Chapter 27 The Empire Strikes Back #2
“That night—the night you found him in the bathtub…” I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry.
Too much adrenaline. Even though he isn’t looking at me anymore, I have to close my eyes to collect myself.
“You pulled him out of the tub while I stood there and watched. You were covered in blood. He was dying, and you were dying, and I just stood there. You begged me to help you, and I didn’t do shit.
And then—” my voice falters. I clear my throat.
I take a breath. “You got down on the floor and told him how sorry you were.”
For the first time in a long time, I find myself getting choked up. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and it’s a shocking sensation. I hate it, but I try not to resist it.
“You were sorry. Like you were the one who failed him, when you were the only person who hadn’t.”
He twists his wrist out of my hand and looks up at me. “You don’t really think that, do you?” he asks, like it’s too bizarre of a thing to believe.
The question confuses me. I don’t know how to answer it.
“I lived with him for more than three years. I saw him every day. Me. I did,” he says, jabbing his finger into his chest. “But I made a choice to be with you no matter what it did to him. This is all on me. Every last drop of blood in that bathroom is on my hands.”
Oh.
Shit.
It comes to me all at once—the enormity of my mistake. He hasn’t been steering me down a dead end road—he’s driving himself off a cliff.
So—okay—biggest plot twist ever. Most people say it was in The Sixth Sense, which is a fine example, but I say it happened before that.
It happened in The Empire Strikes Back.
I am your father.
The truth that makes you question everything you once knew for a fact.
And the fact is this:
I am the worst friend—forget boyfriend—forget lover—that ever lived.
Search your feelings…you know it to be true.
“Tristan…” I say, still choked up, if not more so, than before. The word—his name—sounds hushed and ashamed. As it should be.
As I should be.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
“Fuck you.”
I shut my eyes again and gulp down the breath I’ve just taken. I take a step back from him.
He speaks, voice raised and just shy of shouting at me.
“I’m not here because you blew me off, Archer.
I’m here because I can’t even look at my best friend anymore.
And you…taking him to Helen’s—Instagramming your group hugs—I’m so glad you both finally found some fucking peace.
Congratulations,” he says, the word corroded and bitter.
“Enjoy your new family. Go—be happy. Enjoy your life outside the valley of the shadow. I’m not here to be the icing on your fucking cake. ”
Before I have a chance to take a breath, he’s gone, his silence echoing behind a slamming door.
I walk into the executive suite at The Four Seasons in Houston—the cherry on top of my grandiose delusion.
If all had gone according to plan, and Tristan allowed himself to be taken in by my thoughtless apology, I would have brought him back here, into a suite almost identical to the place we spent our first ill-advised night together, which also, now that I think about it, was insane in terms of grand gestures.
Instead, I’m alone and rattled. His harsh words and all his pain bounce off the walls in my head.
The empty room holds a storm of memories. His long hair, the moles on his smooth skin, his hands on my face, the smell of coffee, the pounding ache in my knee, the sound of his voice—sexy and happy and way too crazy about me.
My phone rings two seconds after I lie down on the bed. Connor. I answer not because I want to, but because I promised him I would.
“Hey,” I say.
His voice is much too enthusiastic as he asks how it went.
“You haven’t talked to him?” I ask.
“No. Why?”
I don’t say anything. Can’t.
“What happened?”
“He’s not coming back, bud.”
My brother is silent.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Why?” he asks again, his tone softer.
“It’s like you said. I broke his heart. That’s what fucking happened. I let him down, I broke his heart, and there isn’t anything I can say—”
I heave in a breath because I’m not choked up anymore. I’m fucking crying. I’m crying for the first time I can ever remember. But it doesn’t feel like a release. It’s all just pain.
It’s pain in the pit of my heart, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Hey, no…I'll talk to him—I’ll call him right now—”
I sniff loudly and wipe at my face. “Please don’t.” I reign it in. It was a weak moment, but it was only a moment. “Let it go. Just leave him alone. I think we've done enough damage, don’t you?”
“We? What did I do?”
“You slit your fucking wrists, Connor. He found you dead in a bathtub full of blood.”
The line goes silent. I think he’s hung up, but then I hear his rapid breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me? “I’m so sorry." I don’t know what else to say.
Several seconds pass before he says anything. “What did he say to you?”
“I’ll be home in the morning. Let’s talk about it then. I’m just gonna get some sleep, and then I’ll head back, all right?”
“Archer, just tell me. I won’t break. I promise.”
I don’t believe that. If nothing else, Connor is still so breakable. “He wants to start over. We have to let him. We both owe him that.”
“No.”
“Connor—“
“No. No,” he says, angry.
“Listen to me—”
“NO!”
And then he does hang up.
There’s no point staying awake. He’ll wake me up when he gets to the hotel anyway.
I text him the hotel information and my room number.
Please come here first.
He’s buzzing when he gets to the hotel. He tells me he had three Monster energy drinks on the drive. His caffeine-induced mania is a lot for my sluggish mind to take in. He stands at the foot of the bed, talking at me with his hands.
“Here’s the plan. In the morning, I’ll go over there.
I’ll talk him into seeing you again. He’ll listen to me.
He always listens to me. Then I’ll come back here, and you can go over there.
Unless you think it would be better if we saw him together.
Would that be better? I was going back and forth about it, and I don’t know.
What do you think? I think he might need to see us both at the same time.
Not like an intervention, but kind of, I guess.
Does it sound too much like an intervention, because if it does, then I should just go over there first. I can lay the groundw—”
“Stop. Jesus. Shut up. Here,” I toss him my pill bottle from the nightstand. “Take one and calm the fuck down.”
“What is this?” he asks, picking the bottle up off the floor after it hits him on the shoulder. “Klonopin? Is this what you take? Why didn’t I know that? Does it work?”
“I was sleeping, wasn’t I?”
“Were you?”
I put my arm over my eyes and lie back on my pillow. I hear the bottle opening, the rattle of the pills and the lid going back on. Thank God.
He sits down much too close to my head. And I say too close because his voice is still so loud.
“I just don’t understand what happened between now and when I saw him.
It’s only been a couple days. He was fine.
I mean—a little sad, not really talking much, but I figured that was because of you and what a tool you were when you ran into him at the rehab. ”
I let that one go.
“Are you sure it had something to do with me?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure.”
“What did he say exactly? Exact words.”
“I’m so tired. I want to sleep.”
“Fine. Go back to sleep. After you tell me what he said.”
“Give me my pills back first.” I hold out the hand that isn’t attached to the arm covering my eyes.
“Was it that bad? Do you want my shoelaces too?”
I wiggle my fingers until I feel the bottle hit my palm. I hold it against my chest.
“All right—out with it,” he says.
“He said he moved here because he can’t even look at you anymore.”
“At me? Are you sure he meant me?”
“I’m sure.”
“Huh.”
That’s it? That’s his entire assessment? Huh? I’m not sure what kind of response I’m expecting, but it isn’t “huh”.
I take my arm off my face and turn to him. He has a small frown, but it’s more irritated than concerned—like he can’t believe he just drove three hours in the middle of the night for this.
“It’s good to know I’m not the only devastated one in this room,” I say.
He shrugs. “I mean—what did you think he was gonna say?”
Now, I’m irritated. I sit up to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Well—it’s Tristan,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something obvious and significant.
“What are you getting at? My mind’s not as alert as yours right now so maybe you should talk to me like I’m a small child.”
“He’s just pissed.”
“I think he’s a little more than pissed.”
“Okay fine. He’s pissed, and his feelings are hurt. How’s that? Better?”
“I’m on the verge of strangling you. You should know that. Just—as a warning.”
Connor sighs. “Archer. Big brother. A minute ago, I was annoyed that I came all this way for that, but I can see you need some help here, so I’m glad I made the drive.
Listen. I know Tristan’s like the love of your life or whatever, but your experience with him is pretty limited.
Let’s talk about Tristan Elliot Chase for a minute. Can I be honest?”
Do I have a choice?
Connor puts his hand on my shoulder in what could be the most patronizing gesture ever.
His tone isn’t much better. “I know I’m the one who wears make-up, but Tristan’s the one with all the drama.
He was in theater in high school, you know?
Every role he auditioned for, he got. Even in Houston where nobody knew him.
Give him a few days. Whatever you said will sink in, and he’ll call you, and then you’ll get married and live happily ever after. ”
“Are you not listening? He’s pissed at me, yeah, but he moved here to get away from you.”
“Whatever. No, he didn’t. I’ll go over there tomorrow. I’ll talk to him.”
I don’t think it matters. “Don’t go for me. You obviously need to work through some things.”
“It doesn’t have to be over, brother. I think we just need a better plan.”
“I can’t believe you drove all this way.” I yawn, feeling the meds again.
He gets under the covers and lies with his back facing me. I hear his heavy breath. “Well, you might think you can let him go again, but there’s no fucking way I will.”
“Maybe letting go isn’t the right set of words. Maybe we should think of it as moving on.”
“No,” he says softly. “He saved my life. I owe him. He may or may not need you, but he needs me.”
“So, you’re gonna pay him back for saving his life by guilting him into coming home?”
“No. I’m gonna pay him back with you.”
It depresses the fuck out of me to say this, but after the night I’ve had, what choice is there? “I don’t think I’m what he wants anymore.”
“Archer,” he says, his voice quiet and almost too morose to hear. “You’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.”