Chapter 21 A Man Named Tris
A MAN NAMED TRIS
“Would you stop? It’s five minutes. Two, according to my watch,” Zoey called from the couch.
“You’re right.” I flopped down next to her and took a handful of popcorn.
All day I’d had this feeling that something was pressing down on me.
I felt guilty for going out with Tristan before ending it with Ian.
But for all I knew Ian could be doing the same.
For as little as we saw each other he could have a whole different life.
Come to think about it, we never talked about being exclusive.
“Did you talk to Ian?”
“I tried, but he was too busy playing with his balls.” I brushed the lint off my leg.
“His what?” Zoey lifted a brow.
“He was playing golf. Do you think I can text him? Like, hey, sorry, it’s not you, it’s me.” Ian was the last loose string I needed to tie off before Tristan and I could start over. Or at least start again.
“You could. If you think he’ll read your text.” Zoey paused the movie she was watching. “You coming to brunch tomorrow or is this an overnight visit with Tristan?”
“I don’t think we are to the overnight part yet.
” I didn’t know what part we were in. Tristan was a chapter in a book I had just stopped reading.
And I didn’t know if, when I picked it back up again, the story would still feel the same.
“So, yes, I’ll be at brunch. When do you leave for California? ”
“In a couple of days. Mom isn’t sold on it yet. I told her I couldn’t help her with Dad anymore. He needs medically trained professionals. That, and I don’t want to deal with him. Does that make me an awful daughter?”
“No. Lots of people don’t want to deal with aging parents; that’s why they have medically trained professionals. You have to do what’s right for you, Zo.”
“And if that feels like I’m being selfish? Thomas doesn’t understand, but he hasn’t had to deal with them for as long as I have.”
“You’re not being selfish. If my mother got sick, I would check her into a nursing home so damn quick her head would spin.” And I had warned her about that. If she wanted better, she should have raised me better.
“What about your dad?” Zoey picked at the popcorn.
“My dad is dead, so it doesn’t matter what I would’ve done because I can’t.
And your dad is nothing like mine.” We both sat in the sadness of our thoughts.
Her for not having a dad like mine and me for losing a dad like mine.
I guess if cancer gave me anything, it was I never had to watch my father grow old.
The front door buzzer startled us from our thoughts.
“Shit.” I placed my hand over my heart. “I can stay if you need to talk.”
“About my father? No. Go have fun with your sex god. And don’t overthink anything.” Zoey bumped my shoulder with hers. “I’ll clean up around here just in case you two want an overnight.”
“I don’t think that will happen. But thanks.
Don’t wait up.” I grabbed my jacket and raced down the hall and the short flight of stairs.
I paused, taking a deep breath before opening the door.
There he was. Callie was right; he was made by some god.
He was dressed in loose black pants tucked into combat boots, a black button-up, and a black leather jacket. “Hi.”
His eyes roamed over me. I chose black jeans and a black off-the-shoulder sweater. I shifted under his gaze, wondering if the older me was what he still wanted. Desired.
“You look…” He stepped closer. His hand touched my wrist, then moved to my hip.
“I forgot how beautiful you are. I have this memory of you in that field behind your house. It was October, and you had that stupid quiz. I thought at that very moment you couldn’t be any more beautiful.
But now…” He took a deep breath and let it out, smiling. “I see I was wrong.”
I smiled at that memory, letting it settle between the others. The good and the bad. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find parking. I’m double-parked out front.”
“I didn’t notice,” I lied. My skin itched to be touched by him.
And like a true dealer, he knew what I needed.
His hand slipped around my waist, and he pulled me closer as he opened the door to a sleek black sports car.
“Nice car.” The warm leather interior greeted me.
This was an upgrade from the beat-up Mustang he drove in high school.
“Ready?” Tristan asked, putting the car in drive and pulling away, the face of his watch catching the dimming interior light.
“What do you do for a living?” The sports car, the clothing, the designer watch—it didn’t read small-town Parkfield or that he still worked for Shannon.
“Why?” He stopped at a red light.
“Just asking.” Please let it not be drugs or crime.
“It’s not a dead giveaway?” He glances over at me.
“I didn’t realize bartending paid so well.” Why couldn’t he answer a question?
“I’m just doing that to help out a friend. I’m an artist of sorts.” He held up his hand, showing off the tattoos.
“A tattoo artist?” In all my thoughts of him, that was not what I chose.
I didn’t know what I thought he’d be doing as an adult.
He never spoke of anything in high school.
I studied him in the green light of the interior.
Somewhere in my stupid little brain, I thought we could pick up where we left off.
As if someone had pushed pause on his life.
My life kept playing on, so why wouldn’t his too?
“Yep. That’s how I know Craig. I mentored under his cousin. I met Stacy, the owner of Fifty-Two, in art school.”
“Wow. That’s great.” I sat back in the seat, letting this new information replace the old I had.
“You sound surprised.”
I could hear a note of something in his voice.
Disappointment? Anger? Twelve years ago I would have known.
When had his life gone from worrying about Noah and Laura to art school and mentorship?
To friends and sport cars? Had it happened a year after I left?
Two years? “Not for the reason you think.”
“Ev?”
“What?” All the unknowns and unanswered questions pressed down on my back and shoulders. The worry that there was too much time and space between us. That we were no longer that Evan and Tristan. The ones who loved blindly without a worry about the future.
“Don’t go back there. We can’t change what has already happened.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips.
His breath was warm on my skin as he kissed it before dropping it to his lap. He was right. I couldn’t go back in time and fix that Evan and Tristan. But I could make this Tristan and Evan work. Everything was fine. “Right. So your roommate is in a band?”
We made simple small talk about nothing.
But it felt okay. We talked about his roommates and Finn, who was no longer dating Olivia.
We pulled up to First Avenue. The black walls were covered with white stars and the names of those who had graced the stage.
People were lined up outside, stomping the warmth back into their feet.
The Minnesota winter had started to dip her fingers into autumn.
“Ready?” He took my hand, and we passed the people standing in line. To the section marked VIP. “Tristan Anderson and guest,” he said to the bouncer on the left.
“Tris, my man.” The other large bouncer pulled Tristan into a one-arm hug. “Man, it’s good to see you back. You workin’?”
“Yeah, I got a spot down at Voodoo. Not sure how long I’ll be down here.
Hopefully for a while.” He looked over at me.
He and the bouncer talked about what was next.
I watched him under the cold blue streetlight.
The way he cocked his head and chewed on his bottom lip as the bouncer told him what he wanted.
I should have broken it off with Ian today because I wanted more from this Tristan.
I wanted to feel his hands on me. I wanted to explore all the ink on his skin and trace the muscles that flexed under his clothing.
He looked over at me, a lazy smile crossing that perfect mouth of his.
But mostly, I wanted to see if his kisses still tasted the same.
“Call the shop. They have my schedule.” Tristan pulled me closer and led me into the warmth of the building. “You okay, Blu?” He put his arm around me just like he did in high school, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.
“For once, I am.” I wrapped my arm around his waist and followed him into the bar.
Craig called from the bar. He was taller than most and could see above the heads of people.
“The Evan,” Craig said, pulling me into his embrace. “I owe you an apology for the other night.”
“Fuckin’ right you do.” Tristan leaned over the bar, whistling to the man behind it. “Hey! Can I get some service down here?”
“Fuck you, Tris. We don’t serve ugly fuckers here.” The man smiled as he grabbed Tristan and pulled him into a half hug over the bar. “God, man, it’s good to see you. You look good. Better than last time.”
“Yeah, well, things have changed. Evan, this is Lucky. We were roommates in college.”
“Holy shit, she does exist.”
“That’s what I thought. Who would have thought anyone would want his broody ass,” Craig teased.
“Fuck you two.” Tristan pulled me closer.
“What can I get you, love?” Lucky had a bit of an English accent.
“Better watch it, Tris. You know how girls love that British accent,” Craig teased.
Lucky was cute in a hipster kind of way. He wasn’t Tristan beautiful. “A vodka soda with a lime, please.”
“Gotcha. Asshole and Fuckup, the usual?” Lucky looked at Tristan and Craig.
“You’re the asshole.” Tristan pointed to Craig.
“We all know you’re the fuckup,” Craig said.
My head grappled with what was happening.
Tristan laughed with his friends as they teased and tried to one-up each other with painful tattoos and piercing stories.
These people didn’t care where he grew up or what his father did.
They weren’t here to try to talk me out of being with him.
And as good as all of this was, there was still something pulling at the back of my neck.
The part both he and I were ignoring. All the things between now and then.
But we could worry about that later. Right?
“We could ask her.” Craig turned.
“What?” I looked at them. I hadn’t been following what they were talking about. I needed to stop worrying about all the things I didn’t know and be here in this moment.
“Shut up, Craig. Let’s find a place to sit down.” Tristan put his arm around me.
“Now who’s shy?” Craig ordered another round and met us at the small table close to the stage.
Soon the tables filled with people, and the lights dimmed as the band took the stage.
Tristan pointed out his roommate, who was the drummer.
A shirtless man covered in tattoos. Tristan had done his neck and chest piece.
In the low light, I marveled at what Tristan had become. How at ease he seemed in his own skin.
And for once in our lives, we finally got to be someone other than the lost little girl whose daddy died of cancer and the boy whose father broke him every night. Those parts still existed, but they weren’t the only parts of us.
It was the other parts I was a bit worried about.