Chapter 12 Monster #2
This young man—this present-day Connor—he needs some protecting too, but he’s made it clear I’m not the person for the job. All these thoughts as he says to me—and into the phone, “Good morning. Don’t you look sharp?”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what his angle is.
“Tristan, you should see my brother, looking all respectable. He hasn’t shaved, though,” he says into the phone while he scans me from head to toe, and I stand there like I’m stuck in cement.
I can hear the sound of Tristan’s response, but not the words.
Connor makes a whole show of peeking past me into my room. “Nope. No girl. Looks like he spent the night alone for once.”
I want to kill him. I want to take him by his skinny neck and shake him until—at the very least—he drops the fucking phone.
Not since that one time with Jayne has anyone spent the night in my room. Connor knows that as well as I do. I’m so angry my hands twitch.
Connor gives me an evil smile and a wink. “Tristan says hi.”
I can’t speak. I’m too pissed. I give him a menacing glare and step around him.
“Guess he doesn’t feel like talking,” Connor’s saying as I turn the corner to get away. Then I hear him say, “I have to go. Let’s get out there and have an amazing senior year. Happy birthday. I love you too.”
I freeze with my hand on the doorknob. Connor rounds the corner and stops when he sees me. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, in a much ruder tone than the one he used on the phone.
How do I ask this? I’m searching for the most innocuous possible combination of words. “Tristan’s birthday is today?”
He glares at me. “Why?”
“How old is he?” I ask, unable to manage any subtlety.
“Eighteen. Why? Did you think he was as old as Jayne?” Connor’s looking at me like I’m the scum of the earth, and I admit, right now, I feel like it. “Look, if you’re not gonna open the door, can I? Please?”
He’s gonna have to, because I’m gonna need a minute.
Today is Tristan’s eighteenth birthday.
My stomach rolls. I start to sweat. I’m breathing too fast. I walk back into my bedroom, set my bag down on the bed and loosen my tie. I pace.
He lied.
Why?
Fuck.
I start thinking about Tristan in a way I haven’t really let myself since that night.
The argument about the Advil.
The way he washed my face.
His fearlessness.
The depth of my overwhelming infatuation with him.
“Bad timing” now seems like an utter fucking understatement.
He was seventeen.
And I should have known. I should have known the same way I know right now that if he hadn’t lied, I never in a million years would have let him get so close. Because I never wanted to feel this—a sense of loss I can only describe as hopelessness.
The text I’m about to send reads: We should talk. Happy birthday by the way.
And then I delete it.
Because he doesn’t need it, and neither do I.
It’s time to cut the ties and let him go.
He’s gone. The memory is already ruined, and I’ll only fuck it up more with my sense of betrayal and regret.
He’s way too young, and you’re too old, is what I tell myself.
I also tell myself other bullshit like it doesn’t matter. He got what he wanted. Now he’s gone.
He’s a liar, and I’m an asshole, and this?
This is the sound of the ball dropping at my feet.
After my first day back at work, I head to Strange Days because West and I are in the ultimate game of phone tag.
Seeing him in person is the only way to put an end to it.
I park behind the back entrance. After checking his empty office, I make my way out to the bar.
There’s only one couple here, and they’re drinking beers at the pool table.
West is behind the bar with an iPad looking over the alcohol stock. I should probably ask him what he’s doing and how, since I own the place now. I hope it won’t involve too many spreadsheets.
I lean across the bar to get his attention. “West.”
He turns around, and relief spreads across his face, which is nice to see—that one person in the world is happier when I show up.
He’s the only one working this early, so he stays behind the bar, and I take a seat. Once he’s made some cocktails for another couple who wanders in, he comes over to sit with me. “I have a court date.”
“When?” I ask, unease growing in the pit of my stomach.
“Two weeks. September 10th.”
“Fuck. That was quick.”
“Yeah, well, that’s one thing your money bought me. We can get this shit over with sooner.” He swallows and looks away. “You think you can come?”
I’m sure I’ll have work that day, but I nod. “Of course.”
His posture relaxes into something more casual. He leans against the bar, his gaze moving back and forth between me and the front door.
“How’s the knee?” he asks.
“Getting better.”
“How was school?”
“It went all right. Bartender, are you gonna pour me a drink or what?” I ask.
“What'll you have?”
“I think I’ll start out slow tonight. So, double scotch neat.”
He grins. “It’s gonna be a long night, isn't it?”
“Maybe,” I say.
After all, how many drinks do I have left with him? How many more songs will we listen to in the back office? Will we get to watch the playoffs? Two weeks is no time at all.
We order a pizza after the other employees arrive and take it to his office where we continue to drink steadily.
He asks how things are going with Connor staying at my house. Skipping the part about Tristan, I tell him we had a semi-polite conversation this morning.
He asks about Jayne, and I struggle to remember what she looks like for a second. All I can picture is Tristan. “I haven't talked to her lately.”
“Why not?”
“I just…” I stare off into space for a few seconds. “I’m just not interested.”
“Are you joking? You don't have to marry her. You liked her before. What’d she do wrong?”
“She’s just…you know…” Not for me.
“Has she been in touch?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“But you're not interested.”
I shake my head, a subtle side to side. A sharp memory of Tristan breaks through the sludge of scotch in my brain. He’s kneeling in front of me, icing my knee, a lock of his hair wrapped around my finger. “I just…I got sidetracked. With other stuff.”
West narrows his eyes at me. “Like what?”
“Painting. I've been painting the house and painting some paintings.”
He looks amused. Why isn’t he as drunk as I am?
My gaze wanders around the small room.
“Brother, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s almost laughing.
I take a deep breath and sigh it out, adjusting my position in the rather uncomfortable chair, sinking down as far as I can go, my legs and feet spread wide, my drink balancing on a thigh. “I did something I shouldn't have done.”
“That's not very surprising.”
“This may have been a little worse. Across the board.”
“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?”
Yeah, sure. All right. Fuck it. “It had to do with this person. I mentioned them before. Tristan?”
“Your brother’s best friend?” he asks, hitting the words hard. “Yeah, you mentioned them.”
So, he picked up on that. Good. That might make this next part easier.
“Tristan is male.”
“Ah.”
“So, I don’t know if you know this about me,” I begin in a broad tone. “But I like girls and guys.”
He snaps his fingers and leans toward me across his desk. “Samuel Kincaid.”
I nod. That is indeed the name of the kid I sort of hooked up with in eighth grade.
“Damn,” he says, incredulous. He leans back, landing heavily against his chair.
“Okay. So…Tristan.”
“Well, maybe you see where I'm going with this,” I say.
“It was my understanding that he didn't matter because he was moving away.”
“Yeah, I did say that…” I swallow the rest of my drink, finding myself frowning at the lamp on his desk.
“Did he not move away?” he asks.
“He did.”
“I'm not really in the mood for twenty questions.” West stands up to refill my glass, then sits back down. Waiting. I haven’t looked away from the lamp, but I feel his hard stare probing me.
“You remember that night…when I was here? Not this past Friday, but the Friday before that?”
“Most of it.”
“When I left here, I went to see him.”
“Hmm.” The sound is non-judgmental enough to keep me talking.
I drink some more. “Just to tell him goodbye.”
“And how’d that go?”
“Well, at first not so well. There was this tree involved which is how I broke my knee, and then he didn't seem to enjoy how fucking drunk I was, but ultimately we started talking, and I told him I'd miss him.”
“Okay, hold on—I’m having some problems with this story. You climbed a fucking tree? And were you in some kind of relationship with this guy? Had y’all hung out before? Because I’m assuming if you’re gonna ‘miss him’ there would be something to miss—so what am I missing?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Seems I don’t really need to finish the story. The ending is probably written all across my guilty face.
“This was all consensual right?”
“Like legally?”
He scowls, looking deeply troubled. “Like actually.”
“Yeah…I mean…I think it was.”
He puts his elbows on his desk and leans toward me. “How old is he?”
I let go a heavy sigh and slump further down. If it’s possible to feel worse about what happened, I do. But right now, I’m actually not thinking about the sex part of it. I’m thinking about the way he kissed me on the sidewalk. Like his heart would break if he didn’t.
If I regret anything, I regret telling West any of it. It’s too personal. “I don’t know why I brought this up. Nothing really happened. I said goodbye. He moved. Connor’s not handling it well.”
“Nothing happened,” West repeats, like he knows I’m full of shit.
I kick my feet up onto his desk and try to make myself look relaxed. “Boring, right? Anyway. Moving on…”
“Yes. Let’s move on. The clock is ticking.”
It is. Two weeks till prison.
Nine weeks till Connor turns nineteen.
If I hadn’t just bought a bar, I could get the fuck out of this town and never look back.
I stumble into my house at nearly four in the morning. Give or take.