1839 Days
The cleaners dropped me off at a Starbucks near my flat and I went in and bought myself a hot chocolate, texting my mom as I waited for it, letting her know I would be home shortly. When they called out to Angie, I took my drink and headed out down the street, thinking about Tristan and the best way to handle the situation. I knew continuing to lie to him wasn’t an option, but the devil on my shoulder really wanted to make out with him some more. Okay, a lot more. As expected, the angel on my other side really didn’t like that idea.
I unlocked the front door to the building and walked around and through the lobby to the courtyard, hoping Tristan was out there. At the same time, part of me hoped he wasn’t, because no matter what happened, our next conversation was not going to be a fun one.
Sure enough, he was out there and I wondered if he was there waiting for me. He had no way of getting a hold of me, so it was possible he was using the bench as a rendezvous spot. Though part of me felt like I was giving myself too much credit and that it was possible he was just sitting out there for the same reason he had since I’d first seen him: to get outside when the walls felt like they were closing in on him.
His face was stony, his back rigid, telling me nothing about his current mood as I approached him. I made sure to scuff my feet a little so as not to startle him.
“Someone there?” he asked, his face still facing straight ahead, though I came up on his right side.
“It’s me,” I said, sitting down beside him.
“Brooklyn,” he said. Not a question, just the one word that told me I was totally busted.
My brain spooled through every single curse word I knew, including a few in French and one in Italian. I only allowed one to slip out of my mouth.
“Funny. That was my reaction, too” he said, not laughing at all.
“I’m sorry.” I said, glancing up to my living room window, wondering how much my father knew.
“Sorry about what? Lying to me about your age or who you are?”
I took a deep breath and said, “Technically, I didn’t lie to you about who I was. I didn’t even know you knew my parents until the night of the party.”
“That’s garbage and you know it. It was a lie of omission that you didn’t come clean to me then. You led me to believe you were agency.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, scrambling for a way to fix this. My brain was not cooperating at all.
“How old are you?” he asked in a strangled voice.
I knew I had to tell him the truth, but I kind of wanted to know what he was expecting. Like, was he expecting me to say fifteen and seventeen would be a relief? Or did he guess that I was nineteen and seventeen would just make him angrier? It was a relative thing and I wished I knew where I was going to land on the scale of being too young for him. Slightly too young? Way too young? Worth waiting until my next birthday in two weeks too young?
I sighed, realizing it didn’t matter because now that I’d deceived him, he would hate my guts and never want to see me again. “Seventeen,” I said. “Eighteen in a couple of weeks, if that makes a difference.”
His cringe told me it didn’t. Damn.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, taking the chance that another apology would just piss him off more.
“Why?” he asked, the single syllable clipped.
“Huh?”
“Why did you lie about your age? And you can’t say that was not technically a lie—you told me straight out you were twenty-three.”
“Would you have kissed me if you knew I was seventeen?”
“Never.”
My throat closed up, but I still managed to bite out, “There’s your answer.”
“Brooklyn...” he exhaled, his voice softening, sounding a bit like Robert when he was doling out his big brother advice, which was worse than if he’d started yelling at me. “You have to understand, I could get in a lot of trouble. If it had gone further than it did...”
“The age of consent is sixteen,” I said. “Not that...never mind,” I said, not really wanting to go there, but I didn’t want him to think I was completely irresponsible. I realized I had been wrong to lie to him, but I never would have done anything to get him in legal trouble. And to be honest, I would have stopped it before it ever got that far. Probably. I was fairly sure.
He cursed again. “This is a nightmare.”
Okay, that really hurt. “I said I was sorry. It’s obviously over,” I said, unable to stop the tears rolling down my face.
He took several loud breaths, but didn’t say anything else, which was kind of maddening.
“What does my father know?”
“Nothing,” he said and then added, “Yet.”
My heart stopped in my chest. “What?”
He scratched his jaw, the rasp of stubble not sounding quite as sexy as it did the other day, probably due my mind being occupied by the fear of my father finding out about all of this.
He abruptly stopped scratching and shoved his hand in his coat pocket. “I feel like I should tell him.”
“Do you have a death wish?” fell out of my mouth.
“Not anymore,” he said sardonically, before I even realized what I’d said. “But I feel like I took advantage of you. I can’t let that go.”
“Look,” I said, glancing up at the window again to make sure we weren’t being watched, terrified my dad was going to see us having this heated discussion and figure out what was going on. Thankfully, there was still no one there. “If anything, I took advantage of you. You didn’t do anything without my consent and you had no idea how old I am or who my father is.”
He opened his mouth, but I went on before he could say anything. “You have no fault here and if you tell my father what happened, you’re just going to make my life miserable for nothing. It’s not going to do either of us any good. Take that guilt you’re feeling and put the blame where it belongs: on me.”
“You’re only seventeen. You’re just a child.”
That made me mad. “You didn’t think of me as a child when you were kissing me up against your fridge,” I said, my body flushing at the memory. “You can’t tell me you did. I know what you were thinking, I could feel what you were thinking and believe me, I was right there with you.”
He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.
I went on. “In some cultures, women my age are married and have kids. Hell, in our culture girls my age have kids...”
Tristan groaned and shook his head. “Not helping.”
“Okay, that was a bad example, but you get what I’m saying. You said yourself I seemed mature. You didn’t question my age when I said I was twenty-three. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“That I’m blind and stupid?”
“No,” I said. “That my chronological age isn’t quite as important as you’re making it seem.”
“We’re over, Brooklyn,” he said, his voice hard.
“I know,” I said, resigned to that truth. “I wasn’t saying that to try to convince you otherwise. I just don’t want you to blame yourself. I own that I tricked you and I am truly sorry for that.”
I took a breath and told him the rest, which was scary as hell: “But I don’t regret what happened between us because though I’m sure you think I’m just a stupid teenager, I really did like you. I do like you.”
He cursed, which said a lot about how he’d felt about me, not that I expected him to admit it now. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, “I hate myself for deceiving you, but I hope you won’t hate me for it.”
Tristan took a deep breath and let it out, finally turning toward me. “No. I don’t think I hate you. I’m mad, but I get why you did it.”
And you’re so incredibly hot, how could you blame me? I didn’t say, hating my brain for throwing that in. “We were having fun talking,” I said, trying to bring his mind around to when we first met. “Maybe I didn’t think it would go as far as it did. We were flirting and that was fun, f
or both of us, I think. I knew if you thought of me as a kid, you wouldn’t have flirted with me anymore.”
He nodded. “You still should have told me, though.”
“Yes. I get that now.”
We sat there for several long, agonizingly quiet minutes.
“Did I mention I was sorry?” I said when I couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
“Maybe just the once,” he said, his voice not quite as hard-edged as it had been.
“Right, well, you haven’t actually been the adult here and accepted my apology.”
He turned toward me, his mouth turned down into a frown. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
My heart jumped into my throat, but I took another risk. “Yeah. It was a joke. Too soon?”
“Yes,” he said and then after a long pause added: “Maybe after a summer in the Hamptons it will land better.”
I leaned into his shoulder because he couldn’t see me smile. “Thanks.”
He shrugged.
“Friends?” I asked.
He nodded. “Fine. Yeah. No benefits, though.”
Gah! “Understood,” I said. “Soooooo...”
“What?”
“How did it go down with my father? That you found out, I mean.”
“He came over to pick up the platter ‘his daughter’ left. I’m embarrassed to say it took me a few minutes to connect the dots.”
“Why didn’t you ask him how old I was?”
He cocked his head in an are you kidding me gesture. “All I could think about was how I’d defiled his daughter against my refrigerator. The last thing I wanted to do was make it seem to him like I was interested by asking how old you are.”
“Probably a good plan,” I said, feeling kind of bad for laughing. “And you didn’t defile his daughter. You almost defiled her. Big difference.”
He laughed humorlessly, but didn’t dwell on that point. “Anyway, I agreed that you were a good kid, handed him his platter and sent him on his way. I was pretty rude to him, actually.”
“To be honest—and I’m not trying to be a bitch here—he probably thought nothing of it after your...er...episode the other night.”
“Good point,” he said, thankfully seeming unembarrassed about that. “Either way, it was pretty brutal, but no, he doesn’t know what happened and you’re probably right that telling him wouldn’t do any good.”
That was a relief. “Good call,” I said, resisting the urge to fist-pump. “Dad would feel pretty awkward about punching a blind man.”
Tristan laughed, with humor this time, which was a good sign.
“So, we’re good? For real?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“One thing, though,” I said. “Can I get your last name?”
“What for?”
“When I am twenty-three, I’m totally looking you up.”
He snorted. “Something tells me you won’t be available then, but I’d be happy to hear from you. My last name’s Archer.”
“You’ve got five years and two weeks to get ready, Tristan Archer.”
He smiled at me then, that devastatingly sexy smile that had started all the trouble in the first place.
Changing Tides
Of course I Googled Tristan that afternoon, but as I probably could have guessed, found nothing. Standard agency protocol, of course. Now that he was likely retired or working in only a limited role as a consultant or other non-field job, he wouldn’t be technically off the grid, but his work for the agency would be classified. And that he would have been off the grid while in active duty meant he wouldn’t have had much of an internet footprint anyway.
Probably just as well, I thought. Those scars and the whole torture thing would be way more than I could handle if I learned the truth. I could ask Dad, I supposed, but as I thought more about it, I figured the less I knew, the better.
So after that search came up empty, I did some research on PTSD which made me sad and hurt my heart because, ugh. But it still pretty much got me nowhere because I didn’t really know his symptoms, other than claustrophobia, nor did I have any idea if or what medication he might be on.
Then I began to wonder why he was here in London when he was obviously American. Did he not have any family? Were they here or back in the States? With a common last name like Archer and not even knowing where he was from originally, I was never going to be able to narrow a search down enough to figure any of that stuff out. Maybe that was more stuff that I was better off not knowing. Although now that Tristan and I were friends, I supposed I could always ask him.
Giving up, I turned away from my laptop and glanced out the window, just in time to see that woman with the little white dog walking around the courtyard. A light bulb went on in my head and I returned to my laptop on a mission.
~ ♥ ~
Once I found what I wanted, I disconnected my laptop from the charger and took it to Dad in his study.
“What’s this?” he asked as I placed it on his desk in front of him.
“Of course I don’t know Tristan very well or what kind of therapy he’s in, but I found something that I think might help him.”
His brow furrowed as he looked at me. “His situation is complicated. He...he’s been through a lot. I can’t get into the details of his...”
“I know, Dad,” I said, interrupting him. “Believe me, I don’t even want to know, because obviously it’s bad. I’m not looking to get involved personally. I just...I think this would really help.”
He looked at me and seemed to search my face for a minute before he nodded and looked down at the screen. I held my breath, waiting for him to read the site and see what it was about.
Finally, he took off his glasses and put them down on his desk before he looked up at me.
“How do you know about this?”
“I was doing a bit of research about PTSD in vets and came across it. What do you think?”
“I’m not sure how long he’s going to be in the UK.”
“I wondered about that,” I said. “Not knowing his situation, but I checked and they have similar organizations in the States, too.”
Dad nodded and stood up, pulling me into his arms for a hug. “I think it’s a great idea. I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
He squeezed me tighter and then backed out of the hug, but kept a hold of my shoulders. “Don’t thank me. It’s me who should thank you. It’s really thoughtful of you to have been looking for ways to help him.”
It’s the least I can do after what I did to him, I thought but didn’t say. I did not need to go down that road with my father.
“And I should thank you also for putting up with all these restrictions. It’s been really hard on you, I know that.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “I understand.”
“Still. I want normal lives for you kids.”
“Robert has pretty much made sure he’s going down the same road as you.”
Dad nodded, his mouth screwed down into a frown of resignation. “I know. But that’s his choice now. You didn’t get that opportunity.”
I shrugged. “I’ll deal with it. At least I can get some fresh air now. Maybe I can hang out with Tristan and see if he needs help with anything.”
Dad smiled at that but didn’t say anything. “That would be nice of you. Though don’t get any ideas—I know he’s handsome, but he’s a little too old for you.”
I made a show of rolling my eyes. “No kidding, Dad. He’s practically your age.”
He screwed up his face at that, but at least it threw him off the trail.
“You’re a good kid,” he said. “Even though I’m pretty sure you just somehow insulted both me and Tristan. I am going to try to make this better. Just be patient.”
I gave him a quick hug and picked up my laptop.
“Where you off to now?” he asked.
“My room,” I said. “I’m writing a novel.”
He
smiled at that. “What kind of novel?”
“Not sure yet, but don’t worry, I’ve changed all our names.”
He arched his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything as I left the room.
~ ♥ ~
Later that evening, Dad had left to go back to the office to work on some special project (one he assured us was not the result of an escalated threat), and Mom was off at her Victorian poetry literature circle.
Kaylee was gone and had disconnected her UK phone, and my writing had sort of stalled out, so I sat in the living room working on another knitted scarf. I had Tristan in mind for this one, taking comfort in the fact that, unlike Robert, he was unlikely to make fun of me for it being a little misshapen.
Speaking of my brother, he sat beside me playing Grand Theft Auto, which made me seriously question the braniacs who had recruited him for their special concurrent college/agency program. I mean, I wasn’t going to deny that he was really smart, but that he still got jacked up over playing a ridiculous video game gave me concerns about his maturity.
He was jerking his arms around as he played and I’d even moved over to get out of his strike zone.
“So, you had a good New Year's?” I asked.
He glanced at me and then back at the TV. “Yeah, it was all right. You?”
Not about to tell him how the evening ended, I said, “Also all right. Though I felt like the hired help.”
“I heard the Terminator freaked out.”
I coughed to cover up my gasp. “Did you know he’s agency?”
He shrugged, his focus still on the game. “I had an idea.”
Suddenly, the game paused and my brother turned and looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”
Crap. “No reason,” I said, probably not very convincingly when you factor in the hot blush on my cheeks.
“You into him?”
“No,” I lied.
“What about that guy back at Rosewood?” he asked.
“Brady?”
He lifted his right eyebrow. Crap squared.
“I mean Dave.”
He shook his head and turned back to the game, starting it up again. “Little sister...”
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