Chapter 22 Nocturne
TWENTY-TWO
Nocturne
Noise from the kitchen wakes me, and the scent of Tristan lingers on my bed. I wonder what he’s looking for this time as I roll toward his pillow. The mattress is cold, and I blink a few times to confirm what’s slowly coming back to me. He left.
We spent all of Sunday together, reaffirming whatever feelings we have for each other, and also doing more mundane things like going to HEB and making chicken salad.
Then he went home. I walked him to his car and kissed him goodbye.
Not that I’d be upset if he’s back, but I’d rather he were here, not out there. Without turning on a lamp, I pull on some underwear and walk down the hall. “Hey,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle him. “What’s going on?”
It’s dark, but no one’s in the kitchen.
“Over here.”
My head turns sharply in the direction of my brother’s voice.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, facing me, a glass of water in front of him, his hands beneath the table.
The moon is bright enough to illuminate the edges of his features.
His freshly shaved head. The gleam in his dark eyes. The oversized black clothes.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, before I’ve caught my breath.
“Key.”
I approach the table and speak without thinking. Without weighing the consequences of my words. “This isn't okay—coming into my house in the middle of the night. You shouldn't be here.”
“You mean I don't belong here. I think you're probably right about that.”
“Is Tristan—?” I stop myself too late, but Connor just smiles like he knows. Because of course he knows.
“I wanted to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”
I try to remember who I’m dealing with. Who Tristan says he’s been dealing with. “Are you okay?”
A soft laugh, and he runs a hand over his shaved head. His front teeth give off an eerie gleam in the moonlight. The sight of him, as it always does, puts a pinch in the muscle of my heart. “Have a seat.”
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Three. Why? Were you sleeping?”
I don’t answer that as the answer should be obvious, but I do pull out a chair and sit down across from him. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He lifts a hand to run a long, pale finger around the rim of his glass. “Do you ever have nightmares?”
I frown, trying to figure out where this is going so I can do something to prepare myself, but it’s all so bizarre. So out of context. It feels like a dream. “Sure.”
“I have one almost every night about the accident. Only most of the time, in the dreams, you're driving. Sometimes I'm driving, but mostly—it's you. And Tristan is usually there too. He dies along with everyone else.”
I swallow hard, still trying to come to grips with the fact that he’s here. “They’re just dreams, Connor.”
“No,” he corrects me with a bite in his voice. “They’re not just dreams. They mean something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. And then he takes a sip of water. When he puts it back down on the glass table, it lands hard, making a horrible noise. My heart skips a beat at the sound, then takes off at a gallop.
“It was just a fluke we were all together that day, you know? Bryan had a baseball game. Mom and dad were both there, and she made a spectacle of herself. She told Dad if he moved into this house she’d kill herself.
In front of everybody. All Bryan’s friend’s parents.
The little kids. Anyway, Dad somehow had his shit together enough that day to get her in the car after the game barely started.
She was all hysterical, crying, and Bryan was crying and Dad was fucking over it, and then BAM! ” he shouts.
I jerk.
“That was that.” He goes calm and quiet again.
I want to crawl out of my skin. The hair all over my body is ready for launch. I can’t speak. This is worse than watching a horror movie. Connor’s next words come out in a rush, like something’s behind them, pushing them from his mouth.
“And I was bleeding and Bryan was screaming, and Mom and Dad—well, they were quiet, and sometimes I hear the screaming, but mostly—the worst thing is when I don't hear it.
The worst thing is when I notice the quiet.
Like watching a TV show on mute. In the dream I had tonight, it was like the sound was off.
And this time you were driving. And you weren't paying any fucking attention.”
My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. It seems like he’s closing in on me even though his body stays completely still.
“The symbolism is obvious, don't you think? I do,” he says.
The symbolism is obvious. Painfully so.
“Why can't you stay out of my life?” he asks. “Why won't you just go?”
He pauses long enough for me to answer, and as my eyes adjust to the relative darkness, I notice the expectant lift of his brow.
“I haven’t been a part of your life for a long time.”
“Oh, Archer. That's not true at all. You know that's not true.”
Fear plunges its icy barbs into the meat of my heart. He’s a powder keg, and I am a trail of gasoline. Tristan is a lit match, hovering above both of us, about to drop.
I want it over with. “Connor—either be more specific or go. You have no business being here in—”
“You have no business being here! No one asked you to stay. No one wants you here. You're fucking everything up—as always—without giving a shit who you hurt in the process. You don't belong here. You need to go away. Far. And never come back.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”
He sighs heavily, like he expected this, and we’re entering the negotiation phase. “Fine. Then how about you just stay away from Tristan?”
The match falls, and we’re on fire. I stare back at him and his creepy-ass eyes. “I can’t do that. I won’t. There’s not a chance in the world I’ll stop seeing him.”
He slides the glass back and forth about an inch either way on the table, creating a different but no less horrible noise. “First it was Jayne, now it’s Tristan. Can’t you find your own dates, or is it just easier to fuck my friends?”
“All right. That’s enough. You need to go home.”
He tsks and shakes his head. “Not until you tell me you'll stop seeing him.”
“No.”
“You're not good enough for him.”
Sucker punch. “I'm doing my best.”
He dismisses this, pushing the glass out of the way so he can lean his elbows on the table and bring his face several inches closer to me.
“You can't give him what he needs, Archer. You’re not capable of it. You are dead and shriveled up inside, and I won’t stand by and watch you drain away all of his happiness like you did with Jayne. Like you did with me.”
Okay, that’s not fair. I might not have been a good boyfriend to Jayne, but I’m pretty sure she’s doing all right. And Tristan? He wants to be with me. Doesn’t he? “You haven't been happy since the accident. And I’m not shriveled and dead inside—”
“You’re pathetic. Chewing up lovers then spitting them out when a shinier, newer one comes along. I will turn him against you so fast, you're not gonna know what hit you. You won't even see it coming.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means don’t push me. Please.”
Please?
“What do you think you can tell him about me that he doesn’t already know? Listen—can we back up? It doesn’t have to come down to you against me.”
“It’s not a contest, Archer. But if it were, I’d win. You and I both know he’s way too good for you. Stay away from him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Since when? Just get on a plane like you did ten years ago and go. It’s really that simple. Disappear.”
Well, I hate to say I was right about this, and Tristan was dead wrong, but the way Connor feels about me doesn’t seem to have changed a bit in four years.
I actually wish it had. That extra firefly really did feel meaningful at the time, but I should have known better.
Our family—such as it was—was toxic. A wasteland.
It’s a miracle either one of us survived it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say as clearly as I can. “Whatever you’re planning to do—it won’t work. Let it go.”
“Oh, it’ll work.” Then he adds in a lilting sing-song, “But it's not gonna be pretty.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? If you hurt him—”
Connor stands abruptly, stretching his arms above his head, the moonlight illuminating his gauzy black shirt and showing the slight silhouette of his torso beneath.
“I wouldn't wait around to find out if I were you.” He walks to the door and opens it, taking one look back at me before stepping outside. “Think hard about this, Archer, because I’ll make you sorry.” Those are the words he leaves on.
That I’ll be sorry.
I go back to my room, find my phone, and text Tristan.
Call me when you get this. Something's wrong with Connor.
My phone rings a few excruciating minutes later just as I’m about to call him. “What's going on?” he mumbles like I woke him. “Why are you up so late?”
“Connor was just here.”
“Connor’s asleep. Are you okay? Were you dreaming?”
“I wasn't dreaming, Tristan. He was just here. When did he shave his head? Why didn't you tell me?”
“It was a dream.” He sighs. “He didn’t shave his head. He loves his hair. He’s asleep.”
“Go check.”
“Check what?”
“Go check and see if he's there.”
“God…” He sounds exasperated. “Fine.”
I hear the rustle of him getting out of bed. A few seconds later he asks, “What happened?”
“Did you tell him about us?”
“No, I thought—what the fuck? Asshole!” he shouts, loud enough to make me flinch.
“What?” I ask.
“My fucking journal is on his bed. I’m gonna fucking kill him. Connor!” he shouts.
“He’s not there, but he’s on his way back. I’m coming over,” I say, my pants on before the words are out of my mouth because I have a feeling I know exactly what’s in that journal.
“No. Don’t come here. This isn’t about you.”
“He’s not acting normal.”
Tristan makes an exasperated noise. “I think maybe I’m a better judge of that.”
“Then why didn’t you know about his hair?” I ask.
“His car just pulled up. I'll call you back.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else.