Chapter 17 Fireworks #2
“I don’t know. Can you? I’ve had the same phone number since high school. I pay the bill every month.”
I deserve that. “Are you busy tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. One quick shake and done.
“Then I'll call you tomorrow.”
“Sure you will.” He puts his hands on my wrists and pushes them down, breaking my hold on him.
“Okay, fine—fuck the phone. Come over tomorrow. Four o’clock. I’ll be home. I haven’t moved.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” he asks.
“Because I assume I can’t come to you. If you want to meet somewhere else, that’s no problem. Just name the time and place. You don’t owe me this. That’s not what I’m saying at all, but I would really, really like the chance to talk to you.”
His gaze narrows. “About what?”
“I mean I have a lot to say, but if you have some things to say, then that too. Everything. I want to talk about everything.”
“Fuck,” he whispers, looking down at the ground and shaking his head. Then I think I hear him say, “Fine.”
“Yeah?”
His head whips back up, and he’s basically glaring at me like he can’t believe I got him to agree to this and honestly, I can’t either. “Yes.”
“Okay. Four o’clock.”
“Four o’clock. Worst fucking hour of the day, but whatever.”
I almost laugh. He’s sort of right. “I’ll see you then.”
He’s turning to walk the opposite direction, but he gives me a short, “Mmhm,” and I know he’ll be there.
When I make it back to Gretchen, she takes one look at my face and asks, “What happened?”
“I just ran into someone.”
“Was it an ex? You look soft of—distraught.”
Distraught is one word for it. “It was Tristan. Did I ever tell you about Tristan?” I already know I haven’t even before she shakes her head.
“Then I guess I probably should.” I sit back down with her and break it to her gently.
It’s almost four, and I’m expecting Tristan any minute. I’ve been cleaning all day. Myself and the house. I’m exhausted and yet totally unable to relax.
My ringing phone startles me, and my heart plummets into the depths of hell because I know—I am sure it will be Tristan calling to cancel.
But it’s just Helen. Checking in, asking how my birthday went.
“I’m seeing Tristan tonight,” I say without putting too much thought into the can of worms I’ve opened up.
“Did you get a haircut?”
I frown. “No.”
She makes a hum of disappointment.
Outside the living room window, an unfamiliar silver Toyota pulls to a stop.
I hear my own anxiety in my voice. “He’s here. Any last minute tips?”
“Well, since it’s too late to do anything about your hair, you just be humble, be kind, and share your heart, because it’s a good one.”
I smile from the warmth her words put into my chest and the faith she still has in me. “Thanks, Nell.”
“Anytime, baby. Good luck.”
I go out front to meet Tristan, a strange mix of excitement and dread making it impossible for me to wait another second.
I don’t pay much attention to what he has on other than the white slip-on shoes.
I just know—whatever it is—the outfit is fitted and short.
I can see so much of his legs I have almost no breath to greet him with.
“Hey,” I say, because it’s kind of the sound a breath makes.
“Hi,” he says, with only minimal eye contact.
“Come in?”
He nods.
I put my hand on his lower back and walk him inside. We stall in the living room, so I have to rely on my manners to get me around the awkward corners. “You want a drink?”
He nods again.
“What do you like?”
“Wine?”
“No problem.” Gretchen loves wine, so I have plenty. “Red or white?”
“Red, if that’s okay.”
He comes with me to the kitchen and sits down at the small glass table while I pour us each some Cabernet.
I watch him take a sip after handing it to him.
“That's way better than the ten dollar bottles we get,” he says.
I sit down in the seat next to him. “It was fourteen, I think. Middle shelf.”
He smiles. It’s a sad smile, but it’s enough.
I decide to stick with small talk. “Are you out of school for the summer?”
“I'm taking one class,” he says.
“What are you studying?”
“I'm pre-law.”
“Oof. Sounds hard,” I say. Our knees brush as Tristan shifts, but he fixes the issues quickly by crossing his legs, which I can see through the table. White shorts, shoes, and golden tan skin. His shirt is white, too, but it’s got a blue stripe print.
“This part isn't so bad,” he says. “I think it's law school that actually kills people. It’s very competitive. Or so I hear.”
“Art History wasn't like that,” I tell him. “I think there were four of us, and we just got each other.”
He smiles again, distant. The silence that follows has mass and density.
It weighs something. Supposedly, there’s a room somewhere—the quietest room in the world—where the silence is so deafening no one’s ever been able to stay inside it for more than about forty-five minutes.
My house becomes that room for those few seconds—the roar of nothing pushes against my eardrums with a force so hard it hurts.
Evidently, he can’t stand it either and comes up with some words before I do. “You said you wanted to talk.”
I nod. “I did. I do.”
“Wanna get started on that?”
I take a breath and let it out. Share my heart. I can do this. “Yes. I’d like to talk about you and me.”
He picks up his wine and looks past me, out the kitchen window. “Okay.”
“I think about you a lot,” I say.
He stays quiet.
Metaphorically speaking—I bend over and pick up the ball I dropped four years ago.
“I think about how it was between us…how you were with me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I drink down a healthy portion of my wine as he sips his, keeping his eyes on it, rather than me. If I could grab my heart in my fist, I would—just to make it stop for a second so I can think. “I've missed you.”
He does look at me now. “I wouldn’t know.”
That stings. It hurts. I let myself feel that one, because he’s right.
While I nod my understanding, I commit to the moment. The whole—“life is not a dress rehearsal” thing Helen was hinting at months ago. “I know I fucked up. A lot. I think I know what my first mistake was, and after that it all just snowballed, and I—”
“What was it?” he asks.
“The first mistake?”
He nods.
I’ve thought about this a lot, but it’s kind of a no-brainer. “Not calling the next day. Or on your birthday. Or any other day.”
He blinks and stares at me for a long moment. He swallows. His lower lip trembles, but he bites it even as his eyes lose a shade of color. “Go ahead,” he finally whispers.
I do. I have a lot more to say. “Tristan—that night we spent—I honestly—as good as it felt, when I found out you lied about how old you were…I just…”
His expression morphs from moved to bored.
He sets down his glass and leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. The years have jaded him a lot.
I didn’t expect him to be the same effusive, bright light I blindly fell for, but I haven’t yet adjusted to the new reality. He isn’t a kid anymore.
And I want him more, not less.
“What I’m trying to say is, I thought letting you go was the right thing. You were so young, and I—”
“I was technically legal. And anyway, on what planet would having sex with me, then never contacting me, be the right thing? Because I’m not familiar with that world. Just because you found out I was seventeen didn’t make me any less human. If anything, the fact that you didn’t call is even more—”
“Like I said—I fucked up. I didn’t picture ever having to have this conversation. If I’d honestly thought I would see you again, I would have done some things differently.”
His eyes widen, offended. “If it’s too much trouble, I can go. I didn’t invite myself over. Sorry if I’m ruining your clean getaway.”
I shake my head, my eyes rolling. “Jesus.” This has gone completely off the rails. “Can we start over? It’s nice to see you again, Tristan.”
He glares at me like “go to hell.”
“I fucking missed you.”
He blinks, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, just above the knot.
“If I had it to do over again, I would have called you every day.”
He closes his eyes, turning away again. “You are so full of shit.”
“No, but I am crazy about you. Still. I always have been. I’ve just never gotten the timing right.”
“Oh, and now you think you finally nailed it?” he asks with something more than bitterness.
“Maybe. I definitely think we should give it a try. See what happens. Keep that promise.”
“That’s so romantic, Archer, I’m like shivering with excitement right now.” His voice is deadpan. Angry.
I’m not exactly given to flowery sentiment when I’m sober, but if there was ever a moment for me to give it a try, this is probably it. “There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about you.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Well let me ask you this, then. If you’d known I was back in town, would you have done anything about it? Or were you having too much fun playing house with Jayne?”
Frustrated with myself and the situation I created, I say, “You know—you never called me, either.”
“That’s because I follow Jayne on Instagram. Do you know how many pictures of her and you there are? How often she posts a new fucking selfie? You and I spent one night together, and a month later you’re smiling ear to ear with her. It’s been a fucking blast to watch all these years.”
“Yeah? So was watching you shove your tongue down my best friend’s throat on my patio.”
His jaw drops. “You were with Jayne,” he shouts.
“Don’t you fucking get it? You lived with her.
You chose her. I kissed West because I wanted you to see me.
I wanted you to fucking see me. All grown up.
And I’m glad you saw.” He shrugs without apology.
“Of all the things I regret, that isn’t one of them. ”
For whatever reason, that actually makes me feel better. “My relationship with Jayne was a mistake, and I can’t take it back. Not from her or from you.”