Chapter 4
“What the fuck!”
“Tristan, darling!”
“Whoa . . .”
More cursing and a few shrieks follow. I’m too stunned to make a noise as I stand off to the side, watching Tristan shake out his hand as he looms over Milo, who’s hunched over and cradling his jaw.
A couple of Tristan’s aunts rush over to the kids and usher them out of the room. Nesta and Roland dart to Milo while I turn to Tristan. His mom starts to rush over to him, but he holds up a hand, stopping her just a few feet away from us.
“What the hell was that?” I bark above the wave of confused conversation that’s getting louder by the second.
Tristan’s blue eyes transition from focused to dazed. “I ... I don’t ...”
I pull him by the arm out of the room and out the service entrance door at the back of the restaurant. A gust of cold air whips around us, and I start to shiver.
“Tristan. You just punched your cousin in front of your entire family.”
He moves to lean against the brick wall. “I don’t need a play-by-play, Riley. I know what I did.”
I stand in front of him, mouth agape, stunned at the apathy in his voice.
“Look, I know that you and Milo have never liked each other. And I agree, he was being a total asshole tonight. But that’s no excuse to hit him.”
Tristan’s face twists into the most incredulous frown. “It wasn’t just me he was being a dick to. It was you too, Riley.”
“So, what, I’m supposed to feel flattered that you punched your cousin in the face for insulting me? What are we, in high school? I don’t find acts of violence attractive, Tristan. I never have.”
For a long moment he doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me. But then he tugs a hand through his hair, and it’s like the movement shakes him out of whatever trance he was just in. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, love.”
When he reaches forward and slinks his arms around my waist, I stiffen. But then he pulls me against him, and I soften.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I just can’t fucking stand my cousin.”
I hug him back. “I can’t either. But you don’t see me punching him in the face, do you?”
With his face pressed against the side of my neck, he makes a satisfied noise. “Fair point.”
We break apart, and he looks toward the door. “I should run in and apologize to everyone. Then we should go.”
I tell him I’ll wait for him out here.
“Stay the hell away from your cousin.”
“Promise I will.”
While I wait for Tristan to return, I check my phone and see a text from Poppy.
Poppy: Need me to call with a fake emergency to get you away from your in-laws?
Me: No need. Your wish came true. Anniversary party was a disaster, we’re headed home now.
Poppy: What?? Are you all right?
Me: Fine. I just wanna go home and go to bed. Promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow at work.
I’m slipping my phone back into my purse when I hear the door swing open. I look up, expecting Tristan, but instead I see Milo’s swollen face.
I cross my arms over my chest, anticipating a goading comment or a smug look. But I don’t get either. Instead, Milo’s expression turns remorseful as he stands just a few feet away from me, cupping his hand over the left side of his face.
“I’m sorry.”
His dejected tone is almost as shocking as the actual apology he’s given me. I don’t ever remember hearing him delivering a non-sarcastic “sorry.” I don’t ever remember him sounding so beaten down.
For a moment I feel the tiniest pang of sympathy. But when he starts to walk past me in the direction of the street, I remind myself of all the hurtful, dismissive things he’s done and said—including tonight. One apology doesn’t make up for the epic jerk he’s always been.
“You were out of line, Milo.”
He stops walking but doesn’t turn to face me. “You’re right. I was.”
I don’t know if it’s his casual tone of voice, if it’s the way he refuses to look at me when he speaks, or if it’s the three years’ worth of snide remarks aimed at me and my husband that finally gets to me. Whatever the reason, it causes a strange and sudden spike of adrenaline. Like lava bubbling in my chest. I dart over and stand in front of him.
“Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” Eyes closed, he dips his head back and breathes in, like he’s summoning some inner reserve of patience to talk to me.
“A dick to Tristan. And to me. Almost every single time we see you, it’s like this. You give him shit all the time. God, why ... why can’t you just ...?”
I tug both hands through my hair and let out a groan-yell that finally prompts him to look at me.
“Why can’t I just what, Riley?”
The sincerity in his tone throws me off completely. So does the intensity of his stare.
I swallow. “Why can’t you just be polite? And nice? To Tristan. And me.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smile that’s all bitter, zero joy. But he doesn’t answer. So I press on, three years’ worth of frustration bubbling up inside me, like a soda bottle that’s been shaken and lodged in my stomach.
“Do you have any idea how hard Tristan worked to put together the anniversary party for your grandparents? He’s been planning this night for weeks, trying to make sure everything was perfect for them. He gave up spending his anniversary night with his wife to make his grandparents and his family happy. And you made fun of him for it. The moment you walked into the restaurant, you had a slew of insults ready to throw at him, for no reason. Why would you do that? To your own cousin?”
My hands are shaking as I catch my breath.
“Why couldn’t you just smile and say hello? Or say nothing at all? Is it physically impossible for you to be anything other than a complete jackass?”
Still nothing from Milo. He’s just standing there, staring at me with a bewildered expression, like he can’t understand why I’m so upset.
And that turns the frustration inside me to anger.
“You’re an asshole, Milo. I’ve always thought that. No, wait. That’s not true,” I quickly say. “When we first met, I thought you were polite and nice. I actually liked you ...”
Milo’s expression flips so quickly, I’m speechless once more. He looks so hopeful at what I’ve said. I’m so thrown off by that look on his face that I have to glance away.
“I’ve always liked you, Riley.”
I sputter a laugh of disbelief. “Ha. Very funny.”
“I’m serious.” He stares at me, his gaze pointed and unblinking.
“Then why the hell are you such a dick to me? Why the hell did you make that shitty trophy wife comment about me the night we met?”
He blinks right before he frowns in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t remember.” I pause to swallow, to steady my voice, because the feelings of hurt and humiliation are still so raw. “I heard what you said on the phone that night by the bathrooms in the restaurant. ‘Excellent trophy wife material, I’ll give her that. But Jesus, what the hell is Tristan thinking? A guy like him and a girl like her? Gimme a break.’”
I manage to repeat his own words back to him without my voice going too shaky. But I’m certain he can tell just how hurt I am. My eyes are watery now, and I’m recalling in perfect detail some throwaway conversation he had about me three years ago.
He slumps forward and stares down at the wet concrete, shaking his head like he’s in disbelief. “I didn’t mean ...” He scrunches his lips before exhaling, almost like he’s frustrated.
“Stop. I’m not in the mood for your lies or your bullshit. You thought I was garbage from the get-go.”
“I’ve never thought you were garbage, Riley. Not once.”
Something about his tone and his gaze makes me think he’s telling the truth, oddly enough.
“I’m an asshole because your husband is a prick.”
Something between a groan and a bitter chuckle falls from my lips. “Wow. Real mature.”
He shrugs. “It’s true.”
“First of all, grow up. Second, Tristan is not a prick. You are.”
He bites his lips like he’s frustrated, then rests his hands on his hips. He inhales, his chest heaving with the movement.
“Tristan is the most thoughtful and giving person I’ve ever met—”
“How well do you really know him, Riley?”
“What?”
“The guy you married isn’t as wonderful as you think he is.”
I must open and close my mouth a half dozen times in the seconds following Milo’s ridiculous claim. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The edge of Milo’s jaw bulges, like he’s gritting his teeth to stop himself from speaking.
“I should go,” he finally says. “Sorry I ruined tonight.”
He steps around me and walks off, leaving me to quietly sort out what he’s said.
I remind myself that Tristan just punched him in the face in front of their whole family. Milo is probably so pissed that he’ll say anything to make him look bad.
The door swings open and out walks Tristan with my jacket. I thank him and quickly put it on even though my skin is now hot to the touch.
“You ready to head home?” he asks while frowning at his phone.
“Yeah.”
I follow him to my car, which is parked in the alley behind the restaurant. He moves to open the passenger-seat door for me.
“I’ll drive so you can rest.”
I mumble a “thanks,” my mind still a muddled mess. I quietly watch him as he rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side. He starts the engine, and for the first few minutes of our journey, we’re silent. I steal a glance of Tristan’s profile, which is tinted red from the brake lights of the cars in front of us.
“Sorry again about tonight, about what my mum said to you, and about how I acted,” he says quietly as he gazes forward at the now-stopped traffic. “I’m going to have a talk with her. She has no right to disrespect you like that.”
I take in his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know what came over me earlier, but you’re right. I was wrong to punch Milo. It won’t happen again.” He turns and offers a sad smile. “I’m so sorry I ruined our first wedding anniversary, Miss America.”
I reach over and grab his hand. “It’s okay. You didn’t ruin it.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” He brings my hand to his lips and dusts a soft kiss across my knuckles. “How would you feel about stopping by the animal shelter tomorrow?”
I gasp. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I think I’m ready to pop my pet cherry.”
Inside I go gooey. I squeal and lunge at him, hugging him tight. The low rumble of his laugh fills the car. I chatter about how he’s gonna love having a cat.
“They’re the best pets in the world, you’ll see.”
A car behind us honks, and I pull away so that Tristan can start driving again. It’s barely two minutes before we’re back to standstill traffic in Central London.
I yawn, the excitement and chaos of the evening finally catching up to me.
I peer ahead and spot the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. “I guess we’re gonna be here awhile.”
“Looks like it.”
When I yawn again, I lower my seat. “Wake me when we’re home.”
I lie down, curl up on my side, close my eyes, and fall right to sleep.