31. Chapter Thirty-one
August
Present Day
Samantha arrived at the birthing class five minutes early, but Tristan was already there—the only single guy in a crowd of couples. He looked awkward and out of place, pushing himself off the wall when he noticed her. His face was clean-shaven, his hair styled back from his face. He must have showered after she’d left him. He wore blue jeans and a soft gray T-shirt that made him look painfully attractive. Stares from everyone in the class followed him as he walked across the room until he stopped directly in front of her. “Do you come here often?” he asked, adding a flirtatious tone to his voice that after all these years, still gave her goosebumps.
She wasn’t in the mood—and rubbed her forearms briskly to relieve them. “How long have you been here?” she asked, her tone slightly anxious as she took in the eccentric space. The scene could have come out of amiddle school dance—right down to the snack table in the corner of the room that was full of fruits and crackers.
“Just a couple minutes,” he answered, tilting his head to the side as though analyzing her reaction.
A woman Sam assumed was the birthing instructor made eye contact and moved in their direction. “You must be Samantha,” she said in greeting, holding out her hand for a shake. “My name is Avery. I believe we spoke on the phone?”
“Yes, that was me,” Sam answered.
“And I’m assuming this is your partner?” She turned toward Tristan.
“Tristan Montgomery,” he replied. “Thank you for having us.”
The instructor grinned, obviously charmed by his manners, then walked over to a stack of yoga mats, and handed him one. “I’m so glad you two could make it,” she said.
She continued toward the middle of the room, not wasting another second, and raised her arms overhead to get the group’s attention. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome back.”
The entire room quieted instantly and turned in her direction.
“As you can see, we have some new friends joining us this evening, so let’s give them a warm welcome.”
The entire class erupted in applause and Samantha’s cheeks grew warm. She didn’t like attention on a good day, but today her emotions were razor close to the surface. Tristan’s news about his company felt like a rug had been snatched from under her feet while she was still standing on it. He’d kept the secret for too long, and the unsettled feeling in her chest had been growing ever since she walked out of his office. How many others knew about it? Why hadn’t they said anything?
Because—the reminder pounded in the back of her mind—she’d told everyone to mind their own business.
Because —her internal voice nagged, dripping with irritation—every time they tried to talk to her about Tristan, she suddenly became busy, or found a way to direct the conversation to something else.
“Let’s start by introducing ourselves,” the instructor announced. “Marcy and Peter” ––shepivoted toward the couple on her left— “will you go first?”
Marcy swallowed a bite of foodandthen handed her plate to her partner. “Of course.” She wiped her mouth, then waved her hand in the air like an eager high school cheerleader.
“Hi everyone”— she giggled— “I’m Marcy, and this handsome devil is my husband, Peter. I’m thirty-five weeks along, and we’re anxiously awaiting our little boy, Luke.” She then promptly sat down on their waiting yoga mat, and her husband followed without a word.
“Hi, I’m Hope,” the next couple began. “This is my husband, Scott, and we’re having a girl. We will name her Sarah.”
Couple after couple began introducing themselves, all of them married, joyfully sharing the name they’d picked out for their child. Samantha became hyper-aware of how unprepared her and Tristan were for this baby.
Not married. No name. Barely speaking until a few days ago.
When the welcome train finally stopped at their feet, she was incredibly self-conscious. “Hi, I’m Samantha,” she began. “This is Tristan—we’re not together. He’s only my father—I mean...” she closed her eyes before opening them again. “He’s the father. We don’t know what we're doing.” She sat down on the mat, feeling completely mortified, but Tristan remained standing—like she hadn’t just given a group of complete strangers way too much information they never asked for.
Tristan flashed his white teeth, smiling in that relaxed way of his. “We’re having a baby girl, and we’re still arguing—I mean”—he winked at Samantha— “ deciding on the name.”
The other couples smiled and clapped again, clearly charmed by Tristan. He sat down behind her, entirely unfazed by their less-than-perfect introduction.
“We’ll be working on breath work this evening,” the instructor began, not waiting for even a moment to pass before getting started. “Birth is one of the most intimate moments a couple can share, and it’s important to focus on being present. Yes, and before anyone asks, it is more intimate than sex.” She winked at a couple in the corner who coughed in disagreement.
Laughs circulated the room, and she reiterated. “You don’t believe me now”— she tsked—“but it’s true. If you let down your walls . If you allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.” She grazed the room with a watchful expression, almost daring anyone to challenge her.
Avery then walked from couple to couple, instructing them to get into the position they’d learned last week. Tristan and Sam followed along even though they had no idea what they were doing. Soon they both lay on the mat on their backs, looking up at the ceiling. The lights were dimmed, and meditation music began playing through the speakers. “Focus on your breathing,” the instructor began. “Become one with your partner. Your breath is her breath. You have one set of lungs. One heartbeat.” Sam closed her eyes and tried to focus, but it was impossible. This was not what she’d expected. She and Tristan were barely talking, and this woman wanted them to share breath? She felt incredibly silly, and all she could think about was getting out of the situation. Maybe she could excuse herself to the bathroom. Maybe she could say she was sick—but then Tristan’s arm touched hers, and her eyes popped open. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. “What kind of voodoo bullshit did you get us into?”
She couldn’t help it. A giggle burst out of her stomach. She covered her mouth, but everyone was so focused on themselves that they didn’t seem to hear her anyway.
“Easy now,” Tristan teased. “Your lungs are my lungs, remember?”
A silly grin spread across her face, and her whole body relaxed. “In that case, I’ll take up smoking after this.”
“Ouch,” he whispered, though amusement laced his tone. It was the kind of banter that had been missing for far too long—the playful, flirtatious teasing that had once been the foundation of their relationship.
The instructor then guided them through some movements, which eventually gave them a shift in positions. This time, Sam sat on the front half of the mat while Tristan sat behind her. His legs stretched out on either side of her body.
“Lean back, ladies,” the instructor began. “Relax. Give your partner all your weight. Let them take it. Let them bear your burden for a while. You chose this person for a reason, and it is now that you put your faith in them. If there’s something in your way, let it go. If there is something holding you back, I want you to say it.”
The room was full of nervous laughter, but the instructor reiterated. “I’m serious. It’s vital to communicate. If he left dishes in the sink, tell him how pissed off you are. If he cheated on you in your dream,” she joked, “say it! I’m going to turn the music up so you can speak more freely, but please be honest with one another.”
As promised, the distinct hum of the meditation music filled the room again, and soon, all the couples began to chatter. Discomfort made every muscle in her body tense, and her back became rigid and stiff. Her legs, even her toes, entered a fight-or-flight state—but then Tristan leaned forward, and his freshly shaven face grazed her cheek. He smelled like cedarwood and sunshine—and something unmistakably him. “Talk to me,” he whispered in her ear.
She shook her headbecause there were too many people in the room and too many emotions rolling around in her chest for her to think correctly.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “You’re right. I’ll talk. You listen,” he said.
Every muscle stiffened as he inched closer. His face was then by her cheek and his chin rested on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was going on,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t confide in you like I should have.”
She hadn’t even told him what was bothering her, but he knew. He could read her body language so easily, and somehow knowing that made her feel even more vulnerable.
His voice deepened. “I think I needed time to process. I think I needed time to accept that I’d spent five years building a business and it could be yanked out from under me in a second.”
As hurt as she was, she understood him. She’d felt the same way after her gallery opening in Los Angeles. The one that caused her to almost give up on her art entirely. It had been Tristan who made her realize that success had nothing to do with money. That gave her the bravery to continue with her sculptures, yet here he sat, years later, facing the same demons he’d helped her overcome.
“Does it make you happy?” he’d asked her then.
“No. It makes me frustrated, and angry, and…”
He turned to face her, setting his boot firmly on the ground at the bar. “Forget about the money. Forget about the gallery opening. Does your art make you happy?”
She asked him the same question now. “Does it still make you happy, Tristan?” But she stayed perfectly still, holding her breath as his cheek rested close to hers.
He paused for a long moment, his arms wrapped gently around her belly, as though he were holding their unborn child. She wondered if he remembered that night at the bar—when she’d had too many vodka and Cokes, and he’d helped her in more ways than he probably realized.
“I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “I’ve lost everything, Sam. The trucks, the building?—”
“Forget about the office. Forget about the trucks. Forget about what society deems successful. Does your work make you happy ?”
He considered the question for a long moment. “I think it does.”
She nodded, and a lump formed in her throat. She could hear his insecurity, and that rocked her a little.
“I keep wondering,” he began again, “that maybe if I’d told you?—”
She shook her head. “You can’t think that way.” But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she’d had similar thoughts too. What if she hadn’t moved to New York? What if she’d asked about his father when she visited L.A.?
In her heart, she knew everything happened for a reason. If she hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have had the success with her art. Even the incident with his father had helped spread her name. It was her photo in the tabloids titled Barefoot in New York , which made everyone aware of her existence. That tabloid, which made people keep coming in well after the grand opening.
The music pounded now, becoming more rhythmic, and for the first time she realized there really wasn’t anyone to blame for what happened. Like her mother said, there were always two sides to every story, and for the first time since he left her in New York, she wondered if she should give them a second chance.
The realization made her exhale like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders—as though the repressed thought had freed her soul. Her entire weight sunk into him, and he took it effortlessly. Supporting her as though it was the only job he’d ever wanted.
The instructor moved on to breathing exercises and counter-pressure techniques—and as with anything physical, Tristan caught on like it was second nature for him. His touch was deliberate, exploring the soft curve of her back before pressing gently into the tense muscles at the base of her spine. In the dark, everyone in the room became quiet. Especially Samantha, whose body responded to him like she was a sixteen-year-old girl, and he was kissing her again for the first time.
She'd heard about women experiencing increased libido during pregnancy, but she wasn’t prepared for the way his touch awakened every nerve ending in her body. She sighed deeply, feeling the initial tension melt away. Then his fingers moved outward, toward her sides, finding the knots and working at them with rhythmic pressure that was both soothing and provocative. His fingers found the edge of her shirt, and his hands moved upward, until they finally brushed the sensitive skin at her rib cage. She knew he’d gone off course andthat he was no longer following the birth instructor’s instructions, but she didn’t care and held completely still regardless. The sensation was intense, and her body clenched with a mixture of resistance and arousal that made her tighten all over. She was scared yet aroused at the same time. Scared to let this happen––yet even more afraid that if she moved away this fragile thing between them would break.
His face came to rest by her cheek, and she exhaled. “How does that feel?” he asked.
She leaned against him. “Good,” she said, swallowing hard against the desires that made her head feel foggy. On instinct she pushed her backside against his groin, and his pent-up groan made her eyes fly open. Oh no!
The birthing instructor’s voice cut through the air, pulling Samantha back to reality and making her acutely aware that they were still in a room full of people.
“Now take a deep breath,” the instructor said calmly. “Deep in, then exhale out slowly. We will pick up where we left off again next week.”
Samantha cleared her throat, adjusted her shirt downward, then scooted away from Tristan’s spread thighs. Holy fuck, what was she thinking?
By the time the lights were bright overhead, Tristan was standing and offering his hand to help her stand. They’d gotten carried away, and she could barely bring herself to look at him when he pulled her up.
The entire class began to put away their mats, but Samantha excused herself to use the restroom, where she splashed cold water on her face in an attempt to calm herself down.
By the time she returned to the class five minutes later, he was waiting for her at the door. He proceeded to walk with her to her car, where the energy between them zinged with something she didn’t even have the words for. A mixture of desire, tension, and angst.
His fingers brushed her hand when they got to the lot, and she folded her arms at her chest and kept walking, knowing that if she held his hand now, she would lose her ever-loving mind, just like she had in that class.
They needed to slow down, build back trust, not let the passion that came so easily make things blurry. “Thank you for coming,” she said when they finally stopped at her car.
He opened her driver's side door, and his eyebrows arched like he didn’t quite understand what was happening. “Of course,” he said, but he didn’t move away—he stayed there beside her, his hip resting against the frame as he examined her face. “What’s the matter, Samantha?”
She swallowed hard and looked him in the eye. “What do you mean?”
He frowned and moved a little closer. “Why are you fighting this? Why do you let me hold you one minute, then push me away the next?”
Her eyes dropped to the ground. “I don’t know.”
He lifted her chin, and his body moved forward, caging her in between her seat, his body, and the car door. “You want this. I can feel it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Why?”
For the first time she thought about it. Really and truly thought about it. “Because I’m scared.”
He paused, as though those words were the last ones he expected to hear. “Of me?” he asked.
Even though it took everything within her to admit it, she answered. “Yes.”
He let out on an audible breath and stepped backward. His hands found his hair, and he turned away. Tension overtook his shoulders, and there was so much anguish in his stance that she couldn’t take it.
“Tris”— she needed to explain, to help him understand?—
“Don’t.” He held up a hand stopping her, his tone practically pleading.
She bit her lip and touched his shoulder, causing his hands to fall to his sides as he turned to face her again.
“I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.” His voice was low and raw. “But I understand.”
For a few seconds, he said nothing, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her knees weak. “I left you in New York when you’d done nothing wrong. I shut you out when you should have been included.”
She didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to tell him to shut up, to throw herself into his arms with the hope of returning to the comfort she’d felt there only moments earlier. But he was right. That’s how she felt, and she couldn't seem to forget about what happened.
It would be so much easier to brush her doubts under the rug––but they’d still be there, like cobwebs ignored in the corner of a room, collecting dust until they became ugly.
“I’ll do whatever it takes”—he bent down and whispered in her ear—“for as long as it takes, to make sure you feel safe with me again.”
His blue eyes were red-rimmed and glassy when he dropped down to look her in the eye. “I promise.”
She nodded her head, but his lips were only a breath away, and her eyes dipped to them for only a second.
The energy shifted, and he moved closer, as though he didn’t have a choice.
His hands gripped the frame of her car, as though to hold himself back, but his arms became a cage all around her.
Just one little kiss. One touch, and then she would leave.
She rose onto her tiptoes, intending something sweet and innocent. But the moment her lips met his, he groaned, deep and unrestrained.
“Samantha,” he whispered, as though the word came directly from his soul.
She couldn’t help it—her hands found his hair, pulling him closer. “Tristan.”
His name seemed to unlock something deep inside him. He wrapped his arms tightly around her back and lifted her off the ground, drawing her closer as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
The kiss was deep and passionate, urgent and sexy. His mouth slanted over hers, again and again, until his soft tongue slipped into her mouth.
Like an addict, the moment she tasted him, she was lost. Her hands tangled in his hair, then slid to his back, as though his touch and his tongue were drawing her out of the shell she had fought so hard to protect herself with.
A moan escaped him, then suddenly she was on her feet again and pushed away. His eyes were blazing, his breaths coming in deep pants, as he held her at a distance.
“Are you okay?” he asked her. His voice was husky and hesitant.
She nodded. “Yes.” Then gripped the door handle, desperate for something to steady herself with.
“Good.” He released her and stepped backward slowly. “I’m going to leave now.” He licked over his lips. “Not because I want to. Because I fear if I don’t...”
He closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, and seemed to count to three before opening them again. “Good night, Samantha,” he said as he turned away.
Leaving her alone by her car––completely breathless.