by Mila Gray
I nod and rush off to fulfill the order, anxious not to mess anything up. On my way to the kitchen, a middle-aged man who is eating with his orange-tanned wife grabs my wrist as I pass his table.
“Sweetheart, can you bring me the wine menu?” he asks, directing the words at my chest, not my face.
I tug my arm from his grip, nodding and forcing a smile. As I turn around, I slam straight into someone.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time.
With a start, I look up. It’s Tristan. “Sorry,” he repeats.
I shake my head, mute. In only three days, I’d forgotten just how gorgeous he is. My memory didn’t do him justice. At all. And now all those resolutions to forget him are ironically forgotten.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
I shrug, unable to formulate words. It’s only now, seeing him again, that I realize I’ve been ignoring the hollow ache I’ve been carrying around in my chest for the last few days. But seeing him makes the ache vanish, and I’m finally able to draw a full breath.
He’s waiting for me to answer, but I can’t, and now he’s staring at me quizzically.
“Tristan!” someone yells, and his eyes dart over my shoulder and I see him break into a smile. He waves at one of the girls at Kit’s table: a girl in a fuchsia-pink dress that sets off her perfect, glowing skin. She’s beckoning him over to the empty chair beside her. It’s the girl from his lock screen. His girlfriend.
“Guess I’ll see you around,” he mumbles without even looking at me, in too much of a hurry to take his seat beside her.
I hurry off, dazed, feeling like I’m fighting off blows from invisible fists as I stumble past tables, making for the kitchen. As I reach it, a waiter walks out, carrying three plates of food in his hands. I dance out of the way, stupidly turning my head back toward Kit’s table. Tristan is sitting down next to the girl in the pink dress. He’s turned toward her, his arm resting on the back of her chair like Kit’s was on Jessa’s. Her face is animated, and she reaches forward and picks some lint off the collar of his shirt, then kisses him on the cheek.
Tristan whispers something in her ear that makes her throw her head back and laugh, and as he does, his gaze meets mine across the room.
In that infinitesimal moment between heartbeats, it feels as if time has stood still—like he’s looking right into my soul, trying to tell me something—but then the kitchen door swings back the other way, and I hear the chef yelling at me. When I glance back, Tristan is no longer looking in my direction but is focused completely on the girl he’s with, and I laugh bitterly at my imagination.
TRISTAN
Dahlia narrows her eyes at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
I laugh under my breath. The downside to having a twin sister. She swears we’re psychic, and sometimes I think she might be right. “Lot going on,” I tell her, hoping it’s true enough but vague enough to shut her up.
“At work?” she presses. “Or is this about Will?”
Dahlia knows about Will and his dad. I had to tell her because we needed her car to go and pick up his family from Vegas and because she gave me clothes for Zoey. But I would have told her anyway. We don’t have secrets. At least, not until now, we haven’t. For some reason, I don’t want to tell her about Zoey. It feels too personal, too pointless as well, especially as I’ve already decided nothing can happen.
Seeing her again didn’t just take me by surprise. It was like those old cartoons where the Road Runner drops an anvil on Wile E. Coyote’s head. Here I was thinking and hoping and praying the feelings would vanish, that I’d realize all I felt toward her were brotherly feelings, but instead it’s like a virus has silently spread and is now infecting every cell in my body. My only hope is that this is the fever spiking and the virus will soon be gone. Because what I’m thinking about when I look at her definitely doesn’t fall into the brotherly feelings category.
I’m having to work on not looking in Zoey’s direction, but it’s almost impossible. Even though I keep my gaze fixed on Dahlia, I’m finely tuned to Zoey’s presence in the room.
“Are they okay?”
“Huh?” I turn my wandering attention back to Dahlia, ordering myself to focus.
“How did the clothes fit?” Dahlia asks. “Did she like them?”
“You can see for yourself,” I say, nodding toward Zoey, who’s busy serving a table on the other side of the restaurant. She’s wearing a silk shirt tucked into a short black skirt. My gaze slips down to her legs before I reprimand myself and look away. But not for long. It’s like my eyes are on a string that’s tied to her wrist, and she keeps tugging on it.
“What?” Dahlia asks, turning in her seat to follow my gaze. “Our waitress? That’s Zoey? Will’s little sister?”
I nod.
“My God, she’s gorgeous.”
Dahlia only saw Zoey once or twice, back when we lived in Scottsdale, so I didn’t expect her to recognize her, but I can tell she’s astonished. “How old is she now?” she asks me.
“Eighteen,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Oh my God,” says Dahlia, a little too loudly.
Shit. I know what’s coming next and try to hush her down.
“You have a crush on her!” Dahlia whispers, leaning in toward me. Unfortunately, Dahlia’s whispering is a normal person’s shouting.
“Shhh,” I hiss, glaring at her. “Keep it down.”
Her mouth splits into a satisfied smile. “I’m right! You have a monster crush on her.”
“On who?!” asks Didi, sitting on her other side. Her ears are specially tuned for gossip.
“No one!” I say through gritted teeth, aware that Zoey is walking toward us.
“The waitress,” Dahlia tells her, pointing her out.
“Which waitress?” asks Didi, scanning the restaurant like a sniper.
“Our waitress.”
“Does Tristan have a crush on the waitress?” Jessa asks, throwing a spotlight on me so the entire table turns toward me.
“Do you?” asks Walker, Didi’s boyfriend.
Seriously, I could kill Dahlia right now. Everyone is staring at me, grinning like fools, waiting for me to admit or deny it. “No,” I mumble, feeling my face start to burn.
“Liar.” Dahlia laughs.
“I’m going to get you back for this,” I whisper to Dahlia through gritted teeth.
She brushes me off. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Have you kissed her?”
“Have you asked her out yet?” Didi asks at the same time.
“Bro, she’s way out of your league.” Kit laughs.
“Hey, give the guy a chance,” Walker argues.
“She’s so sweet.” Jessa sighs. “What’s her name?”
Oh, dear God. I’m in hell.
“Zoey,” Dahlia tells her. “She’s Will’s sister.”
Jessa’s eyes widen. “Oh, Kit told me about her. It’s so awful what happened to her and her family. Is she okay?” she asks me.
I nod, grateful that the conversation has moved on. “Yeah, they’re doing okay. They just moved into the apartment opposite mine. It’s only until they get on their feet.”
Dahlia interrupts. “Does she know you like her?”
I notice a customer at the next table, sitting with his wife, check Zoey out as she sets a glass of wine down in front of him. He leans back in his chair to stare at her ass. Anger boils through my veins.
“Have you told her?” asks Didi in a stage whisper as Zoey continues moving toward our table.
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “No. I haven’t told her.”
She pounces. “So you do like her!”
I fluster. Damn. I gave myself away. “Oh my God, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”
Kit smirks. “If you want my advice, talking as someone who has dated their best friend’s sister, make sure you don’t leave her underwear lying around your bedroom or any naked photos on your phone for Will to find.”
“What the … !” I
spit as Jessa shoves her hand over Kit’s mouth to shut him up. “What are you even talking about?” I say over everyone’s laughter. “It isn’t like that. We’re just friends. I’ve known her forever. I’m just looking out for her.”
“Uh-huh,” says Kit, his voice muffled by Jessa’s hand.
Zoey is now within spitting distance. I turn to Dahlia and try desperately to one-eighty the conversation. “How’s Lou?” I ask.
The others, still laughing, go back to their own conversations.
Dahlia plucks at the pink straps of her dress and smooths the creases in her lap. “We’re taking a break.”
I give her a look. Dahlia’s girlfriend, Lou, is a musician, and she’s on tour with her band right now on the East Coast. I’m guessing the decision was Lou’s and not Dahlia’s, because I can read my sister almost as well as she can read me. I can tell by the way she squares her shoulders that she’s hurt. Dahlia dates both men and women, but Lou was the first person I know she really liked. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s all right. Long-distance never works,” she says with a shrug.
I put my arm around her and squeeze her shoulder. “Plenty more fish in the sea,” I tell her, glancing at Zoey, who has approached the table and is taking Jessa’s order.
“I know,” she says. “You keep throwing them back.”
We watch Zoey, clearly flustered, scribble down the order. As she writes, she glances up and her eyes catch mine, just for a second, before she looks back at Jessa, smiles, and moves on to Jo, Jessa’s sister-in-law.
“She’s totally into you,” Dahlia whispers, glancing at Zoey while poking me in the ribs with her razor elbow.
She is? It’s an endorphin hit just hearing Dahlia say it, and like that I can feel the virus in my bloodstream multiply in response. “No, she’s not,” I argue under my breath.
“Why haven’t you asked her out?”
“I can’t,” I say. “It would be weird. And it’s not what she needs right now.”
“Kit dated Jessa. They were friends for years before.”
I glance their way and frown at the sight of Jessa resting her head on Kit’s shoulder.
Zoey’s taking Walker’s order now, and she’s so close I could reach out and touch her. It feels like the restaurant just ramped up its thermostat a thousand degrees hotter, and I tug at my collar. It could be caused by Kit, Jessa, and Didi all staring at me, their eyes like laser beams, watching for how I will react when Zoey stops by me. Or it could be the electricity that seems to be crackling in the air between us. Or maybe the virus is real and I’m getting sick.
“Have you decided?” Zoey asks, finally reaching me. She’s looking down at her pad.
I feel the weight of everyone’s eyes, hear the suppressed giggle from Didi, and manage to lose all capacity for speech. All I can think about is how fucking beautiful she is, how I want to lie next to her and study her face up close until I have every freckle memorized. She looks up from the writing pad with a question in her eyes. Shit.
“Um, the fish,” I say, not having a single clue if there is even fish on the menu.
“The pine-nut salsa salmon?”
“Yeah … ,” I say.
Another giggle from Didi.
My sister clears her throat. “You’re allergic to salmon,” she whispers.
Everyone is watching me with total delight, having to stifle their hysterics, and I can see it’s making Zoey uncomfortable. She thinks they’re laughing at her. She glances down at the table, and that little frown appears, tugging unhappily at her mouth. That mouth … Shit, again. I glance down at the menu. The words and the letters are all jumbled. I’m dyslexic, and when I’m stressed it’s even harder to make all the shapes and symbols make sense.
“Why don’t you have the steak?” Dahlia says, catching on to my struggle.
I nod. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll have the steak,” I say to Zoey, closing my menu with a snap. And handing it to her.
“How would you like it?”
I manage to catch Kit grinning at me. I could kill each and every one of these people right now.
“Medium rare, right?” Dahlia says, putting her hand on my wrist to bring me back to the order. She smiles at Zoey. “That’s how he likes it. I’ll have the same.”
I nod dumbly. Zoey nods and turns swiftly on her heel. She walks away as fast as she can without actually sprinting. The table erupts into laughter. I wince, hoping Zoey can’t hear and that if she can, she doesn’t think it’s her they’re laughing at. Jessa gets up and excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I think about doing the same. And then maybe never coming back. Embarrassment feels like being buried in hot coals. I’ve never acted like that before in my life, except as a kid, when called on to read in class. What is with me?
“Wow,” says Dahlia, leaning into me. She’s not laughing. She looks in shock. “You really do have a crush.”
I blush and frown at the same time. I wasn’t even prepared to admit it to myself, and now it’s out in the open, as obvious to everyone as a case of the measles. “Yeah, I do. But I don’t know why—I mean, I barely know her.”
“You’ve known her most your life.”
“Yeah, but not really. I mean, it’s only been three days since we saw each other again.”
“I fell for Lou the second I saw her,” she says. “She was standing in line ahead of me at a coffee shop. She was reading a book and I tapped her on the shoulder because the barista was waiting to take her order, and she turned to say thanks, and that was it. I was in love.”
“You think it can really be that fast?” I ask. “It wasn’t just lust?”
“Both. It was lust and love at first sight.”
I shake my head. “She needs a friend. I don’t want to make a move and screw things up.”
“You never know: maybe she only wants a one-night stand.”
I pull back, frowning in consternation. “Who said anything about a one-night stand? That’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Really?” she says, looking at me skeptically.
“I go on dates,” I argue.
“For one night,” she claps back.
I shake my head at her. “Because I can’t ever find anyone I want to date twice.”
“Who’s to say Zoey would be any different?” she asks.
I press my lips together. Dahlia’s pinpointed exactly what I’ve been worried about, and she knows it. But, I think to myself, we already kind of did go on a date—when we walked to the pier—and I really want to see her again, and I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never felt this … I don’t even know how to describe it. Why can’t I get her out of my head?
“And you don’t want to have a one-night stand with your best friend’s sister,” Dahlia continues, tearing a hunk of bread and stuffing it in her mouth. Dahlia is an anti-gluten-free campaigner, like Didi. “Imagine if it went wrong and she got hurt. Or if you did start dating and then broke up.”
It’s exactly why I didn’t kiss her on the pier. It would be so awkward, living opposite her, knowing I’d promised her brother I’d take care of her. I’ve known her since we were kids. We’re friends. At least I think we’re friends. I don’t want to hurt her—she’s been through enough—and my track record is not great when it comes to women. I’ve never done a real relationship. And, God, why am I even thinking about it? I don’t even know if she’s interested in me like that. I could be jumping the gun and making massive assumptions. Maybe we should stick with being friends.
Dahlia sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “Much as it pains me to say it, my brother, I think you’re right. You shouldn’t go there.”
“You’re not telling me that because you’re crushing on her too, are you?”
Dahlia smiles slyly and shakes her head. “No. I’m serious. She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need any more hurt.” She pats me on the arm. “And you do have a reputation for breaking hearts.”
ZOEY
As
I walk away from their table, I hear them all burst out laughing. My feet cannot carry me fast enough to the kitchen. A customer tries to get my attention as I hurry by, but I ignore him. I can’t stop thinking about that girl Tristan had his arm around, the girl who told me how he liked his steak cooked, the girl who seemed to be mocking me with her smile. Clearly his girlfriend. It was as if she knew I had a crush on her boyfriend and was trying to humiliate me. But how could she know? Unless, of course, Tristan told them all about the other night on the pier.
I think about running out the back door of the restaurant and going home, maybe even farther than that. Sometimes I have these thoughts of jumping behind the wheel of a car and speeding off into the distance. Or about getting off a train in New York City, or handing over a boarding pass and buckling into an airline seat. I imagine what it would feel like to have a place to call my own, not shared with anyone else: a studio in Brooklyn, a clapboard Victorian with a veranda wrapped around it and a porch swing, a cabin in a forest next to a rushing stream. I dream of all these places, and how it would feel to unlock the front door and step inside, to pull the door shut and not have to lock it behind me. But then reality crashes me back down to earth. My life is a rigidly determined path with insurmountable walls on either side. A prison, basically.
Someone catches me by the shoulder. I whirl around, my heart skittering in my chest, adrenaline flooding my system. It’s Jessa.
“Are you okay?” she asks, looking at me, worried.
“I’m fine,” I say, plastering on a smile, trying to shake off the lingering shadow of fright. It makes me realize that even though I’ve been telling myself my dad doesn’t know where we are, I’m still afraid that he’s going to find us.
“Did you need something?” I ask Jessa, panicking that maybe I forgot something. Did I take all the orders?
“No, no,” Jessa says, shaking her head. “I just … I wanted to say that I know you just moved to town and things aren’t that easy at the moment.”
Her face is a little flushed, and I can sense she feels awkward. My first impulse is to react with embarrassment and even anger. Has Tristan told all of them about my dad and what happened? But then I remember that Will is friends with Kit, so perhaps she heard about my messed-up family situation from him.
