by L. B. Dunbar
Then opened her heart to patiently wait.
I didn’t see Tristan for four days. I was good at avoiding him. I worked out in the morning, taking my long run early. I made breakfast and left coffee for him. I showered and took to the beach. Nothing distracted me like a good book. I had plenty to keep my mind occupied and off the intriguing stranger sharing my house.
When he realized what he’d been doing, the horror on his face was almost tangible. It was so apparent; I felt I could touch it. When he walked away from me that morning, I didn’t expect him to seek me out again, but I knew he did. I heard his door open and his heavy steps trudge into the kitchen. I remained in my room, with phone in hand. I was so angry and upset, I almost called Isa. That would have ruined everything, but fear for my own safety overruled anything else.
I would simply explain that I had a lapse in judgment, something Isa would scold me over and then excuse me of it. She would say I just had cold feet. I didn’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I would apologize and ask for a return ticket home. Isa would probably send my uncle’s jet¸ and I would be more indebted to him.
Something stopped me, though. When I heard Tristan return to his room, I tiptoed barefoot down the hall. I snuck up to the door like an errant child, trying to get away with something. I just needed out of the house and the only way was past his room. With my phone in my hand, and my bag over my shoulder, I rushed silently by his room, when I heard a sob from inside. I stopped, held my breath, and listened. I took a silent step backward and paused. I heard a sob again.
My shoulders slumped and I turned toward the door. I took another step forward and waited silently. The sobbing continued and I raised a hand to knock. Holding my hand frozen in air, I waited for another sob. My heart broke a little for this man, who was sad in more ways than I could imagine. I didn’t think he intended to hurt me, but it didn’t rule out my fear. When I didn’t hear anything further, I turned away from the door and ran on tiptoes out of the house.
I needed people and distraction. The open-air market was the perfect place. As I walked among the locals, dickering for bargains, I let go of my thoughts of the sobs, and focused on nothing, but fresh foods, handmade products, and local fanfare. I found a great broad brimmed hat to protect my face from the sun and some bangle bracelets.
Returning to the house, after going to an open-air bar down the way for a drink and a taste of the local favorites, rum punch and fish tacos, I felt more relaxed and ready to handle anything my strange roommate wished to deal. Of course, my stomach could only hold so much, but I deserved the indulgence after the day I’d had. I held my breath again as I returned that night, but the house was completely dark. It was obvious that Tristan hadn’t left his room.
The next morning he hadn’t exited his room after my morning ritual of running, and I thought it safe enough to remain near the house. I went down the way to a resort and planted myself on a lounge there, within view of the patio. I had lunch at the resort cantina and stayed through their happy hour special, eating an appetizer with another rum punch, before returning to a dark home.
Tristan didn’t emerge from his room again, and the following day I braved staying in front of the house. I was getting angry with myself for hiding out from him, when it was my house and my time away from similar drama. Determined to remain strong, I sat on the chaise near the raised patio with my new hat in place and a good book in hand. When he emerged on the patio, he didn’t address me, and I didn’t call out to him. I sat perfectly still, holding my breath, waiting. He didn’t speak to me. I finally relaxed enough to continue reading, although I had to reread the same page five times before I knew what it said. When I finally had the nerve to look over my shoulder, trying to shield my eyes with my hat, he was gone.
The same pattern followed the next day. He came to sit on the patio for a few minutes, while I sat outside in the sun, reading, distracting myself with the fictional woes of others, but that night he caught me in the kitchen. I jumped when I heard his feet behind me. I didn’t mean to give off the impression I was frightened of him, but I was startled by his sudden presence.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, as he saw me flinch. I kept my hand over my racing heart as I stared at him.
“I…” he paused to scratch his scruffy neck, “I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner. A peace offering, if you will. I need a change of pace.”
“No, thank you,” I replied, licking my lips. His eyes followed the motion.
“I…I need to apologize…” he started.
“Accepted,” I immediately blurted, despite the fact he hadn’t really finished. His moss green eyes looked better, but weary.
“I never…” he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “ever…meant to hurt you. And I am terribly sorry that I’ve scared you.”
I didn’t say anything further. I didn’t know how to respond.
“I’ve made you feel unsafe with me. I never want anyone to feel that way around me. Especially…not you,” he sighed and ran a hand down his face. Then he ran it through his hair and scratched at the back of his neck, making his hair stand up.
I swallowed and pursed my lips, then bit them. I could only acknowledge him with a nod.
“I’m not good at apologies, and I wish you’d say something.” He slid his hands into the front pockets of his shorts.
“I can’t have dinner with you,” I uttered again, uncertain why those were the words that fell out of my mouth.
“Okay, I understand,” he said softly, looking down at his feet. “I need to get out, though, you know?”
I nodded in response.
“I won’t be long, so I’ll see you later?” He was hesitant in each word, and they hung heavy between us. He wasn’t warning me. He wasn’t asking my permission, but he wanted me to know his plans for some reason. I wouldn’t see him later, though. I’d be locked in my room, trying not to think of the expression on his face as he apologized. Before me stood a sad, defeated man.
Chapter 8
[Tristan]
The musician played his tales of woe;
Having a burger and a beer helped balance me out. Going cold turkey was torture and unnecessary. I just needed to step back and slow down. That’s what I was really doing in the Caymans. I was trying to relax. I hadn’t planned on a blonde-haired beauty stirring me up. I had enough troubles as it was.
I returned to a dark house, despite the early hour, and I knew that she had probably locked herself in her room again. I was making her respite miserable as well, and I didn’t mean to. I knocked softly on her door, telling her that I had returned, but she didn’t answer. There was the warm glow of a television light shining under the door, though, so I knew she was inside.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I saw her sitting at the dining table, laptop open with papers and books spread about. The sky looked dark outside the many windows, and I was certain there would be rain.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Goo mo-ning,” she muttered, as she held a pencil in her teeth and typed away on her computer.
I took my cup of coffee and walked to the windows, like I had done days earlier, and stared out at the ocean. It looked dark and menacing, for the moment, but plenty of people were still walking the beach. I wondered briefly how long I was safe in my hideout. How long before some paparazzi found me? I didn’t like to think of them, heartless bastards, as they were the reason Arturo was lost to us. If it wasn’t for their carelessness for a photo, his motorcycle wouldn’t have been tagged by one, while he was run over by another. At least that’s what we had surmised happened. A photographer had taken the pre-accident pictures. A rag-tag journalist had taken the after image. The original culprit didn’t even stay at the scene of the crime long enough to find out if Arturo was dead or alive. Whoever clipped him hadn’t been brought to justice.
Of course, publishing the photo had been the paparazzi’s downfall. There was only one person who could have
been that close to the accident, and it was whoever was chasing him. Chasing them. Perk had been there, too. I wanted to curse him, for veering off from Arturo, leaving our leader behind. But I knew Perkins Vale, our band’s drummer, was beating himself up enough that no one else needed to assist his own personal torture. He’d gotten the girl, but we lost Arturo. It had all been done for love, I was told. It was a reminder that love can hurt.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood staring out the window, recalling details that were still unclear to us all, when I realized my coffee cup was empty, and Ireland had said my name.
“Tristan? Are you okay?” she asked softly.
I turned to look at her then gazed into my empty cup.
“No. No, I’m not okay,” I said.
I glanced up to see those wide blue eyes staring at me. She looked wary of me, and I hated that I’d put fear in her eyes.
“I…” I thought twice before continuing. “What are you working on?” I motioned my head toward all her papers and books, as I walked to the side of the table.
“College course. Latin names of plants.” She shifted her eyes to the computer screen, clicked something after squinting at it and glanced back up at me.
“You’re a college student?”
Oh my God, am I here with a minor? She looks young, twenty, twenty-one, but is she younger?
“Ummm…not exactly.”
“Well, what exactly?” I pried.
“I’m taking a college course toward a degree. I don’t go to college per se, but I’m working on getting a degree.”
“In what?” I sat down at the table, crossing my arms on the cool surface.
She looked at my hands hesitantly for a moment. I slipped them under the table.
“Botany or horticulture. I like plants, but I’m still taking some prerequisites before I can officially declare. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it. I…I just…I just want it,” she said with a sigh and a shrug.
“That’s cool. I majored in history and music. I didn’t really need the degree, but I get that it was nice to have. Music’s really all I know.”
“I heard you the other day. You play well,” she said and looked back at the computer screen.
“How old are you?” I asked eagerly.
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Twenty-one.”
I waited.
“Don’t you want to know how old I am?”
“Do you want to tell me?” she teased, then glanced sideways to look at her computer screen again and wrinkled her nose.
I decided against telling her.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you. It doesn’t look like a great day today. I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I said as I stood, pressing my hands on the table for support.
She had bit into a piece of toast next to her papers and a crumb dangled from the side of her lips. I noticed again how deliciously pink they were, and I wondered how many mouths they’d kissed.
“You got something…” I motioned toward my mouth.
She understood my signal and wiped the wrong side. I reached for her lips with my thumb. When she flinched and leaned away, I dropped my hand immediately.
“I didn’t mean anything,” I said, more bitterly than I intended. “You have food on the corner of your mouth,” I explained outright.
She blinked at me and grabbed the napkin from under her plate to swipe at her whole mouth. She didn’t respond to me. I wouldn’t have heard anyway. I turned on my bare feet and walked out the door to the beach. I needed to separate myself from her.
I was angry, when I shouldn’t have been. I was hurt, when I understood I had no right to be. Her withdrawal from my potential contact was to be expected, and the weight of the fear I had caused her was heavy. I stormed down the sand, bare foot, kicking occasionally at the water that rolled up and over my ankles.
I let my thoughts wander as I roamed, feeling the calm take me over, the greater the distance I placed between the house and me. Maybe I should go home, back to New York, I thought. Maybe trying to hide out wasn’t going to help. It certainly wasn’t helping the band that Arturo was in hiding somewhere. Damn him. Damn him straight to hell for what he was doing, keeping us all out, especially Guinevere. If Arturo would have only let her in, we might know something; something tangible, instead of this feeling of limbo, this horrible sense of the unknown.
My thoughts drifted back to Ireland and her college degree. She said she didn’t know what she was going to do with it; she just knew she wanted it. That’s how I felt. I wasn’t sure what to do with the music in me and the need to play. I just had to do something with it. An idea came to me. One that almost made me laugh aloud to the rolling ocean waves.
The album was three songs shy of completion. We had all the tracks with Arturo almost down or done for the album, before everything went to hell.
Maybe? Maybe.
I did laugh. Maybe I could try to write the last one. I’d written a song before. It wasn’t one of our most popular hits, but I was proud of the lyrics. Arturo had been very supportive that I gave composing a try. Hell, I’d even encouraged Lansing to try for that ungrateful girl and he did a damn fine job.
Between Lansing and me, we could sing the final song. Arturo was the lead singer and he was our lyric god, but he didn’t have to be the only one. We had to finish the album, so the time hadn’t been a waste. Finishing the album had bought us more time. It solidified the deal with the record company, despite the cancelled concert. A new album would stall any speculation that the band was done. It would give Arturo time to get his head out of his ass and decide to come home. Then we could figure out what to do, together.
I was pretty excited about my new plan. For the first time in months, I had some focus. A goal was good for me. I turned in the sand and began my return journey back to the house, when the skies opened up. The rain fell in heavy sheets upon me. It was refreshing as it washed over me, and I felt lighter than I had in a long time. It was renewing, the energy inside me, and the baptism of the rain I welcomed as a sign of good things to come. I took my time walking back, letting the peace I experienced linger.
When I arrived at the house, I found a beach towel on the glass table under the heavy covering over the patio. I was soaked, and Ireland’s random act of kindness again softened my heart. I owed her. She didn’t deserve my anger earlier. She could have turned me out: sent me home or called the police. I couldn’t have dealt well with any of that, but I recognized that her turning me out might have been the hardest one to handle.
There was something about her that I couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t that I’d given her much thought. I selfishly concerned myself with my own issues, but she seemed to be in my mind peripherally, on the edge of my thoughts. There was something slightly familiar about her, but I really couldn’t place it. I was relieved that she was still pretending not to know me. Although as more time passed, I assumed she might really not recognize me.
The dining table was clear as I entered the house, but I heard a noise in the kitchen.
“Oh my gosh, you’re soaked,” she laughed at me as I entered the room.
Water still dripped from my shorts in heavy drops onto the tile floor. I had already used the towel provided to rub over my hair and face and down my wet arms. I hadn’t been concerned about the rest of me. I had removed my shirt outside and draped it over the back of a chair to air dry.
“It’s pouring outside,” I said, stating the obvious.
She looked at me with a, ‘well-duh,’ face and wrinkled her nose in a way I was getting used to recognizing.
“I was going to make some lunch. Want something?”
“Have I been gone that long?”
“About an hour.”
I didn’t respond.
“Would you mind if I practice later?” I exclaimed to her back with growing excitement, as she turned to open the refrigerator.
“No,” she paused, thinking. “
I guess I can go shopping or something.”
“Or you could stay? Unless you think it will disturb you?”
“No. I need to finish this online quiz and respond to a student blog. I could do it in my room.”
“I don’t have to use the amp,” I said quickly. Adding, “You could still work at the table.”
She looked at me as she held the door to the fridge open.
“Okay,” she said quietly and bit her lip.
“Okay,” I responded, one side of my mouth rising slowly.
“Lunch?”
“Definitely.”
Chapter 9
[Ireland]
The lady let her patience grow.
Eating lunch with Tristan was just what I feared it would be. Awkward. He attempted to make conversation, and I tried to answer, but I was still hesitant. I wasn’t good with small talk. His sudden interest in wanting to know things about me was making me nervous, especially after the emails from home that I finally decided to open.
First had been Isa. Where was I? What was I thinking? What was I doing? It was almost like a needle stuck at the end of a vinyl album, hitting the raised edge to repeat, repeat, and repeat.
Then there was one from my uncle. He scolded me for causing Isa worry. He promised they would find me and bring me safely home, as if I had been kidnapped or something, but there was an undercurrent of warning. I could almost hear his voice speaking to me through the internet.
The last was only one from my intended husband. He didn’t know it yet. He hadn’t offered marriage, but that was the plan. I was expected to seduce him and was expected to marry him. I would belong to him, and he would solve everything. He wanted me all right. Of that he was very clear, but he hadn’t taken the final step, not officially. That’s why I was here. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it, any of it.
He told me, in his one message, he missed me. He assured me that whatever I needed: time, money, he would give it to me. He promised that he would be waiting for me when I returned. There was one thing he hadn’t mentioned.
