His eyes are open wide, and his lips are parted. He’s so fucking beautiful. Can I tell him that? I might not be quite that drunk.
I do keep talking, though. “But whenever you get close, you move away, and then she called me up—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “Please shut up. Stop talking about her.”
“Why do you have to leave?” I ask.
“Because I have to. I have school,” he says, tightly. “I have a life that doesn’t stop when you pop back out of it.”
Truth hurts, right? And what else is so fucked up—I don’t know a goddamn thing about Tristan except that he’s Connor’s friend and gives good hugs to men in need.
“Maybe we don’t have to say goodbye. I mean, you’ll come back, right? To visit? And maybe I can take you out…”
“You realize I’m only humoring you right now, don’t you? This conversation is ridiculous—it’s like talking about building a snowman in August,” he says.
“It’s possible in the southern hemisphere.”
“Archer, we don’t live in Australia. You live here, and tomorrow I’ll live in Houston. A snowman is impossible either way.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
He sighs again—this long, soft sigh that sobers me up. I blink and sit up straighter, seeing the situation the way he might be seeing it. What am I doing to him?
“It must have been scary to see me in your tree,” I say, finally getting it.
“I’ll live.”
“Will you come to Australia with me?” Okay, maybe I don’t get it, but—
This moment here—the one where he hesitates—it’s the most hopeful moment of my life.
But then, of course, he dismisses me as a drunken idiot with a shake of his gorgeous head.
The fresh scrape on my cheek burns as a breeze blows over it. Unwilling to let go of hope yet, I reach out and take his hand in mine. “I’m sorry I scared you, but the thing is—I’ve never met anyone like you.”