Chapter Seven #2
“No, actually, I don’t.” Tristan’s brow furrows.
“You mean your parents didn’t take an interest in your love life? They aren’t pressuring you to get married, have kids, and carry on the family line?”
“Yeah, somewhat.” He mimics my shrug, but in an unconscious sort of way. Like he’s responding to my cues, rather than mocking me. “My mom would like me to have kids and settle down.”
“Girls always get more pressure about that kind of thing.” My skin prickles. The conversation is tilting toward the gravity well of my family, and I can feel the pull—the same old collapse, the same fear of becoming too much.
Tristan’s lips press into a line. He looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment, he just nods. “Sure. Probably.”
All this talk about my parents and Luca has left me on edge. It didn’t occur to me how calm I felt until I start fidgeting again. Being with Tristan is easy. Talking about my family? Not so much.
“I’m going to get more napkins,” I say, much too loudly. I’m already on my feet and moving away from him, and from the void I’m hurling toward.
When I was younger, I was obsessed with space.
This was after my obsession with dinosaurs, but before my obsession with the Mariana Trench.
One of the most interesting things about space, at least in the context of the kids’ science books I could get my hands on, was the concept of black holes.
Black holes are terrifying, because by the time you’re caught in the event horizon, it’s too late.
Everything is happening too fast, but it’s also infinite.
The closer you get to the hole, the more time stretches and warps, so that to anyone being sucked into that void, time goes on forever.
You’d know you were trapped, but you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Even at eight, I already knew that feeling. And sure, time has passed, but I’m still stuck. That’s how black holes work, and it’s how fucked-up families work, too.
God, there’s something wrong with me.
Even if Tristan can forgive my rants and ramblings for now, eventually, he’s going to figure out that I’m broken.
That I’m trapped. That no matter how far I run, my family has some essential part of me locked in the outer edges of their hungry void.
And the other part is trapped by a mind too big and active for my own sanity.
I stumble over to the napkins and pick them, one at a time, out of the dispenser. I know that I’m taking more than I need, but I’m on autopilot. My fists are full of napkins when one of the new customers, a guy there with a group of his friends, knocks his shoulder against mine.
“Oh, shit, sorry.” He’s laughing, and I’m sure it was an accident, but his cologne is sharp, and the food truck’s fryer is sizzling, and people are talking, and my skin is on fire. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
The man peers at me, his smile fading. “Are you okay?”
My lips move. My ears ring. My throat locks. Every sound gets sharp and hot, like someone turned the whole alley up to eleven.
And then, Tristan is there, one hand light on my arm. “Come on, Min,” he whispers to me. To the guy, he says, “I think she needs some air. Do you mind keeping an eye on our table? I’ll grab our food in a sec. You guys can sit there, I think we’re going to clear out.”
Relief punches through me so hard my knees almost buckle. Tristan saw me. Tristan came for me.
“Oh, sure.” The stranger seems confused, but he doesn’t try to touch me again as Tristan guides me away from the truck and the people.
He shepherds me over to the car and opens the passenger door for me.
I slide inside, immediately relieved by the quiet and the cocoon of the frame. I’m safe here. I can breathe again.
“I’ll be right back.” Tristan shuts the car door behind me.
In the silence and the safety, I take a few calming breaths and close my eyes. Did I just have another panic attack? Because some guy accidentally bumped me? No, it started before that.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually the back door opens.
“It’s me,” Tristan says. There’s a crinkle of paper.
I open my eyes to find that he’s packed up our food to go and is setting it on the floor of the back seat, where it can’t spill.
When he’s done, he gets in the driver’s seat and passes me an unopened bottle of soda.
“Sorry.” I hate how fast the apology comes, automatic as breathing. I hate that I can’t seem to stop offering myself up for blame.
He opens his own drink. I expect him to start the car and drive away, to put as much distance between us and the scene I just made. Instead, he takes a long swig of his Coke. “Was it too loud?” he asks.
I fiddle with the cap of my drink. The cold sweat beading on the bottle feels good against my overheated skin. “No. I mean, yes, but it was just… too much.”
“I didn’t mean to make anything worse. You shared something real, and I should’ve been more careful with it.”
I lapse back into silence. My head spins.
I apologize every other sentence, it feels like, but Tristan’s apologies are rarer and more intentional.
He doesn’t apologize just for existing. It’s strange to have someone apologize to me, and equally disorienting to have someone respect a boundary.
Back home, my parents wanted to control everything, right down to the thoughts in my head.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I didn’t know it would upset me that much. I’m sorry, too, for ruining our dinner.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Tristan says gently.
Something eases inside me. Not much. Barely a millimeter. But enough that my lungs expand all the way for the first time since the panic hit.
I shake my head, staring at my lap. “I did. And I—” My throat tightens.
I force the words out anyway. Old instincts snap into place: collapse in on myself, make it easy for him to let you go, don’t cling.
“If this is… if I crossed a line, you don’t have to keep me on. I understand if you want to fire me.”
The word hangs between us, heavy and ugly.
Fire me. Lose the job. Lose the house. Lose the fragile little scaffolding I’ve built around myself to stay upright.
I don’t look at him because I can’t bear to see the moment he decides I’m too much trouble.
“I can start looking for somewhere else to live,” I add quickly. “I’ll manage. I always do.”
Tristan’s silence stretches just long enough to make my chest ache.
Then he lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Fire you?” He turns in his seat to look at me fully. “Minerva, then whose homemade snacks baked with love would Viktor Abbott steal out of my locker?”
I blink, caught off guard despite myself. He sounds… offended on my behalf. Like the idea hurts him. The thought wedges under my ribs and stays there.
“I’m serious,” he continues, still light, but steady underneath it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You got overwhelmed. That happens to people. It doesn’t mean you’re disposable.”
The word hits harder than he probably realizes.
I swallow. “I just don’t want to make things awkward.”
“They’re not,” he says without hesitation. “And if they were, that would be on me to deal with. Not you.” He pauses. “You’re safe here. Job included.”
Safe.
My fingers curl around my bottle, knuckles white, because part of me wants to believe him more than anything—and part of me has learned better than to trust that kind of promise.
He leans in so he can give me a shoulder bump. “This was great. We should do it again sometime.”
The casual affection steals my breath. Like we’re already woven into each other’s days, not just sharing square footage.
I manage a chuckle. “The burrito was worth coming back for, huh?”
“I wasn’t talking about the burrito. We could go anywhere.
Check another food truck off your list.” He smiles at me, and I go all mushy and melty inside.
It would be so easy to fall for a guy like this.
Someone who watches. Someone who sees. Someone who takes all my quirks and shortcomings in stride.
Then I wonder: could a guy like Tristan fall for someone like me?
My sister would say no. She’d add a cruel and cutting remark, no doubt. But I’m not so sure. He’s surprised me in other ways, after all.
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
Home. The house that will welcome us both. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”