Chapter 19 Burning Love #2
As happy as I am to have Tristan back in my life—and I am—happier than I’ve been in twenty-eight years, sharing him with my invisible brother makes me an irritable pain in the ass.
My life is now an exercise in waiting. The words “I’ll talk to you later” become the ugliest words in English.
It’s like being in a doctor’s office when they finally call you out of the waiting room—and you’re elated like—fuck yeah, they picked me!
Then you get put in a small, enclosed room where you have no idea how long it will be until someone comes in to see you.
At least in the waiting room you had some idea of the order of things—the pace of people coming and going.
In the exam room you lose perspective and your sense of the passage of time.
You worry that they might have forgotten all about you.
It can drive a person crazy.
Near midnight on the following Thursday, I’m on my couch, nodding off during a late night show because I’ve run out of things to do around the house when Tristan graces me with a knock on my door.
Five days.
It’s been five full days since he found Gretchen’s toothbrush.
I haven’t seen him since he left my house that morning.
Occasionally, I think he was just some fantasy my mind cooked up.
But then he’ll text or call, and he’ll make me smile, and I’ll forget for a few minutes what life is even like without him.
Tonight, he throws himself at me when I let him in, holding me tight, and pressing his lips against my neck. I breathe in the vanilla spice scent of him and forget my frustration for a moment.
I bury my hands in his hair, grabbing onto his head.
I bend to kiss him with urgency. If there were some way to swallow him—to merge him with me—I would do it.
All the years of denying how I feel about him are catching up.
I need him. Like I fucking have to have him, and not seeing him is unacceptable.
He has to pull away to catch his breath. “Hi.”
“Where have you been?” I ask, not proud of how distressed I sound.
“Home,” he says.
“It's been five days.”
“I know.”
“That’s okay with you?” I ask.
He sighs and lets go of me. Now that I’m looking at him, I notice he didn’t dress up. He showed up in running shorts and a big t-shirt that looks like it might have once belonged to some other guy. His eyes are puffy. He looks exhausted.
“Archer, please don't. I just got here. I really miss you.” He tugs at the hem of my shirt, mindlessly.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is what I mean by tormented. You haven’t told him?”
“Told Connor about us?” He laughs as though it’s the most ridiculous question ever. “No. Come here.” He reaches for my face.
“You’re changing the subject,” I say, but I’m unable to resist the temptation of his mouth.
His kiss becomes a full body experience for a few minutes leaving no doubt he was being honest when he said he missed me.
I manage to pull myself away, because as much as I want what’s about to happen here, I want to talk to him too. “Sit with me.”
While he sighs like he’s going to the principal’s office, we sit together on the couch.
He drapes his legs over mine and holds my hand in his lap.
He rubs my fingers up and down, one by one.
I like it, but it also distracts me. He’s smart with me that way.
“What’s up?” he asks. “What's going on with you?”
I watch our hands, focusing on the way his fingers feel. “I fucking miss you.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m here. You don’t have to miss me right now. What else is going on?”
I glance at him. The sight of him so close makes my heart stutter.
The truth is I’m a lost cause whether I’m with him or not.
Every time I look into his eyes is like the first time.
My mind races and skids around, trying to find some traction.
“Missing you is my chronic problem. I could teach a class on it.”
He lets go of my hand to give my chest a firm rub. His head tilts toward me to rest on my shoulder. “Enough. I hear you. Talk about something else.”
But that’s the only thing I want to talk about, so I go at it from a different angle. “How is Connor anyway?”
His hand freezes, and he shifts his head back in surprise. “How do you mean?”
“Like, I mean, how’s he doing? With just—you know—life.”
Tristan drops his eye contact instantly. “He’s fine.”
“Really?”
“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you call him and ask him yourself?” He doesn’t say it like the thought just occurred to him. He says it like a taunt.
“I don’t think he’d want to hear from me.”
Tristan shrugs. “He’s been known to surprise people from time to time.”
“He scares the shit out of me.”
He laughs. “You didn’t really live with him during his finest hour.”
“So, what’s he normally like?”
“Honestly, he’s a lot like me, except…”
“Except what?” I ask when he trails off.
“Except he generally has his shit more together.”
I frown at that. At him. “What are you talking about? Are we talking about my brother?”
Tristan sighs, and his eyes squeeze shut. “I can be kind of a handful. Connor was always the one reining me in. He’s the one who makes sure I get places on time and register for classes before the deadline. He’s like—my exoskeleton.”
“Seriously?”
“I mean, he was. He still can be. Depends on the day.”
This is shocking to me. Tristan—the guy who showed up at my parents’ house to pack it all up for his friend and me, the one who can calm Connor down with a few whispered words—he’s the messy one? I don’t know why, but I love this for me.
“Okay, back to Connor in a second. I want to hear more about how you can’t manage your life.”
He laughs softly. “I’m like—a dreamer, I guess.”
“But you want to go to law school.”
“Hey, I can apply myself.”
“But to like—be a lawyer.”
“It’s kinda like acting,” he says. “You get up in front of a jury—you make them trust you, you put on a little show.”
It’s my turn to laugh and he joins me.
“What do you think I should be?” he asks.
“My boyfriend. I think it should become your entire identity.”
He snorts. “What does that pay?”
“A lot.”
“Sold. But I’ll still have to go to law school. My brother said I couldn’t hack it, and I have to prove him wrong.”
“What’s his name? Do I need to have a talk with him?”
“His name is Marcus, and you should avoid him whenever possible. He smells terrible. He’s never met a cologne he didn’t like.”
I’m still laughing.
Tristan wraps his arm around me and snuggles close, hugging me tight.
I run my hand over his head, his messy, golden waves. “How is Connor like you?”
“Mm… Well, he also talks a lot. He likes to read. He’s very sarcastic.”
“Are you sarcastic?”
Tristan huffs.
“Does he have a boyfriend?”
“I mean…no. Not really.”
I try not to read too much into his hesitation, but there are still things I need to know. If I’m somehow coming between my brother and the love of his life, I’ll need to approach this situation more carefully. “So…you and Connor…”
He sighs. “I know what you’re thinking. We live together. We’re joined at the hip. How could there not be anything there…right? That’s what you’re getting at?”
I nod.
“Well, I’ve had like—this type—since I was seven. Call it an awakening if you will.”
“Since you were seven, huh?” It’s a familiar number.
“Yeah, like—I recall this backwards ball cap. A sort of brooding boyishness. A Cure t-shirt that looked like it’d seen way better days.”
“Are you describing me?”
He goes on. “Quiet. Mysterious. Not around much at all. Super cute. Older.”
“You’re not answering the question.”
“You never asked one, so I’m rambling. And yes, I’m describing you and telling you how old I was when I realized I wanted to be with a man.”
“So, nothing’s ever—like neither one of you has feelings for each other? Beyond friends?”
“I won’t sit here and expect you to understand.
But maybe think of Connor and me like twins.
Like brothers. It’s never been sexual or romantic.
On either side. We’ve talked about it. Like how it would make life easier if only…
but we’re really only friends. I have my type, he’s got his—it’s not each other, but I do love him.
Very, very much. I don’t know what I’d do without him. ”
Just to make sure it’s all very clear, I ask, “So, nothing’s ever happened? Not even when you’re really drunk, or…?”
“Never,” he says. “Also, ew. Gross.”
I close my eyes, tension releasing itself from my muscles, and my breath coming out as a relieved sigh.
Tristan laughs. “You’re fucking adorable.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that about me.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever let anyone else see it, but that could just be my ego talking. Any more questions, or can I take you to bed?”
“More questions,” I say.
“Hit me,” he says patiently.
“What’s he studying?”
“Music. He’s second chair violin in the university symphony orchestra. He’s wonderful.”
He never once played that violin when he lived here. I always wondered if he only had it because he liked the look of it.
Tristan’s hand lifts to touch my face. My eyes close as he strokes me from forehead to chin. “He told me when we were little that he wasn’t allowed to talk to you.”
That puts a lump the size of the moon in my throat.
He runs his thumb along my cheekbone, his voice getting softer…everything about him getting gentler. I keep my eyes shut and don’t say anything. It’s hard enough to deal with the oppressive weight settling on my chest.
“He said your mom told him you hated when people talked to you. That it made you yell and scream and break things.”
A bitter smile turns up the side of my mouth. I blink my eyes open and look over at the TV. “Yeah—I was an unpredictable psychopath as a child. That’s why they had to send me away. Thank God for modern medicine. Changed my life.”
“She did tell Connor that, you know? That you were unstable and too violent to be around him. That you were where you needed to be to get help.”
Nauseated, I close my eyes.