The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

“Daddy,” I pleaded softly. “I don’t love him.”

  “Love has nothing to do with it,” he repeated my mother’s words. I had my answer. My father had been hurt by my mother’s lack of love toward him. I wondered if he ever sought it out, despite being married. I thoughtfully looked at my father before I asked.

  “Who was she?” I tried hesitantly.

  He glowered at me, uncertainty in his eyes, guilt mixed with the redness of his face.

  “I will not discuss this with you,” his tone displayed a rare note of firmness. The only other time I heard his authority was when he questioned Mark’s potential aggression toward me. He’d only witnessed it once.

  “What if he hurts me? Physically?”

  I gently rubbed over the newest sensitive spots on my upper arms.

  “He’s not a stupid man. He wouldn’t go that far. He has a slight temper, I’ve noticed, but the love of a good woman, such as you, could tame that in him.”

  “Are you listening to what you’re saying?” I whined, unnecessarily. I sighed heavily.

  It was hard to believe that for twenty-two years I had done all that my parents asked. I loved and obeyed their every wish for me. I did it without question, often times because it seemed the right thing to do. I even tolerated Marshall’s inappropriateness because he was family. But I wasn’t certain I understood what family meant anymore if the word ‘business’ was all that could be associated with it.

  I left my father standing in his study. There was nothing further to say to him. He did not want to hear my reasoning. He did not care about my concerns. I already knew where my mother’s allegiance stood. I’d never felt so alone in all my life.

  At a photo shoot, three days later, I was squeezed into a satin strap of lingerie. The assistant’s eyes opened wider at the swell of my breasts that did not fit into the attire. The piece was more like a lacy corset and the rib cage wiring was so tight, I could hardly catch my breath. I walked to the set, holding myself as erect as possible and took short gasps of air trying to force more oxygen into my lungs.

  As the photographer began to snap the first photos, my vision blurred, and I saw small dots of silver before my eyes. The photographer was trying to get me into the sultry, seductive mood I needed to be in for the shoot. He called out to me.

  “He’s coming for you.”

  “He wants you.”

  “You want him.”

  “You need him to touch you.”

  I couldn’t focus. Normally, I could conjure images of Tristan in these situations. Desire would overflow my emotions to make me fall into the necessary role. Today, I was focusing too much on my breathing.

  The brightness of the set lighting was making me too warm. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back between my shoulder blades. I was trying to take smaller sips of air in hopes to calm the heat when the room swayed. I must have put out my hands to steady myself, despite the fact there was nothing to catch me.

  “Isolde?”

  I heard my name as if I was slipping under water.

  “izzz….ooolld.”

  And the world went black.

  A cool compress was being placed on my head and the photographer was fanning my face. My head was resting in someone’s lap, and the embarrassment that I had fainted was too much. I closed my eyes immediately as I heard the sound of wheels on the tiled floor.

  “An ambulance is here, honey. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you all checked out.”

  I opened my eyes directly and stared up at the voice behind me.

  “I’m not going in an ambulance. I’m fine.”

  I tried to sit up and the world swam around me. I laid back to rest on the knees of another model who held me.

  “You most certainly are not fine.”

  Isa? When did my mother get here?

  My neck twisted slowly in the direction of her voice. My head ached slightly and I felt almost hung-over, which wasn’t possible. I hadn’t been able to drink lately without waking up ill the next morning.

  My mother’s blue eyes looked at me with concern, despite the stern expression on her face.

  “I fainted,” I tried to sound certain, even though I wasn’t sure what happened. I only remembered getting too warm and needing more air. As I slipped my hands to my ribs, I noticed that the corset still lay over me, but had been loosened slightly at the back. A coat of some type was draped over my body.

  “You need a doctor,” Isa’s voice was firm.

  I did sit up then. I slipped my arms into the coat, placing it backward over my body to shield the nervous eyes of two paramedics taking in the scene of a woman scantily dressed.

  “I don’t need an ambulance ride for a doctor visit. Why don’t you just take me to Dr. Bragwain?”

  Isa had her phone in her hand before I could finish. As I shakily stood with the assistance of the other model and the photographer, I wrapped the backward coat around my body and followed Isa to a dressing room to change.

  Dr. Bebe Bragwain had been Isa’s and my doctor for years. Despite being assistive in all things medical, she was also a long-time family friend. Bragwain had a holistic approach to her medical practice that Isa valued as a vegetarian, but I liked her knowledge of medicinal plants. As a younger person, I became fascinated with Bragwain’s explanation of plants one day, while we were on a tour of the botanical gardens near her home in California. Although not all the plants displayed were native to the area, Bragwain knew their purposes beyond their colorful beauty. Her practice moved to New York when I was still young and my yearly check-ups were done by a doctor across the country from my home.

  When I arrived, a quick check of my vitals, a urine sample, and a blood test were ordered as my current diagnosis was fainting. Dr. B looked at my file briefly, before she turned to me.

  “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

  I stared at my inspiration for studying botany. As the word “no” began to escape my lips, I held my mouth open in the final sound, softening it as it hung in the air between us.

  “That’s what I thought.” Bragwain gave me a knowing look. “Why don’t you tell me when was your last period?”

  I had to do the math. It was the middle of June. May? Nope. April? No. March, right before going to the Cayman’s. My mind stopped. My vision blurred again. This time it was from too much air as I began to suck in great gulps of breath.

  “It’s was…I think…back in…near the…March.”

  Dr. B made a note on the chart.

  “And last sexual intercourse.”

  I blinked rapidly at Bragwain, as if I didn’t understand the question.

  Dr. B glared over her computer at me.

  “As your doctor, I’m legally bound to not discuss this with anyone, except you.”

  Bragwain knew I wasn’t on the pill. Isa hadn’t encouraged it, confident that I would remain a virgin, like a good girl, waiting for my intended marriage. There wasn’t a chance of getting pregnant until three months ago.

  “Is there something you wish to share with me?” Bragwain looked at me with full concern in her dark eyes.

  I couldn’t even move to nod or shake my head. I was having trouble processing the possibility of being pregnant.

  “According to your urine results and the blood test, you’re pregnant.” Dr. B paused before she smiled slowly. “Mark will be so happy?”

  I snapped out of my statuary state.

  “Mark?” I answered as if I didn’t know the name.

  Bragwain took in my white face and asked me to lie down on the crinkling paper. As I suddenly looked up at the bright fluorescent lights of the ceiling, I felt a warm hand on my arm.

  “Not Mark?” Dr. B questioned, again knowingly.

  “Not Mark,” I whispered to the too bright lights above.

  “Let’s just do a little sound check. You should be about two to two and half months, that’s eight to ten weeks along.”

  Bragwain went to the door, and I sat up immediately, making the paper
crunch louder in the silence.

  “Don’t tell my mother,” I blurted.

  Dr. B glanced back at me.

  “I won’t. I’ll leave that up to you. I’ll be right back. I need to get something to measure the heartbeat.”

  Moments later, she returned with something that looked like a vibrator. She prepared me for the uncomfortable sensation of something cool across my belly. Turning on a monitor, the machine beeped, until the room was filled with a steady rhythm.

  Whomp-whomp, whomp-whomp, whomp-whomp.

  The beat was coming from within me. Tears slid down my face. I wasn’t sure if it was from joy or terror.

  Chapter 35

  [Tristan]

  Until questions unanswered reveal the fact.

  The humid summer evening air did nothing to warm the cold feeling that engulfed me as I entered Trinity Church for the rehearsal ceremony, the night before Mark and Ireland’s wedding. I hadn’t spoken to Ireland again after she walked away from me in Central Park. I hadn’t spoken to my uncle either, after I returned from purchasing a wedding band to be confronted with a photo of myself with Ireland at Gapstone Bridge.

  “What the fuck is this?” Mark growled at me, as I entered his office a few days later with a ring in my pocket. Mark threw the paper at me. I caught it awkwardly before recognizing myself from behind as I embraced Ireland. Her face was partially blocked by my body, but the shape of her figure molded to mine was undeniable.

  I stared at the newspaper, for a long moment, trying to think of how to explain myself, knowing that whatever I said would haunt Ireland.

  “It was saying good-bye,” I admitted honestly.

  Mark narrowed his cold, gray eyes at me, as he sat with a thud in his large reclining desk chair and placed his elbows on his oversized desk.

  “I knew it,” he whispered to his clenched hands.

  I swallowed hard before I spoke the next words.

  “She didn’t mean anything to me. I convinced her to come home to you.” I hoped that I sounded convincing, and Ireland would know what to say to corroborate the story to save herself from Mark’s wrath.

  “Did you touch her?” Mark growled to the desk.

  I felt the lump in my throat as I lied, “No.”

  “Did you fuck her?” Mark stood so quickly the chair slammed into the shelves behind his desk with a thunderous thud.

  “No,” I fired immediately. “I never fucked her.” That was not a lie. I didn’t fuck her. I loved her. I loved every inch of her, over and over again.

  Mark took the ring box off his desk and threw it at the window, where it made another violent sound within the room before it bounced to the floor. He slipped his hands into his pockets as he stared at the turquoise box, which was now dented on one side as it lay on the floor.

  “I’ll still marry her,” he whispered to the damaged box in a harsh voice. “Just so no one else can have her, ever again.” He glared up at me with the coldest steel color I’d ever seen in my uncle’s eyes.

  With that memory in mind, I opened the large wooden doors to the old church and walked, as a man on his last mile, to the middle of the pews. At the front of the church was a priest with Mark and Ireland. Her parents stood to the side and their private conversation blocked my entrance. I noticed that Guinevere was sitting in a pew alone. I approached her to introduce my date. I placed a hand on her lower back to lead her toward Guinie.

  “Guinevere? This is Izzy White.”

  Isabelle White was the younger half-sister of an old friend, Canyon Blaze. As Elaine had been silently pining for Lansing Lotte for years, Isabelle had been worshipping me from afar, as well. I’d never tapped that issue, though. Unlike Lansing, who eventually learned it was nothing but trouble to sleep with a friend, I wasn’t into sleeping with Canyon’s wild sister. Lansing learned the hard way that when said friend was overly committed to making the experience a life-long relationship, a person might end up deeper than he thought. Lansing and Elaine would now be connected for the rest of their lives through baby Galahad.

  I didn’t plan to enter into a relationship with Izzy, or any other with woman. I needed a date for this occasion as a shield against both my uncle’s cold wrath and Ireland’s impossible decision. Izzy was my only resort. I couldn’t bring someone random, as my uncle wouldn’t believe that I was involved with anyone, unless it was someone he had seen before. Mark would surely have heard of Isabelle White from the times I’d mentioned Canyon. We’d met in Arizona, and he warmed up with the band for a few months before family matters called him home.

  Izzy had snow-white blonde hair, atop pure white skin, which gave her an iridescent look. She had dark eyes that looked like chocolate candy drops, and she wore a bright red dress with sinful high heels. It wasn’t a look I was terribly attracted to, despite not being picky about woman in the past. I wasn’t concerned with attraction at the moment, however. I needed the distraction. I could not compare her blonde hair to Ireland’s. I had to focus on introductions.

  “Izzy, this is Guinevere DeGrance,” I addressed Izzy, who stood wide-eyed as she stared at the renowned girlfriend of Arturo King.

  “Aren’t you Arturo King’s fiancée?”

  Guinevere smiled politely, as she replied, “No.” Izzy made an overly exaggerated O shape with her mouth. I was upset at Guinie’s response, but I didn’t have time to respond as Izzy slipped past my body to sit in the pew behind Guinevere. I patted Guinie’s shoulder awkwardly at the painful reminder that Arturo was still missing. I took a deep breath and sat with a thud on the wooden bench, drawing attention to my presence.

  Ireland and Mark both looked in my direction. I instantly saw the pained expression cross Ireland’s face before she blinked to clear her eyes and held herself taller next to Mark. She said something to him, which caused Mark to approach me. He smiled devilishly as he took in my date and me.

  “Tristan, you’re late,” he said, as he eyed the woman sitting next to me. We weren’t touching one another, but Izzy was sitting close enough that her side pressed lightly against mine. My uncle’s eyes scanned her scanty red dress, and the white skin exposed below the hem and between her breasts, before taking a brief look at her hair.

  “Mark Cornwall,” he said presenting her with his hand, “groom.”

  “Isabelle White,” Izzy replied, “date.” She inclined her head at me.

  Mark smiled deeply; his gray eyes shining almost silver.

  “We’re going to go over a few things before we have a complete run through,” Mark addressed me. “We’ll eventually need you up front next to me, but you can stay here with your lovely date until then.” He turned and proceeded back to the front of the church, where I noticed Ireland’s eyes were still on my date. I shifted uncomfortably for a moment then scolded myself internally. She was marrying someone else, so why did I feel unnerved? She’d made the decision to see this through, despite the ridiculous nature of it all, in my opinion.

  The priest spoke loud enough for the few congregated to hear as he explained the general procedure of Mark walking in from the side of the altar to meet Ireland, who would walk down the aisle with her father, after I escorted Isa to her seat at the front. The ceremony would be simple and small due to the sudden timing. It had barely been a month since the engagement announcement. Roughly twenty or so people were gathered. I had only a vague idea of who some of the guests were in relation to Mark. I wasn’t certain why Guinevere was present, but I felt doubly protected with her in front of me.

  As the priest began to ramble on about the readings and his sermon, he approached the point where they were to practice their vows. He made Mark and Ireland mumble, blah-blah-blah, in an attempt to ease some obvious tension at the front of the church. In speaking this way, he assured them they could share their vows for the first time tomorrow, during the actual ceremony. I noticed that Mark laughed light-heartedly, while Ireland only smiled a tight smile. The priest than proceeded to say:

  “This is where I ask Mark i
f he takes Isolde to be his wife.”

  Mark responded immediately with a sly smile saying, “I do.”

  The priest then turned to ask Ireland the same question of taking Mark as her husband, to which I held my breath. I leaned forward to grip the back of the wooden pew that Guinevere leaned against. I already knew her answer. I don’t know why I was on edge. Ireland responded.

  “I don’t.”

  The church went silent.

  “I’m sorry,” the priest said with a nervous giggle. “I think you mean, I do.”

  “I don’t,” she said again, more firmly. “I do mean I don’t,” she clarified.

  I could feel the tension all the way to my pew. Mark squeezed Ireland’s hands firmly in his own.

  “Isolde, darling. I know you’re nervous. Why don’t we try it again?” he said, attempting to sound calm and reassuring that she could do it. She could say ‘I do.’

  “I…I can’t…I can’t marry you,” she said softly, swallowing as she spoke when her voice cracked.

  “What?” Mark growled under the calm demeanor he was fighting to control.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said stronger, pulling her shoulders back and upward. She took a deep breath then visibly let it out.

  I used the pew in front of me to pull myself forward to the edge of the seat. I didn’t feel the touch of my date’s hand on my elbow or the concerned stare of Guinevere as she twisted in her seat to face me. I couldn’t pull my eyes from the commotion at the front of the church.

  “Why not, darling?” Mark said with clenched teeth. Mark’s jaw worked through his cheek muscles, forcing the sides of his face to cave inward.

  “I’m…I’m pregnant.”

  This time the silence was deafening after the echoing gasp of Ireland’s mother.

  “I knew it,” Isa squeaked, as she stood in her silk dress to embrace her daughter. “This is just what you needed,” she said, looking at Mark who still had a puzzled expression on his face.

  “It’s not….” Mark returned his gaze to Ireland. His hands held tighter to Ireland, who tried without success to gently release hers from Mark’s intense grasp. I was bracing the back of the pew harder. I leaned farther forward, ready to spring, ready to fight.