FOUR MYLES
FOUR
MYLES
I can't believe I fell apart.
In front of my son.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those parents who tells their sons that big boys don't cry.
I wasn't raised that way. Luckily, my parents had done right by me.
But even if they hadn’t, I’m not wired like that. I would never judge a man for showing vulnerability or think he’s less than or not a “real man” because of it. That would be unconscionable to me.
Plus, I’m no spring chicken. I’ve seen enough of life these past forty-two years to know better.
But Nix seeing me break down like that, crumbling like a sandcastle facing a tsunami, unfortunately shows him how tenuous life actually is… and that his father apparently can’t keep it together enough to take care of him in a crisis.
Nix has already had a shitty year. Life hasn't been fair to him. Rolling my eyes skyward, I scream in my head—not for the first time this year—cursing the fates or the universe or whoever’s supposed to be running things up there.
Lord knows they’re doing a shoddy job of it.
In my mind's eye, I raise my fist in the air, and flip Fate the bird.
But this evening isn't Fate’s fault; it's mine. And I'm owning it. Leaving the stove unattended while taking a shower was a stupid, stupid move, like to the nth degree.
And I hate myself for it.
Putting everyone’s life at risk—my son's, the other tenants', my own... fugg, even our rescuer’s life—is absolutely inexcusable.
I have to apologize to my son.
And I definitely need to apologize to our rescuer, our personal hero.
I really wish the man—whose name I still don't know—had been around to step in on the day Nix and I lost our favorite person: Cara. Maybe he would have been able to save her.
The way I acted tonight is beyond my comprehension.
The sudden jolt of seeing the fire and hearing Nix screaming, feeling his fear…
it completely short-circuited my brain. And then I got so freaking frazzled that I didn’t notice my own child—my sole responsibility in this world—had been hurt.
Thank God it hadn’t been worse, and the man who saved us had been able to tend to the burn.
I can’t believe I wasn’t even able to, you know, control a simple kitchen fire.
Here I was, starting to feel like I’d come a long way, thinking I’d made some real progress this year.
Thinking I’m making Cara proud. But tonight, I blew all that to crap.
I had to be rescued by a guy who looks like he walked straight out of a fireman’s calendar.
I may as well have been a kitten stranded up a tree for all the good I did. ”
But the weirdest part is not even that I broke down in the middle of a stranger’s living room and totally unloaded this crap on him.
The weirdest part is how good I felt afterward.
As much as I hated having to be rescued from such a minor incident in the first place, this guy had a way of making me feel at ease.
It may not have happened instantly, but he did get me to stop babbling like a brook.
He’s calm and funny, and most importantly, he got Nix to relax.
I’ve never thought of myself as being old-fashioned or needing to be “the man” in a situation; God knows my wife had always been smarter than I could ever hope to be, and she was also better with any kind of tool or device.
But the second—the very second—some fearless firefighter walks in and starts barking orders at me, I was immediately ready to give up all my control.
Being taken care of felt nice, actually.
Makes me miss Cara being here with me even more.
“Here, man.” The guy tosses me a T-shirt and sweats, similar to what he’s wearing. Good lord, I’d almost forgotten I’m standing half naked in front of a guy I don’t even know. I can feel heat crawling up my neck and spreading over my face. I’m probably as red as his fire engine right now.
With one hand gripping the towel wrapped around my waist, I extend the other. “Um… I’m Myles Madden.”
“Right,” the guy says, taking my hand in his. His grasp is warm and firm. “I’m Tristan Carrington.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the bathroom. "You can probably guess where the bathroom is since our apartments are basically the same.”
“Thanks, man.” In my haste to get to the bathroom, I nearly trip over my own feet.
By the time I make it out to the kitchen, Nix and Tristan are deep in an animated conversation.
My heart warms at the sight. According to our therapist, my son has been adjusting to losing his mother.
But sometimes I worry that his world revolves around me.
He’s worried about me; I can see it in his eyes.
And I hate it. No seven-year-old should be burdened with that weight.
He’s already grieving the loss of his mom.
He shouldn’t feel like he needs to worry about me on top of it.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Hey, Nix, Tristan.” They both look up. “What’s up?”
“Dad,” my son practically shouts, his eyes shining with excitement, “Tristan’s letting me help with dinner.”
“I sure am,” Tristan says, smiling broadly at my son.
Raising an eyebrow, I say, “You sure it’s okay? I hate to impose.”
“No worries.” Tristan shrugs. “I don’t have any family and usually work during the holidays. It’s not like you’re interrupting any plans.” With eyes dancing, he continues, “But there’s nothing here to eat except Muscle Mac and turkey hot dogs.
I sense there's a sad story there relating to his family, so I don’t press him.
I can't help but be intrigued by the man, though.
Thanks to the emotional meltdown I had in the middle of his living room, Tristan already knows my wife died and that this is our first Christmas without her.
But he didn't push for more information; he can easily see this Christmas is an emotional powder keg for me and my son.
Tristan glances at me. "So, you know now what I do for a living. What about you?"
"I'm a sports agent on a short hiatus." Truth is, I don’t think I’ll be staying in that line of work. I need to do something that doesn’t require much travel. I want Nix to have some stability at home, and I can’t give him that if I’m always traveling.
"My dad’s pretty cool," my son chimes in. "He used to manage Sterling Carter. You know who he is, right?"
Chucking softly, Tristan shakes his head. "I'm afraid not, Phoenix. They play football?"
"Noooo." My son groans, heartbroken that Tristan doesn't know his favorite athlete. Nix gets like this when he meets other kids too. He thinks it’s the end of the world when they’re not as fascinated by sports as he is. "He’s only the greatest baseball player of all time,” he informs Tristan.
Then he starts rattling off a bunch of stats I know Tristan doesn't have a clue about.
But he's a good sport about it, even though I'm sure literally everything my son says is going right over his head. He’s too good a guy to let Nix know this, though.
He listens intently and even asks my boy questions…
when he stops for breath, that is. It's been a long time since I’ve seen my son this excited.
And before I know it, the three of us are sitting around Tristan's coffee table eating a modest and hastily-prepared meal. It’s certainly the simplest Christmas dinner I can remember having, especially after the deliciously extravagant feasts Cara always prepared for us.
But amazingly, this is somehow perfect, the low-key atmosphere making me feel more relaxed than I have in a long, long time.
Being here with my son and Tristan is exactly what I need in this moment.
Given that the love of my life will never again be with us, right now there’s honestly no other place I'd rather be and no other company I'd prefer to be with.
I've been a sports agent for years, so I've spent lots of time around men—real guys’ guys.
And Tristan is the epitome of a guy's guy.
Tall—maybe six-three or six-four. Muscular body.
Beefy arms. Olive skin. Mop of curly dark-brown hair cut short on the sides and full on the top so that it falls over his forehead and just touches the thick eyebrows that frame his beautiful, honey-gold eyes.
And I'm usually comfortable talking to men, at least on a superficial level.
I've never been good at forging close friendships.
Cara was my best friend. My person. My everything.
And then Phoenix came along. In my mind, I didn't need close friends when I already had the two best people in the world.
There’s something different about Tristan, though. A certain softness to him? That's not the right word, but it's the only one I can come up with at the moment. He doesn’t seem to be putting up a front or trying to act tough. He is who he is.
From the beginning, he had an instant rapport with Nix.
And regardless of how it might have made him look, he didn't hesitate to admit that he doesn't know a damn thing about sports.
When Nix gave him a sliver of space to talk, Tristan mentioned he loves to bake, but he never has an excuse to do it because he's hardly ever home.
More or less, I was raised in a traditional, Christian household.
And having then worked in a stereotypically macho field, I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance right now related to Tristan.
Because he works in a male-dominant, ultra-masculine profession, I find I have certain expectations of Tristan. But he doesn't seem to track.
I'm definitely fascinated by this man, though.
Rising from my chair, I say, "Nix, it's time for us to go."
"Aww, Dad, do we have to?" My son’s eyes plead with me.
"You know we do. Now tell Mr. Carrington thanks for taking care of us this evening."
My boy faces Tristan. "Thanks, Mister—“
"You can call me Tristan." He gives Phoenix a fist bump.
"Thanks, Mis—Tristan." And as if he’s been working up the nerve to ask, he hurriedly blurts, "Can you teach me how to bake cupcakes with the sprinkles on top?"
"Phoenix, I don't thi–" Tristan's piercing eyes cut me off.
"Of course,” he says. “How about if we wait until I can devote the entire day to your baking lessons? Sound good?"
"Sounds great.” As if belatedly remembering he actually needs my permission for this, Phoenix turns his pleading eyes to me. "Right, Dad?"
Tristan and I exchange a brief look, his eyes daring me to say no to my son. And my eyes are probably saying, “teach us—teach me—to make cupcakes.”
"Yes, son. It sounds good.”
God alone knows why I don't want to leave Tristan's apartment…
but I really don't. Is it because I'm lonely, not currently working, and focusing on Nix full-time?
Maybe it's because it's nice to see my boy take an instant liking to someone after having such a shitty year?
Or maybe, just maybe, it was nice to be taken care of again?
Cara and I took care of each other, and I miss it.
I miss those times we were each other's comfort and joy.
I'm too exhausted to figure it out now. But I can't help but love this feeling, and I decide I'm going to hang on to it. And I won’t question it.
Turning to face Tristan, I say, "I promise to buy you dinner as a thank you for helping us out.
The way Tristan's eyes light up eases my trepidation about asking another man out for dinner, albeit platonically.
Tristan stutters out what sounds like a nervous chuckle.
“Let me do this for you, as a thank you,” I implore, desperately wanting him to accept my invitation.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, "Okay.”
We both smile, that goofy, overly eager kind of smile. And this right here is all the confirmation I need to know I’ve made the right decision.