Chapter 20 Baby Boy
TWENTY
Baby Boy
Tristan and I have a few lunch dates over the next week. We meet for breakfast once, too. And while he doesn’t spend the night, and we don’t have actual intercourse—although we come pretty close in my car one afternoon—it’s the best week of my life.
It’s hard to believe the reality of him is better than the fantasy. He’s charming, almost beyond belief, and smart. Like, crazy smart. I got a glimpse of that side of him a long time ago, but getting to experience it on a daily basis makes me happier than I’ve ever been.
When we talked about him spending a weekend with me, I brought up going to dinner at Helen’s. I’ve never seen Tristan so nervous.
He was nervous when I first brought it up, he was nervous all day Saturday, which actually made the day a lot of fun, and he’s shaking when we walk up Helen’s porch steps.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
“Why are you shaking?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve never brought a guy home with you before, right?”
I shake my head.
“I just want her to like me.”
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about whether I like you?”
To which he gives me the most exasperated look. “Please. You’re like—besotted with me.”
I smile at him. “You’re ridiculous. And everyone likes you. You’re an actual angel.”
“Oh, shut up. But yes, I’m fucking nervous. She’s West’s mother.”
“West? Really? That’s what this is about?”
“What if she thinks I’m a manipulative man-whore?”
I laugh out loud, the statement blowing away at least half the cloud of West’s betrayal.
“She doesn’t know about that. Seriously, is that really why you’re nervous?”
“No.” He takes another in a series of very deep breaths. “I’m nervous because this is important to me.”
I’m flattered, but also profoundly grateful.
“And not everyone likes me,” he adds. “Some people think I’m annoying.”
“Well, Helen’s gonna love you.” I pinch his cheek and give him a big smack on the lips.
He smiles, eyes shining. “Before we go inside, tell me something good. Good like optimistic, not like a compliment.”
“I just did. If it didn’t seem like it, it’s because I have trouble with optimism.”
Giving my hand a squeeze he says, “You’re actually the most optimistic person I know.”
“You don’t think I’m cynical?”
He hugs me with all his pent up anxiety, inhaling deeply of my shirt. “I think hope shines like a light inside you.”
I blink. Many times. My forehead furrows. “I thought I was supposed to say the good thing.”
Pulling away, but not too far, he gives me half a smile. “You’re off the hook, I guess. I just needed a hug. I’m ready.”
I adjust the semi in my shorts. “Now I need a second.”
He laughs, but we spent every second of yesterday and the majority of today all over each other. I’ve never had this much sex in my life, and my dick is operating on a hair-trigger.
“Take some deep breaths. Think about mowing the lawn or something.”
“I do need to mow the lawn,” I say on a long inhalation. I close my eyes and give myself a moment where I’m not thinking about Tristan’s nipple rings or his tongue or his perfect ass. “Do I need to get a dog? It’s a lot of lawn for not a lot of activity.”
“What kind of dog would you get?”
“I don’t know. A big one.”
“You seem like more of a cat person.”
“You think?”
“Mmhm.”
“Okay, I think I’m good.” I reach for the door. “Cat person. You might be right.”
He gives my hand one brief squeeze before letting it go.
When I open the door, the smell of chicken frying kicks my salivary glands into overdrive. Helen Miles is a great cook, and her fried chicken is my favorite. But Helen is not the one skidding around the corner into the entry hall.
The young girl who appears lets out a gasp when she sees me, drops the book she’s holding, and her lightly freckled face turns a startling pink. She can’t be more than ten years old. “Who are you?” she asks, blatantly staring at me, specifically, her eyes huge behind her glasses.
“Who are you?” I counter.
She takes hold of the long brown braid hanging over one shoulder, her little fingers worrying the ends. Her response is barely a whisper. “Elizabeth Holloway.”
“I’m Archer. This is Tristan.”
“Oh my goodness.” Then she’s gone.
I look at Tristan. He frowns at the place the little girl just vacated, before turning to look at me. “Are you aware of the effect you have on small, impressionable children?”
“Do I scare them?”
Tristan smirks. “That’s not what that was.”
The door to the kitchen swings open, and another stranger appears. This one is even more startling than the last, but at least she’s an adult.
The woman standing before us is probably my age. She’s porcelain white, and her hair is dyed the color of ripe cherries. Both her arms are tattooed sleeves in the most vivid colors. She’s an illustration. She’s anime. Her large, bright blue eyes look—concerned. I have to be in the wrong house.
“Archer?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” I take a step back. “I feel like I showed up on the wrong day. Is Helen here?”
“She’s cooking. It’s not the wrong day. We just weren’t expecting you.”
I frown, beyond confused.
“I’ll let Helen know you’re here.”
The colorful stranger goes back through the kitchen door, and I turn back to Tristan. His unease shows on his face. “Who was that?” he asks.
“I have no idea.”
Helen finally comes out of the kitchen. Her expression is mild, like nothing off the wall is happening.
“Well, there you are. Welcome.” She moves to hug me before I can say anything.
When she’s done with the hug, she pulls away and begins picking at my hair, parting and re-parting it.
This is not the first time she’s ever done this, but today is not the day for it.
She brushes strands off my forehead and glowers at some piece she finds particularly offensive until I bat her hands out of my face.
“Nell. Please.”
Helen shrugs. “It’s no use anyway. You need a haircut.” She pivots around to give Tristan her full attention. Tristan—my shining light in the void—dressed in a white short-sleeved button down and perfectly respectable jeans looking like he’s standing in front of a moving train.
I introduce them.
Tristan holds out his hand for Helen to shake. “Thank you for having me. Archer says so many wonderful things about you.”
“Does he?” She casts a dubious glance at me.
I would give away my house to know what she’s thinking.
Her dislike of Jayne was instantaneous. But she looks at me now like she’s seeing me for the first time.
I swallow hard under the scrutiny, and she turns back to Tristan with a pleasant smile.
“Tristan.” She says it like it’s a complete sentence, and then she’s silent for the longest moment in history.
Tristan’s cheeks darken, and I study Helen’s familiar face, not able to read it anymore now than I ever could. It can look incredibly sour when she’s not actively smiling. Tristan glances up at me as the moment grows more and more awkward.
Helen’s gaze flits back and forth between the two of us.
I wait with mounting anxiety—not because I need her approval, but because I need her to make Tristan feel welcome.
Someone in this crazy house needs to. If she doesn’t, I’ll have no problem leaving—even at the expense of the fried chicken and knowing what the hell is going on.
“Are you frying chicken?” Tristan asks abruptly.
“I am. Can you fry chicken?”
“Every time I’ve tried, I burn it, but I love to cook.”
Helen smiles—as warm as the day outside. “The trick is not to be shy when it comes to the oil. The more, the better. Come with me, let me teach you something. Archer, I have guests in the den. Why don’t you go introduce yourself and say hello. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
“How many guests?” I ask, not a fan of this scenario at all.
“Well, you met Eliza and Joey. They didn’t bite. Go on.”
Helen puts an arm around Tristan, leading him away. Tristan tosses a brilliant, happy smile over his shoulder at me, leaving me to fend for myself.
I do as I’m told and head for the den in the back of the house. The genius thing about the aroma of frying chicken is this: you don’t smell the trap you’re walking into.
I figure it out the second I hear the crack of a bat coming from the TV in the den. It’s been over seven months since I’ve seen West.
The dissolution of our friendship happened in my loft back in January right after I broke up with Jayne.
Now, in August, we are unwittingly reunited.
The Rangers are playing the Astros in Houston, and West is on the L-shaped couch, kicked back with his feet up on the coffee table when I darken the doorway.
There’s another little girl snuggled up next to him, a younger version of the first one minus the glasses and freckles.
“This figures,” he mumbles when he sees me.
I ignore him and address the little girl. “Hi. I’m Archer.”
She gives me a bright smile that’s missing a top tooth. “I’m Kate!”
“Do you know this guy?” I ask, regarding West.
“He’s my mom’s boyfriend.”
Oh.
“Boys,” Helen’s voice comes from the dining room. We all turn to face her. “I realize nobody's too happy with me right now, but I made peach cobbler, and there’s fresh vanilla ice cream, so I expect you both to be civilized and enjoy the evening. Got it?”
We nod.
“Good.” She takes a moment to give each of us a stern glance. “I have to get back to the kitchen now.”
I sit down in the armchair closest to Kate. “Have they been together long?” I ask her, feeling more disconnected from West than when I lived in Seattle for six years.
“They just had their four month anniversary.”
She mispronounces anniversary, but I get the gist.
“Do you like him?” I ask.
“I love him. I want him to be my dad.”
West shifts in his seat. “All right, Kate. That’s enough. Go play outside.”
“I wanna watch the game!”
“Fine. Whatever. No more talking then.”
She zips her mouth.