Chapter 27 The Empire Strikes Back
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Empire Strikes Back
I arrive at the Chase residence just after eight the same evening.
In the car, I take my panic attack pill, lean my seat back, put both hands on my face and breathe until seeing Tristan becomes more important than my fear he’ll slam the door in my face.
On the porch, I run a taming hand through my hair and prepare to meet his parents.
His father is an unexpectedly large man, taller than I am, with a goatee and glasses. The scant amount of hair remaining on his head is clipped so short, it makes him look nearly bald. His eyes are the exact color of Tristan’s.
“Hello," he says carefully, those eyes slightly narrowed.
I hold out my hand. “I'm Archer Brennan. I drove up from Austin to see if I could have a few minutes to talk with Tristan.”
He hesitates but doesn’t leave me hanging. He shakes my hand, and I try to match his firm grip. “Gary Chase. I know who you are,” he says, not appearing at all pleased I’m on his doorstep.
Understandable.
"You're older than I was led to believe," he adds.
"I, um..." Do I really look that old?
"Not your fault,” he adds. “Nobody tells me much of anything."
He opens the door a small amount more, and I see Tristan. He’s passing through the entry hall and glances my way. One look from him lights me up inside—same as it always has.
He balks at the sight of me. His lips part, and his brows come together in confusion, thrown off balance and disoriented as he takes in my presence on his porch in Houston. I might as well be in a tree.
“Tristan, you have company,” Gary Chase says to his son.
"Don't let him in. I'll talk to him out front."
Mr. Chase steps aside, letting Tristan pass and shutting the door behind him.
Tristan gestures to a padded bench on the far side of the porch. I go with him to sit.
My palms are sweating, and my brain is a series of sparks and short circuits as I try to piece together a way to talk to him, some group of words I can say that will get my point across.
But I’m too close to him. I can smell the same scent on him from four years ago, and I can see his face from back then—his urgent eyes in my mother’s kitchen when he was only seventeen.
You have to try harder...
One of the most difficult things I ever do in my life is stop myself from taking his hand, but I’m not ready yet to feel him pull away.
“You could have called,” he says, his voice flat like he doesn’t care, but there’s hopelessness in it, too.
“No, I couldn't have. This isn't a phone conversation. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."
He turns to face me, and there’s nothing but brutal honesty in his gaze.
“Archer, I know you drove a long time to get here, but I don't want to talk to you.
I don't want to hear you talk. I don't want closure.
I don't want an explanation or excuses. I want to go inside and try to forget this ever happened.”
I’ve worked way too hard on myself these last few months to give up on this now, though. “Please just hear me out.”
“Fine. What do you need to say?”
“That I'm sorry.”
He gives his head an exhausted shake and looks out to the road. It was the wrong start. I should have opened with something else. I practiced in the car so this wouldn’t happen. This is my one chance—one moment I’ll live or die by.
“Please look at me,” I say.
He closes his eyes instead. "I forgive you. Okay? I accept your apology. Thank you. Is that all?"
"No. Do you even know what I'm apologizing for?"
"Does it matter? It doesn't change anything. You moved on. I moved on. What difference does it make?"
"I haven't exactly moved on."
He laughs. It’s a short, cynical laugh. "Well, you can. You're free now. I’m done getting in the way of your happiness.”
I frown at him. What the fuck is he talking about? “Wait—”
He speaks before I can finish putting together my reply. “You know what I've been thinking? About you and me? I don’t think it was ever you ripping my life apart. I think I was the one ripping yours apart.”
"I don’t think of it like—”
“You’re happy now," he argues.
I’m not, but I don’t say that. Maybe I should. Instead, I say, “Well, a lot’s happened. I have a therapist, I take medication. Connor’s doing great, and we’re speaking to each other again—a lot of good things. But none of them happened because you and I weren’t together.”
“Oh, I know. None of it has anything to do with me. And if you think about it, maybe all I ever did was hold you back from having it a long time ago. I’ve talked to Connor about this, and he disagrees, but I’ll tell you anyway because I think it’s true—Jayne and me—all we ever did was put another layer of separation between you and your brother.
I don’t think you realized you were doing it, but I think you kind of stumbled onto something when you kicked me out.
Nothing would have ever made you happy but Connor. ”
He’s shattered. I know that already, but it’s hard to see up close.
When I met him, he was innocent, and I took that from him.
It isn’t something I can give back—I don’t want to—but his innocence was never what drew me to him, so the loss of it isn’t the worst thing in the world.
What drew me to him from the beginning other than his brilliant light is the man I become for the incredible gift of being adored by him.
I became someone worth waiting for. And briefly, I was forgiven.
I lean forward on the bench to see his face better.
He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. It trips me up—the way he looks at me, like I have nothing to offer him anymore, and I have to catch my breath before I say anything.
“I wasn’t using you as a barrier. I wasn’t using you at all.
The rest of it—all of it—it had to happen that way.
Sometimes you have to just walk through the valley, you know? ”
That pisses him off. “No. It didn’t have to happen that way. I needed you, and you pushed me away. I, personally, could have used a hand to hold during my stroll through the valley.”
He’s steering me down a darkening road. A dead end road.
I have to get his hands off the wheel. If I’m going to live and die by this conversation, then I have to throw everything I have into it.
I have to lay myself bare and let him decide.
Then at least, if he doesn’t come home with me, I would know I tried.
I have to “put myself out there,” and the thought of it fucking sucks. All the things I’m embarrassed by—all the things I hold back—the stuff I’m sure is too ugly or pathetic to show the person I care about this much—those are the only things that can win the battle.
The truth is a necessary evil.
“I love my brother,” I begin. “I’ve loved him from the first time I saw him—more than anything.”
The mask of indifference on Tristan’s face falls away. His eyes close again. He leans over and puts his head in his hands.
It’s a rocky start, but what I’m getting to is so important. “I want you to hear this, Tristan. I need you to hear this.”
“I don’t know if I can,” he says, his words nearly a moan behind his hands.
“You can.” I run my hand down his back. I let it rest between his shoulder blades.
He doesn’t pull away, so I take that as a good sign.
“He and I’ve talked a lot over the last few months, and I'm starting to understand how he felt when I came back to town and blew him off like I did. My only excuse is I didn't realize how much I was hurting him. I thought he was upset by the accident—losing his parents and his brother. I didn't realize—or I didn’t want to believe I played such a big part in his unhappiness. Are you listening?” I ask, because it’s hard to tell when I can’t see his face.
“Yeah,” he says on an exhale, but he keeps his head in his hands.
“Because this is where you come in, and I really want you to pay attention to this part.”
He uncovers his wrecked face to look at me. “You mean I factor in somewhere?” His eyes and voice are ice.
“Listen, I think I understand what you need from me, but this is four years’ worth of shit I’m trying to condense before your parents kick me out for upsetting you.”
He glares at me like I don’t have a chance in hell.
“You don’t need to worry about my parents.
I’m much more likely to tell you to leave than they are.
” There is nothing nice about the way he says that, either.
Fair enough, though. “So, tell me. What difference did I make on your long journey back to the brother you love more than anything?”
On I blunder, oblivious. So many times I wish I’d taken a second to think about what he just said and what I say next.
But I don’t. Because I’m not listening to him.
As much as I like to think I am, the truth is—I’m only thinking about myself.
I thought my brush with clarity would help the two of us find our way back to a time before everything went wrong.
But I don’t take that second. I just open my mouth and say the next thing on my fucking checklist. “I wouldn't even have a brother if it weren't for you.”
He stands up, the movement abrupt and loud. “I fucking knew it. You’re welcome. I’m so glad I could play a part in your family reunion.”
I grab his wrist before he can walk away. I stand also, facing him. “Tristan, stop. Listen to me.”
His jaw is locked so tight, it would take a crowbar to pry it open. His eyes are on the door. They fixate there.
I want so much to take his face in my hands. I want to press my lips into his—to feel them give way and have his tense body relax in my arms. I want it so much. I can’t explain how much I want that. It’s a struggle to keep talking. To get to the point.