Chapter Nineteen
Minerva
I’ve never been happier in my life. I assumed that the grad school years would be the best of my life, since I was free from my father’s influence, not yet bound to Luca, and doing my final bit of exploring before being thrust back into the real world.
The real world, of course, meaning my mother’s world. Dresses and makeup and empty gossip, and sharing bitter rumors about people behind their backs.
Instead, I’ve escaped it all and found a new kind of freedom that I was never brave enough to imagine.
Most mornings, I either accompany Tristan to morning skate, where I color-code his schedule and review his biometrics, or I stay home to work on things I want to do around the house.
In the afternoons, or when Tristan’s traveling for an away game, I dedicate my free time to working on my device or, if I feel like it, diving down rabbit holes of information with no obvious intellectual value.
Sometimes I craft, bake, or try my hand at a new hobby.
In the evenings, I either spend time with Tristan at home, or we go out with our friends to whatever activity they have in mind. Sometimes I go by myself.
It should feel so normal, but as someone who grew up in a family that was anything but, it feels more like a gift. I’ve found my rhythm. A quiet certainty settles under my ribs—maybe I’m allowed to have a life that feels like mine.
Going no-contact with my family was the best thing I ever did for myself.
One afternoon, I’m sitting on the floor of the living room surrounded by books about frogs and platypuses, when Kepler comes tumbling down the stairs. Tristan is right behind him, thumping along every step.
I look up from my book just in time to see Tristan scoop Kepler up from the floor and hold him at eye level. Kepler has a black sock in his mouth. Tristan has a bare left foot.
“You little asshole,” Tristan says. He shakes his head, then adjusts his grip on Kepler so that my little guy is lying in his arms like a baby. Kepler happily chews on his prize while Tristan tickles his belly.
I sit back against the couch. “Let me guess. He stole the sock off your foot?”
Tristan comes over to sit on the sofa, with Kepler still in his lap.
“I don’t know how. I didn’t even feel him doing it.
One minute, I was on my Zoom call, wearing two socks.
The next, my foot was cold. Maybe we should teach him to rob banks.
” Tristan pitches his voice higher and boops Kepler in the nose with one finger.
“And then somebody could pay his share of the mortgage. Yes, he could! Yes, he could!”
Kepler squiggles free and leaps out of Tristan’s lap, still carrying the sock that is definitely his now.
“Do you want me to get that back for you?” I ask.
“Nah.” Tristan runs one hand through his hair. He watches Kepler run laps through his playground, shaking the sock as he goes. “It was getting a hole in the toe anyway. He can have it.”
He’s still wearing its mate, though he doesn’t seem to realize that his feet are only fifty percent naked.
Nobody in my old life would have tolerated a theft like that.
If my father or Luca ever chased Kepler, I would have gotten in their way to intervene.
I realize how much I’ve relaxed since I came here, and I know exactly why.
Tristan.
He catches me staring and him and breaks into a grin. “What are you working on down there?”
“I’m researching natural paralytic toxins found in nature.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Other than that they’re cool? No, not really.”
“Hm. Can I touch you?”
I grin up at him. “Are you aroused by the concept of paralytic toxins?”
“Not yet, but I could be convinced. Was that a yes?”
I nod my agreement. Instead of bending down to kiss me the way I expected, Tristan shifts so that he’s sitting behind me. He grips my shoulders, massaging his thumbs into the knots in my back.
“Oh,” I groan. “Harder.”
He complies with a laugh. “Better?”
“That’s perfect.”
“Great. So, tell me about paralytic toxins.”
“Really? Okay, listen to this.” I reach for the book I was reading about poison dart frogs. Tristan listens while I read to him, and Kepler runs on his wheel, and we know what it’s like to be perfectly happy.
* * *
My days are full of moments like this.
Tristan spends a rare morning off playing guitar on the balcony while I fold laundry.
Whenever I recognize the song, I sing the words.
Sometimes he joins me. His playing is beautiful, but our voices are not.
His is too flat, and I’m consistently too sharp.
Neither of us ever complains about the minor and irrelevant imperfections.
In late March, before a home game, I adjust the collar of Tristan’s shirt before I head up to find my seat.
“Play like you love yourself,” I tell him.
I can feel how his heart stutters beneath my palm.
The flutter startles me—Tristan’s tells are so minute, so easy to miss—but this one feels like he’s handing me something breakable and hoping I don’t drop it.
Three nights later, I almost pee myself laughing over a series of GIFs and memes that Marley and I send each other.
I refuse to show Tristan my screen, and he never asks.
He just shoots me increasingly fond and bewildered looks, even though I’m distracting us both from the documentary I selected about black holes.
In early April, Dot and Cam invite us over to help us paint “the nursery” and ask us not to tell anyone.
“I don’t want to deal with Viktor’s commentary,” Cam explains.
I think it’s an odd ask, because she’s obviously pregnant, until we get to their house and I realize that I have misinterpreted the situation.
“Um, Tristan?” I say out of the side of my mouth, loud enough for Dot to hear. “Did Cam say ‘baby,’ or ‘babies?’”
Dot giggles. “Didn’t Cam tell you? I’ve been taking in small exotic rescue animals that the local shelter can’t manage. I keep them separated by sex, but Clemmie was pregnant when she came to us.”
Tristan eyes the wall of cages and tanks which house lizards, turtles, fish, and rodents of many sizes and breeds. “And Clemmie is what, exactly?”
“A hedgehog.” Dot opens one of the cages. “Come out, Clementine, and say hello?”
I have no idea what baby hedgehogs look like, but as soon as I see Clemmie, I must know if they’re even half as cute as the adults. Tristan and I open our phones to Google at the same time.
“Ew.” Tristan wrinkles his nose. “They’re kinda freaky looking.”
“They’re adorable!” I pout over the top of my screen at him.
“Where are their eyes?”
I huff out a breath and turn to Dot. “He doesn’t get it.”
Dot rolls her eyes. “Men.”
“Don’t worry, Clemmie,” I tell the hedgehog, “your babies are going to be precious.”
Cam comes in from the garage a few minutes later.
He’s carrying a box made of plywood. It’s safely sanded down now, but the number of splinters in his hands makes it clear that this is a new development.
“Alright, folks, I’ve done my part. Dot, you’re the creative vision behind this project. Tell our friends what to do.”
We spend the rest of the evening painting the nursery. Cam, of course, helps out. I privately resolve to start crocheting tiny blankets, nests, and toys for Dot’s menagerie. I’ll take any excuse to come back and visit Clemmie’s growing family.
In mid-April, I give a second demonstration of my concussion device, which has significantly expanded in scope thanks to Violet’s notes.
This time, in addition to Venom staff, Dante has called in a handful of people I don’t recognize.
The pitch goes well. On the way out, one of the women stops me and shakes my hand.
“You’re doing incredible work here. I know this is just an early review, but I’d like to invite you to do a full pitch to my team before the end of the year. Depending on when you feel ready, of course.”
“Oh.” I try to find something smart and memorable to say, but I think this lady just broke my brain. A pitch? Of my brainchild? Violet called my idea a game-changer, but she’s my friend. And this stranger smells like money. Could she really be that interested in my life’s work?
“S-sorry, this is just a big step, and I wasn’t expecting it.”
The woman laughs. “There’s no need to be modest, Miss Marino.
This is a brilliant idea.” She presses a business card into my shaking hand.
“All I ask is that you remember my name. I’m sure I won’t be the only one hoping to work with you in the future, especially not given the way that Mr. Giovanetti hypes you up. ”
“He does?”
“He does.” She leans closer. “And between you and me, he’s not the type of person to offer idle praise, either.”
That’s why I’m so taken aback. Violet’s naturally positive, and Tristan’s broadly kind, but Dante doesn’t owe me anything.
Like my father, he would never stick his neck out for an idea just because it came from someone he cares about.
If Dante believes in my impact sensor, it’s because the device shows real promise.
“Thank you.” I tuck the woman’s card into my purse for later. It hits me, suddenly and unfamiliarly: maybe they’re not being kind. Maybe they’re just… right. “I’ll be in touch.”
That night, back at the condo, I sit cross-legged on the floor while Tristan brushes out my damp, post-shower hair.
“This is unbelievable!” I exclaim. “I mean, six months ago I was living out of my car, cut off from my family, and now I’m meeting with investors about my medical prototype? Whose life is this?”
“Yours.” Tristan lowers the brush. “Your family may not have been able to see it, but you’re brilliant, Min. Imagine where you’d be if they supported you, instead of clipping your wings?”
I twist around to face him so that my cheek rests against his sweatpants-clad thigh. “I’m right where I want to be.”
“Yeah, well.” Tristan grazes my cheek with his knuckles, pushing a stray lock of wet hair aside. “I just wish you could have skipped the bad parts.”
“Fortunately, the good parts have been enough to make up for it.” I nuzzle closer, pressing my face into his groin and grinning to myself at his immediate reaction.
“Well, now.” His voice drops to a sultry rumble. “I’m glad my parts are up to your standards. Should we take this conversation to the bedroom?”
“Carry me?”
Tristan scoops me up and bridal-carries me up the stairs to my bedroom.
We tried having sex in the living room exactly once, but after the incident, Tristan has made a solemn oath never to expose his junk in any room where Kepler could cause further injury.
His balls have recovered, but his psyche is forever scarred.
Tristan tosses me on the bed, closes the door behind us, and prowls over to me. I arch my back to grind against him, reveling in the shudder that passes through Tristan’s body in response.
His forehead drops to my neck, breath warm, like he can feel the shift too. “Ma belle…” he murmurs, almost too soft to catch—raw, instinctive, as if the words escape before he can cage them.
I’m not just happy, I realize. I’m safe.
And Tristan is responsible for all of it.