8. Ingrid
Chapter eight
Ingrid
Iwas supposed to be studying. Yet all I could think of—all I’d been able to think about all day—was Tristian.
Every time I closed my eyes, the memory of the gym, him stripping away my wet clothes—the heat, the vulnerability, the way he looked at me—rushed back until my cheeks burned.
I was terrified I’d driven him away, that I was just a foolish girl who wanted the real world but ran the moment she tasted it.
Then, my phone buzzed.
Tristian
You busy?
My heart lunged.
He’d texted me first.
I didn’t hesitate to reply.
No, I’m not busy.
Tristian replied in an instant, as though he’d been holding the phone ready for my response.
I want to see
you.
Are you free?
Yes… I’d love to.
Want me to pick you up?
I hesitated. Now I needed to think, not just act on pure impulse and instinct.
My father was home. If Tristian pulled up to the gate—if he so much as existed within fifty feet of the driveway, Papa would lose his mind, probably have an aneurysm, then lock me up forever.
So that probably wasn’t the best idea. Then again, he was going to have an aneurysm anyway when I asked him to go out.
He hadn’t approved of my going to the boxing match last night—my abuelita had needed to get involved again, granted me permission herself—and no way was he going to let me go out again, two days in a row.
I was going to have to text Tristian back and say I couldn’t come.
But the thought of not seeing him… the thought of pretending I didn’t want him… I’d been thinking about him all day. I couldn’t get the feel of his hands, his voice, his presence out of my head.
So sneak out.
The thought was rebellious. I’d never done such a thing before. Never disobeyed my father like that.
If he found out, he would lose his mind.
I really wanted to see Tristian though—and that desire to be close to him again won.
I’ll come to you.
What’s your address?
I waited, heart thrumming madly. My replies were all instinct, and now as I held my breath in anticipation of Tristian’s return message, I realized just how irrational I was being. I’d just asked for his address—his home address. As if I knew what to do with a man like him behind closed doors.
I’d invited myself over his place! I would never, ever have done that in a million years.
Just like I’d never have snuck out before. And yet look at yourself.
Tristian’s response came through, his apartment number and the road. It wasn’t far—a bus ride and a short walk.
Quickly, I shed my restrictive, “perfect daughter” clothes, letting them fall in a heap.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and my favorite baby tee, my pulse racing with a mix of adrenaline and terror.
Still cold, I went to yank on Tristian’s grey hoodie over the top, then paused.
If anyone at home intercepted me on the stairs—Camila, Mama, him—I didn’t want to have to explain where the man-scented hoodie had come from.
Instead, I folded it, tucked it into my bag.
I ran a brush through my hair, spritzed on some body mist, took a deep breath, and moved.
I crept out of my room, my socks muffling my steps on the hardwood. As I reached the top of the stairs, my father’s clinical, cold voice drifted down the hall from his office. I paused, listening for movement.
“We can talk about the arrangements next week... that is if your boy is going to show up,” my father said, his tone dripping with disdain.
I knew he was talking to a business partner, but something in his voice made me linger.
“With his history, do you really think he’ll have any positive impact on the future of our business together? ”
I held my breath, feeling like a ghost in my own home.
“I just hope this all goes as smooth as possible,” he continued. “Eventually, we’ll need to bring him into work. Ingrid will be responsible for making sure he’s stable... That shouldn’t be a problem.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Was this part of my internship? The opportunity he spoke so highly of? Though I knew I shouldn’t have expected much. I wasn’t a daughter to him; I was a tool—an asset to be used to manage a partner’s “unstable” son.
All the more reason to rebel against him.
I slipped down the stairs, sweeping for Mama or Camila. No sign of them. At the front door, I pulled on my sneakers, gave my bag a final check, went to fling open the door—
When a small, firm hand gripped my elbow. I gasped, turning to see my abuelita. She looked at the baby tee, my sliver of midriff, the sneakers, then the door, then back up at me with eyes that saw everything.
“?A dónde vas, mi nieta?” she whispered.
“I have to go, Abuelita. Please,” I pleaded softly.
From the office, I heard my father’s heavy footsteps. Abuelita’s gaze hardened. She reached into her apron, and for a second, I saw the edge of la chancla. She stepped toward the stairs, effectively blocking my father’s path before he could even turn the corner.
“Go,” she hissed, her voice switching to a protective growl directed toward the office. “I will deal with your father. You go be young.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, kissing her cheek before slipping out into the afternoon light.
By the time I reached the apartment complex, my heart was a drum in my ears. Showing up was the bravest—or stupidest—thing I’d ever done. I stood at Tristian’s door, hand trembling as I knocked.
It swung open almost instantly.
And there he was.
Tristian leaned one forearm on the doorframe, wearing a dark long-sleeve that clung to his chest and pants slung low on his hips. His dirty blonde hair was damp, brushed back, his beard trimmed, the lines sharp. He smelled faintly of woodsmoke and heat—something distinctly masculine and him.
I realized I was staring when he cleared his throat.
“H-hi, Tristian,” I whispered.
“Hello, Ingrid.” His raspy voice sent a shiver straight down my spine.
I struggled to find the words. I’d never done something like this before. Never stood on the threshold of a man’s place, waiting to go in, to be alone—
“You’re staring again,” Tristian murmured with a smug tilt to his mouth.
Heat rose to my cheeks.
He didn’t break eye contact. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes, please.”
He stepped aside to usher me in and along the hall. I went, heart jack-hammering.
He closed the door, turned, one of his hands brushed my hip.
The contact was brief, but it left a trail of fire across my skin, scorching me.
Then he was leading me deeper into the space, talking over his shoulder, bidding me to make myself at home and that he was sorry it was such a mess, and…
I’m not sure what else. I could hardly think.
My brain was too full of him to process anything.
Tristian showed me around. The apartment was nice.
Kind of on the small side, but warm and lived in.
Maybe that was just what it looked like to me.
The world I came from was so different, so lavish and big, that anything would look humble by comparison.
Tristian led me around the main living areas: a half-tidied lounge, coffee table covered in sketchbooks, pencils and brushes lying all over.
He waved a hand toward his bedroom on the way past its open door, a king-size bed well made, and the scent of some sort of manly musk wafting out.
Dumbbells and weight disks were stacked on the floor in a corner.
The kitchen was small and cramped, a coffee machine humming away. “Thought you’d appreciate something warm,” he said, glancing back at me as he slipped a cappuccino pod into the machine. “You’re always freezing.”
My stomach fluttered. “I-I guess I am.”
I gave a nervous smile, wanting to meet his eyes, wanting to drink him in but feeling intimidated to do so for more than a second or two without looking away. His gaze was so piercing, so powerful, I doubted many could withstand withering under his stare.
Tristian dispensed me a cappuccino into a thick ceramic mug. He discarded the coffee pod, then reloaded it with another. It gave a whir, then he pressed a button to dispense a much smaller stream of dark liquid into a shot glass.
“Espresso,” he said. “Ignore the presentation… not exactly a barista.” That had to be his version of a joke, but whatever it was, my nerves were settling now. I could stand to hold his gaze for longer.
Tristian clinked shot glass to mug, downed the espresso, and placed the empty glass by the sink. “No need to chug yours, of course,” he added, his tone teasing somewhat. “Shall we continue the tour?”
The dining area had been turned into a studio.
Canvases lined the walls: finished paintings by the dozen, heavy with oil paints so thick they were textured.
A number of easels filled the middle of the floor where a table would have been, half-finished art adorning them.
A couple of discarded palettes were stacked on stands heaving with art supplies, smudged with dark smears of paint, fat gobs of oil paints still glistening and awaiting use.
Two things caught my eye.
The first was a monochrome painting near the center of the room: a woman on a bench in a sterile, dark room.
Her skin was the only flash of color, pale and pallid cream.
Though mostly comprised of unrefined shapes at the moment, needing more layers to flesh out her and the surrounding world, she looked ill, trapped, and lonely.
“Wow,” I breathed. “That’s incredible.”
Tristian squinted at it. “I’m not so sure.”
I whirled. “What do you mean? It’s amazing.”
“It’s not done.” His voice was clipped, uneven. “It might not get finished.”
My mouth fell open. “Why not?”
He shifted his weight, eyes avoiding mine. “Not a fan of the subject.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Makes me think too much. Past, future, present.”
Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or memory. Whatever it was, he didn’t let me near it. And I still wasn’t brave enough to reach for pieces he wasn’t offering.
I hadn’t totally shaken off the shy, sheltered young woman from my bones. So I didn’t press. I just nodded, and let my gaze roam the other paintings.
That was when I noticed the other thing: damage to the drywall. Holes. Like the one I’d spotted in the lounge, the one Tristian hadn’t mentioned as he let me look around.
Tristian caught me looking. He didn’t say anything—but then I turned my gaze questioningly to him.
He coughed, looked away. “Sometimes things can get a little intense in here.”
I arched a brow. “Painting makes you… punch the wall?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“It’s complicated,” he said, and he breezed past me.
He took the easel mounted with the haunting painting, walked it to the edge of the room, and set up another in its place.
He retrieved a canvas from alongside one of the cabinets filled with art supplies.
It wasn’t totally fresh: the background was already crisscrossed with color, pale pinks and blues interlocked.
He placed it onto the canvas, then took up a palette, and set to filling it with blobs of thick oil paint from tubes.
When he didn’t elaborate, I prompted, “How complicated?”
He let out a sigh. “The painting itself doesn’t make me punch the wall. Just, sometimes it can get a bit… emotional, I guess.” He looked almost embarrassed at that. I sensed he almost didn’t even want to say it. But I also sensed that he felt strangely comfortable with me… like I did with him.
“Sometimes, paintings can unlock feelings, and those feelings have to go out. Mostly they go into the brushes, but sometimes…” He nodded to a crater in the drywall.
“I thought boxing took care of your aggression,” I said quietly.
“It helps,” he replied.
He’d filled the palette now. Taking up a half-filled bottle of linseed oil, he strode to the new canvas, uncapped the oil, and began to work the paintbrushes. Impressively, they were all clean: handles smeared with dried paint, yes, but the bristles were meticulously cleaned, good as new.
“You’re not going to punch any walls while I’m here, are you?
” I laughed, nervously, but I was serious too.
It had been kind of frightening seeing him at the boxing match—impressive, but scary.
I didn’t necessarily want to see more violence from him, at least not when it wasn’t directed at a willing opponent.
Tristian actually laughed. It softened something in him. “No, doll. I’m doing something nicer tonight.” His voice dipped, low and amused. “If you want to watch me, that is. I figured you like my art.”
I nodded, inching closer. “I’d love to watch you work… What are you going to paint today?”
“Something beautiful,” Tristian said, and his eyes fixed to mine.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” His gaze warm on me. “You.”
My heart squeezed. My breath caught.
Had he just—?
Did he think I was—?
“Don’t be scared, doll. Just relax. Be yourself.”
I tried my hardest to do that very thing, even with my heart thudding the hardest and fastest it had ever gone.
“I… Sorry. I just—I’ve never been p-painted before.
” Never been called beautiful before either, but I couldn’t put that to words.
My cheeks blazed enough as it was. If I said that aloud, I thought I might burn up on the spot.
“Well,” he murmured, eyes tracing my face like his brush already knew the shape of me, “then I’m the lucky man who gets to be the first.”