Chapter 29 Who We Choose
WHO WE CHOOSE
I shifted in my chair, watching the clock on my desk.
I had really tried to see all the reasons why the girl who was sprawled across the couch was here.
Many times teens displayed behaviors to hide their true feelings.
But this girl was lucky. She didn’t need therapy; she wanted it.
It turned out all of her friends were seeing a therapist, so she wanted one too.
So, I nodded and made a few notes for the file so Heidi wouldn’t rebook this girl. Thankfully, the hour alarm went off. “That’s it for today,” I said and smiled.
“So should I come back tomorrow?” The girl didn’t move from the couch she was sprawled out on. No one lies on the couch.
“No, I don’t think you need that much therapy.” I stood. “Besides, I’m booked for the next month.” I walked over to the door and opened it. “In fact, I’m not sure my services are what you need.”
“What? Then what do I need?” The girl stood.
“I’m not sure. But I don’t think it’s therapy.”
“But I want therapy.”
“Nobody wants therapy. You’re lucky. You have two parents who love you and friends that seem to care about you. Heidi can give you a list of other resources in the area. Best of luck to you.” I ushered her out the door and flopped down behind my desk.
It had been a little over a week since Tristan left.
Four days since I heard from him. He called me to tell me he had made it to Bemidji and things were complicated.
Noah was a mess, both mentally and physically.
Tristan said cell service was spotty, but he’d be back before the weekend.
The weekend had come and gone. Craig told me this was typical of Tristan.
He probably stopped by the shop and got sucked into working.
“Hey.” Callie knocked on my doorframe. “You done for the day?”
“Yeah.” I sat up.
“You want to grab a drink?” She leaned against the doorframe.
“Don’t you have a date with Craig, the sex god?” I teased, shutting down my computer.
“No, he has to work. The shitty thing about dating a sex god and a famous chef is they are needed by so many people. Thanks for him. I like him.”
“Good. And I had nothing to do with Craig. You should call his mom.” I didn’t have the energy to go out.
I didn’t have the energy to do anything.
Getting out of bed was hard. Eating was hard.
Which meant I needed a therapist. “And I don’t feel like going out.
Plus, Zoey is supposed to call. They finally made it to California, and her dad is getting worse.
He had a pretty bad episode last night. They had to admit him. ”
“Fuck.” Callie frowned. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine. Your roommates are weird.” Callie had moved in with a couple girls she met at a yoga retreat. They were very free spirits. Nudity was not something they were embarrassed by. I didn’t care if people wanted to be naked. I didn’t want to see it while eating pasta.
“Walk around the house naked once, and everyone calls them weird.” Callie rolled her eyes.
“You were having a dinner party. Have you ever thought that’s why Jose broke up with you?”
“It is the reason he told me. Let’s go.” She pushed off from the door frame. “I’ll order pizza on the way.”
* * *
“God, this weather sucks,” Callie said, shaking the rain from her coat. “I hate November. Actually, I hate every month until June.” Callie tossed the pizza box on the counter.
My phone buzzed with a message. It was Anna.
Anna:
i know you are ignoring my calls
i know Tristan is down there
if you insist on seeing him
please know what you are getting into
look him up on the st cloud times
i miss you ?
I wanted to respond with a no, I wouldn’t be.
My phone rang, and I expected it would be Anna. It was a 218 number. “Hello?”
“Evan? It’s me, Noah.”
“Hey.” I looked at Callie. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, is Tristan there? I need to talk to him. I tried calling him, but he’s not answering.”
I thought about the messages and dug for my laptop. “No. He said he was with you.”
“Shit. Okay, he must have gotten tied up at the shop. I’ll try Craig.”
“Noah, if you need anything, you call.”
“Yeah… ah… I gotta go, later.”
He hung up before I could say anything else. What the hell had happened to Tristan?
“What’s going on?” Callie asked, taking plates out.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m about to find out.” I turned on my laptop.
“What are you googling? Where’s Tristan?” Callie teased, opening the pizza box.
“Yeah, I am. Googling him. Something is wrong. That was Noah. He hasn’t heard from Tristan, and then he said something about St. Cloud.” I logged in. My heart was racing with all the things that could have gone wrong.
“Ev.” Callie touched my arm. “Don’t do this. You made us promise not to let you look him up.”
“This is different. He’s been gone for, like, over a week. I haven’t heard anything from him. What if something happened? Something bad.” Something I would need to help him fix.
Callie chewed on her bottom lip, exhaling. “Trust me when I say that he is fine. Now let’s eat and watch some sad movie and compare sex stories. I’m still writing that study on men with tattoos.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged. “It means we’re both having sex with men that have tattoos.
Yours more than mine. I mean, the tattoos.
Craig has a couple besides the one on his cock.
Which is two very different knives depending on how hard he is.
Did you know there were knives for different things?
Small knives for small things and big knives for big things.
And that’s why it makes such a great tattoo for a man’s cock.
Right? Because I mean, it’s very impressive when it’s—”
“Callie!” She did this when she wasn’t telling me something. Not talk about sex; she did that all the time. But ramble. “What about Tristan? Do you know something?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “He called Craig a couple days ago.” She opened her eyes. “He said he had a few things to take care of. Craig thought it best I didn’t tell you. And I now see that was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”
I opened my browser. I knew this was a bad idea, but that’s me the bad idea person.
“Evan, as a fellow therapist, I strongly suggest you don’t do this. It is unhealthy and will lead to trust issues.”
“Too late. We already have trust issues.” The cursor blinked.
I typed in Tristan Anderson and waited. The first hit that came up was for a tattoo parlor.
It was a photo of him and of his art. He was good.
Really good. The next was an article on the awards he had won and how he was being hailed as the next great artist. There were a few about the wrong Tristan Anderson. But nothing from the St. Cloud Times.
“See?” Callie pointed. “Nothing. Now let’s go eat.”
I pulled up the St. Cloud Times. And typed his real name in the search bar. Tristan River Hanson. The little circle spun, and then there was one hit. Engagement announcement. I moved the mouse over the link.
“Evan.” Callie’s hand came over mine. “Don’t do it.”
I did. And there he was. Tristan River Hanson standing with a blonde-haired girl.
Bruce and Karen Zimmerman are happy to announce the engagement of their daughter Jennifer Lyn Zimmerman to Tristan River Hanson.
Jennifer is a graduate from St. Cloud State with her degree in art history… The rest of the words were a blur.
“Fuck.” Callie slammed the laptop shut. “Fucking Craig.” She pulled me to my bed and wrapped her arms around me and held me as I broke. Engaged. I couldn’t get the pixelated photo out of my head. It was burned there. My brain had rewritten all the information I had about him.
This was what he had been doing for twelve years: building a life with someone else.
There’s something you should know about heartbreak.
It breaks in stages. The first one is the hardest. It’s the most painful stage.
First your chest aches. It’s an ache like nothing you’ve ever felt.
Then it wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes them until they splinter and break.
This could take days, weeks, or in my case, the length of an internet announcement.
Those pieces of broken rib then float around, slicing your insides. But that is part of the second stage. The part where you bleed him out. You’ll feel empty and alone. Alone in the room where days ago, he confessed his love. Alone in a room full of people who don’t understand.
At some point, that emptiness will turn into anger as your brain finally catches up with what’s happening. It will try to expunge all the memories, wipe itself clean. But some of these memories are so deeply ingrained that it takes time. Time for your brain to reset. To relearn.
While all of this is happening, those little pieces of rib are still floating around, finding all the little nooks his memory has settled into.
The stupid part of a heartbreak isn’t even the breaking part.
It’s the fact that for some stupid reason your heart, that silly little thing, clings to those last words he said to you.
To the taste of his kisses. It’s holding on to hope that tomorrow when you wake, things will be better and that he’ll be here.
It’s a stupid organ.