by Anna Martin
Tristan’s email pinged. Shatara. They’d planned a meeting, of course. He didn’t really feel like talking. Tristan dragged his supplies out of his desk and went to leave for the meeting. Before he did, he sent one more pathetic, desperate text to Henry, who’d been avoiding his calls all weekend.
Babe, can we please talk? I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I can explain. Please. xx
Tristan didn’t know how else to say it. He’d tried “sorry,” he’d tried telling Henry he missed him, and he did. Only a couple of days, and it already felt like he had some big, dark hole in his chest, cliché heartbreak and all. He’d do anything to turn back time and tell Terry and Richard no. He wished Friday had never happened. Maybe if it hadn’t, he’d be looking forward to dinner and sleepy morning sex and inviting Henry home to Yorkshire for the holidays, because he’d been about to do that before everything went to God-awful shitting hell.
The team was gathered in the third-floor conference room by the time he got there. Tristan breathed a small sigh of relief. He honestly liked this team. If every project he did was with them, he’d not mind coming to work nearly as much as he did. They smiled at him as he sat.
“Congratulations, Tristan,” Shatara said when he’d pulled his chair in.
Tristan winced. “Um, thanks.” Yes, I quite possibly ruined my chances with the guy I love to advance myself at the job I hate nearly every day. Well done, me. “Henry’s father hasn’t agreed to a meeting yet.” Nor would he likely do so, seeing as though Henry wasn’t even speaking to him, let alone speaking to his father about him. Tristan didn’t even care. Not for a single moment.
“Still, it was a good move. Richard and Terry are both singing your praises.”
Tristan didn’t wonder why that made him feel sick. Even to someone as thick as he seemed to be, it was painfully obvious.
* * *
He didn’t give up. Probably annoyed the hell out of Henry, but Tristan wasn’t one for throwing in the towel so easily. Every day, he tried to contact Henry in some way, leave a note at the bakery—who even knew if Rose and Millie passed them along—text him, call him, and leave a message. Anything to let Henry know he was still out there and he wasn’t giving up.
It was pathetic, Tristan knew that. He didn’t fucking care. Henry had changed him in the short time they were together, cut him apart and sewn him back together so he didn’t fit anymore, not without Henry’s body and voice and laugh holding him from falling apart. Tristan needed him. He missed him. It had been a week, but he wasn’t nearly ready to give up. What was a week, if one of his sad little attempts got through? What was a week, if he got Henry back? Nothing. The answer was a week was nothing.
So he’d keep calling, keep messaging, keep telling Henry he’d made a mistake until Henry let him talk. There wasn’t another option. There couldn’t be.
Nanaimo Bars
A super-sweet delicious treat that hails from British Columbia. It’s sure to be a huge hit!
* * *
½ cup butter
¼ cup white sugar
5 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups finely ground graham-cracker crumbs
¼ cup butter
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons vanilla custard powder
3 tablespoons milk
4 1-ounce squares semisweet chocolate, chopped
1 tablespoon butter
* * *
Mix ½ cup butter, white sugar, cocoa, egg, and vanilla extract in a heavy saucepan. Stir mixture over a low heat until everything is blended and thickened. Combine graham-cracker crumbs with the melted mixture. Stir well and press into an oiled 9-inch square cake pan.
Cream ¼ cup butter, confectioners’ sugar, vanilla custard powder, and milk. Beat until smooth and spread over melted base.
Refrigerate until hard.
Melt chocolate with 1 tablespoon butter and spread over the hardened base to form a thin chocolate layer. Refrigerate again, and once completely solid, cut into square bars.
Chapter Twenty
Tristan stared at the surface of his desk. It had become a habit of his the past few days. Staring. He never really looked at anything when he stared and mostly just tried not to think of Henry. And then trying not to think of Henry always turned into thinking of Henry, and that made him mad at himself. He should’ve known better than to think anything at work was worth testing what he’d had. Even if it had been real, even if Jordan wasn’t the biggest dick ever who knew exactly how to press Tristan’s buttons, it still wouldn’t have been worth losing Henry. He should have known.
Tristan felt someone’s presence at the side of his desk before he bothered to look up. He supposed he should care; it could easily be Shatara or Terry. He looked up. Or not. Fucking hell, didn’t you have enough fun at my expense?
“What’s up, buttercup?” Jordan said.
He perched at the edge of Tristan’s desk and grinned at him. He had his shirt unbuttoned and his jacket over his arm. It was hot in the building. They’d turned the heat on too early, and the city was still basking in a long-lasting Indian summer. Just because Jordan was human and still got hot didn’t mean Tristan had to be civil to him. Sure, he’d fallen for whatever it was had turned him into a total insecure mess and he’d made his own choice to screw Henry over, but that didn’t mean Jordan had to do whatever he’d done to make it a million times worse. And Tristan knew Jordan had done something. Tristan just had to get Henry to talk to him so he could figure it out.
“Fuck off. I mean it,” Tristan growled.
He really didn’t have the patience for Jordan. He didn’t have the patience for any of it anymore. About a million times a day, he thought about how big of a relief it would be to get on a plane home and never see any of these people again. But then he’d think of Henry, and his chest would get tight.
“What’s got your Andrew Christians in a bundle?” Jordan asked.
“What do you think, Jordan? Use that tiny little brain of yours and ponder for a moment what you’ve done to make me angry. Think hard.”
Jordan, for the first time since that awful party, scowled. “Listen, asshole. I’m not the one who threw the party to lure his boyfriend into selling out.”
“No, that was my stupidity. But I’ll bet that you made Henry think that had been my intention since the night we met. I didn’t hear you say it, but I didn’t have to. That sounds exactly like something you’d do.”
Jordan flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off his jacket casually and yawned. “I’m bored,” he muttered.
“You ruined my relationship.”
“I wish I could take all the credit for that, but you did it mostly by yourself. Really. Bravo. Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll make sure to do all the work.”
Tristan stood and nearly lunged for Jordan before he remembered he was in a room full of his coworkers, and most of them would do anything to take him down. Tristan hated them all. He’d thought maybe he could learn to fit in, but he never would. He wanted nothing to do with the lot of them.
He glared at Jordan. “Get away from me, you dick. Today couldn’t get much worse. I might decide that getting fired is worth the pleasure of walloping your sorry arse. Knowing your track record, you probably still wouldn’t get my job.”
Tristan smiled his first hint of a satisfied smile when Jordan hopped off his desk and retreated to his own side of the office. Good riddance, twatbag.
* * *
He had a few layouts to work on for Shatara, and he did them halfheartedly. It had been days since he’d really cared what anything on the page looked like. He just moved images around in Photoshop and stared blankly at his computer, just like he stared blankly at his walls and the street and the subway car and everything else in his suddenly gray world.
Tristan heard the whispers first. He ignored them for a while; people were always nattering about everything and nothi
ng instead of doing their bloody work, so what was the point of getting involved when they did it yet again? That was, until Tristan sensed a presence at his desk. Again. He was face-to-face with a pair of fitted black slacks, creased perfectly and clearly very expensive. They looked awfully familiar. Tristan sighed.
“I wasn’t fucking joking, Jordan. Go away.”
Jordan didn’t answer. Instead, a folder dropped onto Tristan’s desk. “This is for you.”
Henry? Tristan snapped his head up, and there, in the flesh, was Henry. He didn’t look like himself. It was unsettling. He had on those gorgeous but out-of-character trousers, a button-up that was also on the very side of expensive, and even a blazer. His hair was smoothed into a low, stubby ponytail. He was posh. Tailored. He was beautiful, but all wrong. Tristan stood and reached out.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been trying to—”
Henry cut him off with a gesture. “The details of the meeting are in that folder. I arranged it so the shareholders will only agree to meet with the team if you’re the head of it.”
Tristan was speechless. His heart ground to a sad, uncomfortable stop for a second before it slowly started to beat again, picking up speed like an old-fashioned steam engine pulling out of the station. Chug, chug, chug.
“What do you mean?”
Henry looked at him like he was slow. Tristan felt a bit lost, so maybe that was fair. Henry spoke clearly, passionlessly. “My father’s shareholders will meet with your team on behalf of Livingston’s. Next Wednesday. You’ll have half an hour to impress them.”
“You did this for me?” Tristan barely dared to hope. Henry was there, handing him a professional dream come true, but again, something was off. It was still wrong.
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Henry’s voice was so stiff and cold. Tristan was used to warm and soft. Used to intimate whispers at dawn in Henry’s bed and endearments in the shower.
“I don’t know how to make it up to you.” Tristan stood and walked around his desk. He reached for Henry’s hands but Henry pulled back.
“No need. It was a business deal. A simple thank-you will suffice.”
“Henry….”
Tristan wanted to touch him so much. He missed Henry’s skin, his kisses, the way he smelled in the morning. He wanted him back so much that his entire body ached. Like, literally ached. He felt his hands reach forward and he tried to control them. He couldn’t do this in the office, not if he wanted to keep what little self-respect he had. Henry went to leave, though, and Tristan stopped caring. He brushed his fingers over Henry’s hand. It felt so good for a brief second until Henry jerked his hand away.
“I’ll be going now. Please contact the phone number in the packet if you have any questions about the meeting.”
“Henry, wait. Please.” He couldn’t stand it. He grabbed Henry’s cuff and held on. “Please. Let me… I’ll take my lunch… can we talk? I need to talk to you.”
“What for? It’s over.”
Henry stood there for another moment or two, then tugged his sleeve out of Tristan’s grasp and turned to leave. Tristan was stunned. He sank down onto the corner of his desk and stared at the bank of windows on the far wall again like he’d been doing all morning. He didn’t know what to do or say other than to run after Henry and beg him for another chance. Run. Yes. Run, you fool.
He stayed, sat there like a zombie for a few more shell-shocked moments before he grabbed the meeting folder and his bag and took off at a run after Henry. He sprinted down the stairs so fast he was shocked he managed to make it to the bottom without a massively humiliating public wipeout.
He nearly slid on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, but managed to right himself and sprint out the front doors.
“Henry!” he called.
Henry was just getting into a cab. He had to have heard Tristan. He didn’t turn. Tristan started to run. He didn’t even consider it. Instead, he took off for the Village, his bag flapping at his back, the folder still clutched in his hand. Tristan ran right past his subway stop and kept going, trying to keep his eye on the cab that had managed to pull further ahead despite the morning traffic.
Tristan cursed his lack of foresight. He should’ve gotten his own cab. He’d just been so desperate to keep Henry in sight, he hadn’t even thought of it. Henry’s cab was pulling farther and farther away.
Maybe he was going home to change before he went to the bakery. Tristan figured he couldn’t go wrong with the bakery. Sometime soon, Henry had to show up there. Tristan slowed to a fast walk and kept going, past cabs and subway stations all the way to Honeyfly, where he hoped a second chance might be waiting for him. If not an actual second chance, one where he got Henry back, at least a second chance to explain what he’d done and why.
* * *
Tristan was hot by the time he made it to the bakery, his dress shirt stuck to his back, his trousers uncomfortable and damp. He didn’t care. He walked through the front door of the shop. Millie looked up at him. Glared, actually. “Glared” was a much more accurate term. She’d always been a bit intimidating, even when Tristan had been fairly sure she liked him. Being on the receiving end of one of her unhappy stares was intimidating.
“What are you doing here, Tristan?”
“I was hoping Henry would be back soon,” he said. He slumped down on one of the tufted stools.
“Listen, I’m an employee, but I’m also Henry’s friend. As his friend, I’m saying you shouldn’t be here. As an employee, I’m saying you have to buy something if you want to stay.”
Tristan fished three fivers out of his pocket. “However many macarons that’ll buy me. A mix of flavors.” With all the treats he’d had in the bakery since he’d first come that night, the macarons had formed a special little place in his heart. Just the texture of them brought him back to the first night, and every time Henry brought them for him, he pictured him dancing around, singing, piping filling onto temperamental little rounds Tristan still hadn’t quite mastered.
Millie handed him a carton with two colorful rows of macarons nestled in it. She gave him a long, hard look. “Here you go. And here’s your change. It’s a lovely autumn day. Perhaps you could enjoy those in Bleecker Park. There are usually a few empty park benches at this time of day.”
“Millie.” Tristan had paid for the right to his damn stool, and he wasn’t leaving until he’d downed every last one of those damn macarons. Or gotten the absent Henry to forgive him, or at least hear him out.
“You broke his heart, Tristan. What did you expect?”
“I just want to talk.”
She sighed. “Well, you’re not going to talk to him here. He took the rest of today off. He won’t be in until the morning.”
“You think you could’ve told me that before I spent fifteen dollars on cookies?”
Millie shrugged. She had a little smile on her face. “Probably.”
Tristan sighed and shoved the carton of macarons in his messenger bag. He hadn’t expected Millie to be so upset with him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t, though. Millie was Henry’s friend first, and he’d screwed up big time.
“I guess I’ll see you later,” Tristan said quietly. And he would. He wasn’t ready to give up after one try.
“I don’t think Henry’s at home,” Millie said. Her voice sounded kinder than it had the rest of the time he’d been there. “He said something about spending the day with Trixie.”
“Thanks,” Tristan muttered. Henry hadn’t been letting him in the building anyway, and it wasn’t as if he was going to sit there on the stoop and stalk him. Yet. Tristan figured he’d do whatever it took, if it meant Henry would listen to him. Just once.
* * *
It was a gorgeous November day outside of Honeyfly. The air was crisp, birds were chirping in the trees, a soft golden glow lit up the bricks, and the changing leaves and even the bustling people in their fashionable jackets and scarves and expensive leather boots seemed touched somehow. Ha
ppy and warm and glowing.
Tristan barely saw any of it. He trudged along the streets and remembered that first night when he’d gotten lost, when he hadn’t known every brick and sidewalk crack and newspaper vendor between his place and the bakery. He’d gone that way so many times by then that he could do it blindfolded, but he missed that night and the promise of something new. He missed every night in between, all the dinners, the baking lessons, the laughing and kissing and hours spent in bed learning each other’s bodies. He’d never felt it before, that churning physical pain that came with heartache. It was awful.
When he got to his building, the one he’d not quite come to think of as home, he dragged himself up his stairs, and after fumbling with the key in the lock, let himself in. He’d only left his place that morning, small and not yet homely. He’d never decorated it with his things, but rather left the knickknacks laid out by whomever had decorated it for his company. It felt more like a long-term hotel room than a home. Henry’s flat had felt like home, every exposed brick and weathered floorboard. The big, fluffy bed and the bright white sheets. All of it was home. It had been the first morning he’d woken up there, warm from Henry’s arms, unable to keep the fond smile from his face.
Tristan tossed his bag onto the tiny kitchen island and flopped down on the settee that was lovely and decorative but not very comfortable. He tried to imagine himself there for months or years, lounging or watching football games with friends he had yet to make. He couldn’t honestly picture a life there, picturesque as the street and the building both were. He tried not to think it for the millionth time, but it was just as true as it had been ten minutes before, that morning, or the previous night when he’d tossed and turned with empty arms and a heavy heart. His life was a few short blocks away, waiting for him to do everything he could to get it back.
