by L. B. Dunbar
That’s what scared me the most.
Spending time trying to take it all in and thinking how to logically answer each email, without giving away my location, I’d almost interrupted the little, “so what’s your major,” come-on from Tristan that morning to ask him if he thought emails could be traced to a location. However, I decided that would be ridiculous, and I would sound suspicious.
I hadn’t intended to flinch when he reached for me. My thoughts were elsewhere; with someone else, and the motion surprised me. I was certain he wouldn’t hurt me, not intentionally, and reaching to wipe food off my lips wasn’t going to inflict major pain. It just happened: a reaction.
I would have explained it. It was on the tip of my tongue, when he turned and stormed out of the house. I had to stop myself from following him. I had to respond to those emails and put my thoughts to rest. That’s what I was trying to do when he asked me another question.
“Am I boring you?”
“What?” I blinked.
“You seem like you keep drifting off, as if I’m boring you with my stellar conversational skills.”
I had to laugh.
“It’s not you.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that before.”
“I doubt it,” I laughed again.
“What does that mean?”
“Come on,” I began and then hesitated. I didn’t want to insult him, but I could see the flirty side of him peeking out, wanting to be released.
“I doubt anyone has ever said to you, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”
He opened his deep green moss colored eyes wide, and I saw the sparkle of gold within them. He looked surprised, but immediately ready to play.
“Never. It’s never been me. I don’t stick around long enough.”
“I bet you don’t,” I muttered.
It was his turn to glare at me and his eyes shifted. They softened.
“It’s not that I don’t want to stick around for someone. I just haven’t found that someone special to stick with.” He was serious in his response. The conversation was shifting, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. Should I tell him?
“I know what you mean, I think.”
He finished his sandwich and changed the subject.
“So…why are you down here alone?”
“Why are you?”
“I asked you first,” he said like a petulant child.
“I…I needed to get away. Clear my mind. Think some things through.”
“I know what you mean,” he responded then winked. “I think.”
I laughed. I could tell he was preventing this heavy conversation from getting heavier.
“I guess I better get back to the books,” I said, standing and picking up my plate. I reached for his plate, too.
He grabbed my wrist and I froze. He held it for a moment then opened his fingers to let his palm rest flatly on the back of my hand.
“You don’t have to wait on me. I don’t deserve your kindness, but I do appreciate it,” he said, staring at our combination of his large fingers over my small wrist. I looked at our hands as well, and for a fraction of a second, I wondered what those hands would feel like on my skin, if he were making love to me. I sensed, for that fraction of a second, that he might be gentle and attentive, if I was someone worth sticking with. But just as quickly as I thought it, I let it go. I gently tugged my hand out from under his and walked to the sink.
The afternoon remained gloomy, although I had been here enough times to know the rain and clouds could pass quickly. We shared the silent space compatibly, absent of conversation; however, Tristan was hardly silent with his guitar. He wasn’t loud, like he promised. He’d play a few chords then wrote something down. He played again and wrote again. He was fully concentrating on his work as he sat inside the three-sided pit couch. He was far enough away from me to not really distract me, but distracted I was.
I couldn’t concentrate. I kept staring at my computer screen. After a few more emails, and no additional response from me, I stopped receiving them. My text messaging pinged for a while, but when my phone actually began to ring, I turned the whole thing off. It was on the third attempted call, that I sensed Tristan’s eyes on me. I was refusing to look over at him.
I began to type on the keyboard, hoping he would not know I was typing gibberish in order to look like I was busy. I was beginning to type harder, more frequently, jabbing at the keys, and letting my fingers randomly select any arrangement. The tips of my fingers had a mind of their own. I eventually slammed all ten fingers down on the keyboard, banging three times in a row when Tristan’s voice was in my ear.
“Can you actually read that?”
His warm breath caressed my shoulder, as I detected that he was bent over me to look at what I was doing. I had been so lost in taking out my frustration on the laptop, that I hadn’t noticed him leave the couch or approach the table. I had this strange sense that if I turned my head to look at him; I’d be close enough to kiss him. I closed my eyes to the thought and took a deep breath.
“Hey,” he said softly in my ear again, “you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied through gritted teeth that had no snarl in them.
He swung his body to face me as he spun the chair, forcing me to face him. He was scanning my face as if he could read all my secrets. I was almost willing to share them. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold them all inside.
“Want to learn to play?” he asked, swinging the guitar off his back and into his arms, as he knelt before me. He cradled it like it was a baby, lovingly caressing the neck, and stroking his fingers up a string. I had a brief thought where I wondered if he would be as tender with my neck. How would his fingers stroke me? I blinked away the idea as I looked into his probing green eyes. He had admitted he didn’t stick. I already knew someone like that.
I pulled back from him slowly, crossing my arms over my chest as a protective shield against his charm or my fantasy. Either way, I scanned over his face in return and realized he was serious.
“Does it help?” I blew out a breath.
“Probably more than senselessly banging on that computer, unless you know how to play the piano and were pretending it was one. Although, I don’t recall that song.” He smiled that slow lopsided smile at me, and I had to giggle.
“Okay,” I said. “Teach me.”
He put out his hand for me. I stared at it for only a split second before placing my own in his, allowing him to help me stand.
If I thought lunch was awkward, the first attempts at learning to play guitar were worse. I was terrible. Tristan had to help me position his Fender on my lap, several times. I couldn’t balance it for some reason, and it kept slipping. Then he was trying to explain where to place my fingers for the basic chords – A B C D E. I fumbled repeatedly, until he came to sit near me, trying to imitate the necessary positions with his own fingers in an air guitar motion. Eventually, he set himself beside me, close enough for our thighs to press into each other. He reached around me to hold his hand over mine to assist me in curling my fingers in the correct manner.
My short blunt manicure kept getting in the way. Tristan told me my hands were too soft. “You needed to firm up your fingertips,” he said in seriousness. I needed calluses. I wrinkled my nose at him in disgust, and he actually tweaked my nose like I was a child.
“You do that often,” he said. “Or is it just me, because I smell?”
I giggled softly. I hadn’t even noticed it about myself.
I bumbled a few more times with the combination he was encouraging me to play, when the landline rang. I froze. My fingers slipped down the guitar. It slid on my legs, as they were slightly sweaty holding the instrument against them. Tristan put out his hands to catch his baby.
“Don’t answer it,” I blurted, as if Tristan was intending to stand to get it.
“I wasn’t going to.” He paused for a moment, pinching his eyebrows. “But are you expecting a phone call?”
&n
bsp; I shook my head.
“Avoiding one?” he added, softer.
I averted my eyes to the guitar in his lap. I couldn’t look at him. The afternoon was passing so enjoyably. I had been having too much fun, joking around with him. My mind let go of all attempted communications. He had completely distracted me.
He cupped my chin to raise my face to his, and I closed my eyes as my face rose.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
I did.
“If I ever call you, you better always answer me,” he smiled slowly.
I shook my head and smiled weakly.
“Want to keep playing?”
“Sure.”
“Who do you want to learn?”
“Something by The Band Perry.”
“Are you messing with me?” His green eyes sparkled with gold.
I broke the tension with laughter.
“Give me that,” I demanded with a tease, reaching for his guitar.
Chapter 10
[Ireland]
Into her heart, she let him begin,
The next few days rounded out the first week and followed a pattern for me. I ran only on the beach in the morning, but not as intensely. I often stumbled upon Tristan on my way back toward the house. I would slow to walk with him, and we would share the time in compatible silence or idle chatter. Either way, I was growing comfortable with him.
I learned more about the guitar, although I was still terrible. It wasn’t the lessons, as much as it was the flirtation that I felt occurring between us, that I enjoyed. He’d tease me about how awful I was, and I’d give it back to him with comments about country artists.
One afternoon I finally gave up some truth.
“Do you know any songs by The Nights?”
His mouth fell open then he rapidly closed it, looking down at the position of his fingers on the neck of his guitar.
“Have anything particular in mind you want to learn?”
“Nah.” I smirked. “Anything is fine. I’ve heard they’re okay.”
“Okay?” he choked. “Okay, I mean. Let’s see, there’s, ‘Chasing Dreams’ and ‘Follow Me,’ off their Historia album.”
“Nah.” I smirked again. “I was thinking of ‘Run Away’.”
He was staring at me, his green eyes sparkling with those specks of gold.
“I think their bass guitarist wrote it for their first album. I heard he’s pretty good...”
I wrinkled my nose, suddenly conscious of doing it and shrugged my shoulders, pausing as if that was supposed to mean something.
“Pretty good? The band won a Grammy as Best New Artist their first year, not to mention going platinum with that album, and that song was his masterpiece…”
His voice trailed off as he watched me. I couldn’t contain my smile.
“You know, don’t you?”
I bit my lip, hoping he wasn’t mad. I didn’t answer. I had known since the first days. It was the songs he played when he was in a drinking daze. They were all Nights’ songs. He was so lost in the moment, like he was on a stage, but it was only him. As I watched him the past few days, writing notes and plucking at the guitar, while I sat at the table doing my homework, I was curious. I Googled the band.
“You totally know who I am, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I replied coyly, growing a little nervous that I was ruining our unspoken pact to remain only Tristan and Ireland. Nothing more.
He slipped the guitar to the side, placing it lovingly on the couch before twisting toward me. He clasped his hands before him as he balanced his elbows on his legs. I continued hesitantly.
“You know, you kind of look like the bass guitarist from The Nights, but I can’t be sure. He seems like such a heartbreaker, stripping hearts, having flavors, blah, blah, blah, but you…you just aren’t like that impressive. So, I don’t know?” I bit my lip in question, as I tried to hold my smile.
I’d seen the videos. The girls with his name scrawled across their chest. Their tears, as he knelt to play before the crowd. Him, bare chested, covered in sweat and concentration, as he played his heart out in each song.
He pounced at me, knocking me backward onto the cushions. He braced himself above me, so he wasn’t really touching me, but he was so close to every vital part of me. My breathing grew shallow.
“A heartbreaker? Not impressive? I’ll have you know, Tristan Lyons is very popular with the ladies. They never turn him down. He’s very good at stripping woman, all right. Then he breaks their hearts with his music and fills them up again with the skill in his fingers,” his voice grew raspier as he spoke.
“Is that so? Well, then too bad, you aren’t him, huh?”
“Yeah, too bad. For you,” he said, as he drew his face closer to mine. His moss green eyes sparkled with bright gold, in a way that was starting to make my heart flutter each time he looked at me. I didn’t recognize the sensation. I wanted to believe the look in his eyes was just for me, but after seeing the videos and the numerous news articles, I learned he never had the same girl on his arm twice. Never.
His breath was on my lips. My breasts brushed his chest, as my lungs filled with air. A slow thumping pulse was beating between my legs. A feeling, I recognized, but didn’t fully understand. Other men had tried to get to that pulse, but I always stopped them. I was waiting for that love, the one who would stick. I blinked up at Tristan. My shoulders sagged, knowing he wasn’t that one either. Then the house phone rang again.
I turned my head to break Tristan’s gaze and stared in the direction of the shrilling noise.
“Why don’t you just answer it, and get it over with, whatever it is?”
I turned back to him still balanced over me.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do…I’ve seen the videos.”
“What videos?”
“The ones with all the girls.”
“You think I’m a player, don’t you? Being nicknamed, The Heartbreaker, you think I’m heartless?”
“Are you admitting that you’re Tristan Lyons? The Tristan Lyons of The Nights?”
“I admit nothing,” he laughed bitterly, still hovering over me.
“Exactly,” I replied. He seemed to get the hint that I was talking about me, not him.
The moment was lost after the phone stopped ringing, and Tristan sat back on his knees, pulling me to sit upright. My shirt had ridden up when he pushed me back on the couch. I tugged it down, smoothing it over my stomach. My heart was racing, from his nearness and from the phone call. The adrenaline rush made me think I could tackle another long run.
“I think I’m going to go sit in the sun,” I said softly, dragging myself off the couch.
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“No,” I said a bit too adamantly. “Stay here and practice. You’re obviously working on something. I don’t want to be an interruption.”
I stood and backed away from him, as he remained kneeling on the couch. He was watching me retreat as I slipped into the hall. I took another deep breath to calm myself. I had been too close to him. My mind was a jumble as my body reacted and my brain took over.
I changed quickly into a red bikini and a cover up then grabbed my hat, my book, and a fresh towel from the linen closet. Tristan wasn’t in the living room when I returned, but his guitar was still on the couch. I wandered outside, set all my things up on the chaise lounge, and took off down the beach without a glance back at the house.
Chapter 11
[Tristan]
Before sadder news drown him in.
Turns out, the ringing phone was for me, not Ireland. A few minutes after she practically ran out of the living room, and I cursed myself for tackling her, my cell phone rang. I hadn’t noticed I had several missed calls, over the past few days. The number was always the same, and in my personal admonishment, I hastily answered the call.
“Tristan, dude, where the hell have
you been?”
It was Kaye Sirs, our band manager, and someone that could get on my nerves.
“I’m in the Caymans. You know that.”
“Well, I was beginning to think you weren’t. I’ve been calling for days.”
“I’ve been preoccupied,” I interrupted, as I wandered outside to stand on the patio.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I have news.”
“What?” I asked lazily, as I paced under the covered stone patio. My tone proved my boredom.
“Arturo called me. He’s coming home.” The words took a moment to process. They replayed in my mind as if I was underwater. Arturo’s coming home. It warbled inside my head.
“What? What happened? Did he say anything? Where the fuck has he been?” The questions tumbled out of me, so close together they sounded like one.
“Whoa. I don’t have all those answers. A lot of shit has been going down since you’ve been on your benders, man, but I think we all need to be here to support each other.”
“I got it,” I sighed.
“How much longer you going to be?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. I was ready to jump on the next plane for Arturo, but in the next breath, I wasn’t sure I was ready to see him. I’d been cursing him for months, begging him in my head to come home. Now that he was, I wasn’t certain I could handle seeing him. The hurt was deep.
Then I thought of Ireland. I was on the edge of the patio, and she didn’t notice me talking on the phone, when she skipped down to the beach, set up her things, and took off down the sand. I was hoping to cut her off and spend the rest of the day with her on the beach, but now the phone call cancelled my plan.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know, maybe another week. When is he coming home?”
“Undetermined, but soon.”
“I don’t know what to say to that.” I ran a hand through my hair.
“Neither do I. I just know that I want to hear him out. I need to hear him out. Then I plan to kick his ass.”
I laughed then grew serious again.
