Chapter Twelve – Mabel
Dad visits me after a few days, and he brings two boxes of pizza with him. It’s already getting dark out, and way too chilly to eat outside, so we eat in the dining room. He invites Dr. Wolf to eat with us, but Dr. Wolf declines and makes himself scarce.
And Tristan, the other man in the house? We haven’t really spoken since the day he abruptly left to go talk to Dr. Wolf right after I told him about Jordan. I want to say it doesn’t hurt my feelings, but that’d make me a liar.
A slice of cheesy pizza sits in front of me. I have to force it down; it’s good, but I’m not really hungry. Eating is just a chore lately. I wish I didn’t have to do it.
My dad, on the other hand, chows down as he talks about his new job. Normally, if we were home, he’d be showering and hitting the sack, but he’s purposefully making time to visit me. I can appreciate it, but at the same time, I don’t need him to check up on me.
I’m okay. Mostly.
I do my best to listen to my dad talk about his new job; he’s very chatty, like he’s bottled all this up and was waiting to see me again to tell me all the hot gossip of his warehouse. Now that he’s getting into the groove of things, his coworkers are opening up more to him and he’s already been invited to two Christmas parties.
Yeah, seems a little excessive with how in-advance the invites are, but what do I know?
“So,” my dad abruptly changes the subject, “I’ve talked all about me. What about you? How are things going here?” He probably was dying to ask me the moment he walked into the house. “You okay?”
I give him my best smile, though by now it does feel rehearsed. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s good.”
Wow. Sounds like I’m back in time and I’m answering my dad’s daily question about how school was. Jordan was the only one who really knew how miserable school was for me. I never wanted to talk about it to anyone else.
My dad matches my smile with one of his own. “That’s good. I miss you at home, but… if this is what’s best for you, then that’s what I want.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I pick up my pizza slice to take a bite as my dad goes to get another piece.
And then, what would you know? The man who’s been avoiding me lately walks out of the hallway and into the kitchen, like he’s going to get himself something to eat. Tristan wears a long-sleeve shirt, its sleeves pulled down to his wrists to hide as many scars as possible. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him wearing a color that’s not black.
My dad sees him after glancing over his shoulder, and he drops the new piece of pizza onto his plate, wipes his hands on his pants, and gets up. He meets Tristan halfway between the dining room and kitchen, and he offers him his hand. “I’m Mike, Mabel’s dad.”
Tristan’s brown eyes flick between me and my dad, and he’s slow in shaking my dad’s outstretched hand. “Tristan,” he whispers. I can tell he wants to be anywhere but here; the scars on his skin—on his hands, on his face, on his neck—are individual slices of shame, and he doesn’t like people looking at him.
My dad is the welcoming sort. Even though he doesn’t think Tristan and I should hang out together, he’s still nice enough to invite him over. “Did you eat dinner already?” Tristan’s silence is his answer, causing my dad to add, “Grab a plate. Come on over. Eat with us. I brought two pizzas. Now, I can eat a lot, but there’s no way I can eat that much.” He returns to the table and gestures for Tristan to follow him.
I’m torn between being hurt that Tristan has ignored me the past few days and excited that I finally have an excuse to talk to him again.
I look over my shoulder at Tristan again, and I meet his eyes. I don’t say a single word; I don’t need to. The moment our stares meet, Tristan sighs and says, “Okay.”
After getting a bottle of water and a plate for himself, Tristan joins us. He sits next to me, diagonal from my dad. I bite the inside of my cheek when he brushes against my arm to reach for the nearest pizza box.
My dad watches him with a slightly wary expression. I can tell he’s trying not to stare at the scars on Tristan’s face. “So, Tristan, how long have you been a patient of Dr. Wolf’s?” Trying to make polite conversation, but it comes out sounding awkward.
“A little while,” Tristan says.
“He seems like a good man, a good therapist,” my dad goes on.
A few seconds pass before Tristan mutters, “Yeah, sure.” It’s obvious he’s not feeling very talkative when it comes to my dad, and I can’t blame him. My dad and his awkward questions aren’t helping the situation.
My dad doesn’t seem to realize his questions aren’t too welcome, because he asks, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six” is his answer, and that’s news to me. I knew Tristan was a bit older than me, but I didn’t know he was eight years older. That’s… quite a few—although it’s not his age that should make me pause; it’s what he did, the people he killed.
“Twenty-six,” my dad echoes as he leans back in his chair. His gaze flicks to the ceiling as his eyes cloud over. “I remember when I was twenty-six. I was dating your mother. To this day, I still feel like she was so out of my league. When I first asked her out, I didn’t think she’d say yes.” He smiles as his eyes fall to me, and I can instantly tell he’s lost in a memory.
He misses Mom. I do, too. Maybe things would be easier if she would have decided to stick around.
But she didn’t. She took the quickest way out when life proved to be too much for her.
The emotions must be too much for him. In the next moment, my dad stands, excuses himself, and hurries to the nearby patio door. He steps outside and shuts the door, giving himself some privacy as he wrangles his inner turmoil back into submission.
And that leaves Tristan and I alone at the table. I want to say it doesn’t feel weird, but it does, and I can’t ignore the fact that Tristan ran away from me the moment I told him about my brother. My feelings are hurt, as childish as it might sound.
I don’t look at him when I say, “You don’t have to be here, you know. You can get up and go. My dad was just being nice.” I try not to sound too upset or bitter, but with each sentence I speak I fail.
Though I don’t stare directly at him, I can see him angle his head toward me, and I feel his scrutiny seconds after. Tristan’s voice is quiet but serious when he says, “You’re upset.”
“No.” I shake my head a bit, but even I can tell the denial is half-hearted.
“You are. You’re upset with me.”
Hearing him say it, I finally turn my head towards him and meet his brown stare. “Fine. I am,” I admit with a shrug. “I thought—I don’t know. We were having a moment or something. I was telling you about my brother and then you… you just ran away.” I swallow hard. “If you didn’t want to hear about it, you could have just told me. Believe it or not, I don’t like talking about Jordan, either.”
A muscle in his scarred jaw tenses. “It’s not that. It’s… it was me.”
I don’t really know what he’s trying to say, and my eyebrows furrow. “You?”
“You think you know, but you don’t. There’s so much you don’t know about me, things that if you did know, you’d—” Tristan stops himself from saying anything more, but it’s too late. My mind is spinning with the possibilities.
He lets out a hard breath before he finishes, “You wouldn’t feel so comfortable sitting so close to me.” He says it with conviction.
I’m puzzled and morbidly curious at the same time. I already know he has a violent history, that he’s killed people— lots of people, to use his words—so what more could there be?
“Whatever you think I did,” Tristan whispers, “it’s worse.”
“Tristan—” I say his name softly, but it’s the only word that comes out before he speaks again.
His body turns toward mine, his leg brushing against mine in the process. “Don’t. Don’t say my name like that, like…” He trails off.
“Like what?”
His gaze falls, and I swear it falls to my mouth when he says this next part. “Like you care.”
I shouldn’t. There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t, but I whisper, “I do care.” Since the day my life changed, Tristan has been the only one I’ve truly felt comfortable with. The only person in the entire world who doesn’t judge.
Dr. Wolf doesn’t, I suppose, but it’s different. It’s different with Dr. Wolf than it is with Tristan.
“No, you don’t,” Tristan tells me. I don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or me.
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t.” As if sensing I’m about to ask him why, he goes on, “However bad you think I am, I’m worse. I’m so much worse than you could ever imagine. The things I’ve done, the people I’ve killed… the reason behind it all—I’m a monster.”
I don’t know what to say, so all I say is his name again: “Tristan.”
His movements are fast yet mechanical, almost. He grabs the sleeve on his left arm and pulls it up, revealing more scars to me. The one that catches my eye the most, however, is the name etched into his flesh.
In simple upper-case letters made of straight lines, carved into his skin so often the scar tissue is mounded up higher than the flesh around it, is a name.
Shay .
That scar was what he was staring at the first day I saw him, hunched over in his room. Countless questions pop up in my head, but before I get the chance to ask any of them, I hear the patio door open.
Everything happens fast after that. Tristan tugs down his sleeve and gets up while my dad apologizes for having to excuse himself. Tristan doesn’t look anyone in the eyes as he thanks my dad for the pizza and slips out of the house through the same door.
My dad watches him go, as do I—though we watch him leave for different reasons entirely. After a moment, my dad’s full attention is on me. “Listen, kiddo, I hate to cut this short, but I’m exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow after work, okay?”
Though I don’t really feel like smiling, I give my dad an understanding smile and say, “Okay. Bye, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” He gives me a hug and a gentle kiss on the top of my head, and then I walk with him through the house. As he leaves, I stand in the open front door and wave.
Maybe I should be more upset that my dad cut our visit short, but I can’t stop thinking about Tristan and that scar, along with everything he said. What could be worse than killing people? I think I already know the worst of him. I doubt there’s anything more he could tell me that would make me never want to talk to him again.
It’s why, when I shut the front door, I decide to ask him.
I march through the house, to the back patio door, and step outside into the cool night air, expecting to find Tristan sitting either on the wicker furniture or somewhere on the stamped concrete. But he’s not there.
The wind blows, and my bare feet are cold on the concrete. I dash into the house to retrieve a hoodie and shoes, and soon enough I’m stepping out into the darkness once more. I make it to the edge of the patio and scan the grassy area around the house. Trees line the outer rim of the yard; I’m sure the property goes well beyond the forest.
Did Tristan go into the woods? I don’t see him anywhere. He can’t have gone too far, thanks to that collar on his neck.
I shouldn’t go after him. I shouldn’t follow him. I shouldn’t want to, but I do.
I step onto the grass and start my search for Tristan.