“AC.” Tristan’s voice was low, but I jumped all the same. I’d been dreaming, dreaming of everything being ok, of his hands on me, again and again. I tried to smooth out my breathing before I spooked him. He was going to say something. “AC,” he repeated, and breathed out heavily. “I’ve hurt him, and I’ve hurt you. And Trevor. “I should probably just leave.”
I reached up and grabbed the hand that had been stroking my hair. “Don’t stop. Don’t leave. I don’t want you to. Talk to me.”
“You’re beautiful, Lily. You deserve more.”
I gripped harder. “I don’t want what you think I want. I want you. Talk to me.”
Tristan was silent again, but he left his hand in mine. Finally he started up. “AC. I…” He pulled his hand away. “I…he’s…he’s my oldest friend, Lily. He’s been there. Through everything. He stood by me when I fell apart. When I fucked up my life, he tried to be there. I wasn’t there for him.” He took a deep breath, and I realized that he was crying. “I love him, Lily. I love you, and I love him, and I just don’t know how to make it work. I’m sorry. I thought I did.”
My eyes were open now, and I watched him rub the tears away with the back of his hand. “Tristan. I love you. I’ve been with you now. I know you. Better now. It’s time, that’s all, it’s time that we need. I need to learn you. You need to trust me. And I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to explain. You can. But don’t apologize. Please.” I swung my legs over and sat up, cross-legged on the bench, my head buried on his shoulder. “Tristan,” I whispered, “I’m here. I’m not running. Usually I do. This time I’m not.”
He leaned his head on mine. I played with one of the strands of dark hair that fell against my skin. “I love you. I’m here. We’re going to change and think and do what we want. It’s a journey. Give me time. Give me the same time you’ve given AC. I’m not going to run.” I took a deep breath. “Please.”
He lifted my head, and stared at me, his eyes dark and light and sea-colored and earth-colored. Then his lips were on mine, gentle, measuring the shape of our mouths together, his tongue tracing a line at the corner of my mouth, teasing, soft, waiting for me to ask for more. “I love you,” we both murmured at the same time, and then he took my mouth, commanding, trembling, both of us soft and hard on each other. He ran his fingers along my sides, almost ticklish, until he drew a straight line across my stomach to the center. It was like every nerve ending was concentrated there, fanning out in a beating pulse that reached to my toes. I felt weak. “Tristan,” I managed to say. “I think we need to get out of here.”
Tristan laughed, that dark, dirty laugh this time, the one that made me want him more. He wrapped a long finger around the chain he had given me, and tugged gently. “You want me,” he smiled. “Still. After everything I’ve said. After all you know about me.”
I was still faintly trembling from his kiss, and his touch. It seemed a ridiculous statement to make. But he meant it. He didn’t trust easily, and neither did I, and that meant I needed to be careful. As careful as I wanted him to be with me. I just kissed him, and leaned my head on his shoulder. Tristan put his sunglasses back on, and pulled me up to my feet. “Come on, love, let’s walk around. Otherwise I’m going to tease you all day.”
I looked up at him. “So we’re together, right?”
Tristan nodded, smiling.
“You’re going to give me time to become an old friend?” I asked.
“Friend. Lover. Girlfriend. Partner. Whatever you want to call it.”
“And AC?”
Tristan smiled. “Can he be all those too?”
“If he wants to be. He can be what he likes. What you like.”
“Ok. That’s ok then.” Tristan studied me. “You mean this, don’t you?”
“You know, I really do. But.”
Tristan stopped, his hand on my cheek, smoothing away the little frown by my eye. “But?”
“But I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean…how.”
His face lit up. “Neither do I, love. As long as we keep reminding each other. But we seem to pick things up quickly.” He leant down and kissed me, softly breathing into my mouth, tender and calmer.
Then he wrapped his arm around me, and we strolled down North 7th Street until we reached Bedford Avenue. It took only a block before there were two girls ten feet behind us, giggling. The word “autograph” came through the noise of the crowd, along with a muffled shriek.
Tristan looked at me, and actually rolled his eyes. “Shit. I shouldn’t have come down this street.” He looked around. “Come on, we’re almost there. There’s a shop I want to look at. Maybe they won’t follow us in there.” I caught his eye. “I’m not in the mood. I just want to be with you and remember what’s it’s like to be a person. Or invent it, possibly. Anyway. It’s just across the street.”
He grabbed my hand, and we crossed over, in between the cars waiting at the light, and after another look around to see if anyone else was following us, ducked into the little store. The musty smell of old belongings and the half-light reflected off the dark wooden floors filled the small space. Tristan was looking at a vintage typewriter. I gazed surreptitiously through the curtains and plant stands in the window. Sure enough, the two girls were still out there, phones in hand. One of them spotted me, and raised her camera to take a picture. I swung away, trying to look as though I’d just seen something I wanted to look at. I didn’t want to make it obvious that neither one of us were in the mood to deal with the fans. We’d been lucky to have an hour or two where no one paid attention. Now, I felt like I was back in the zoo. I couldn’t imagine how Tristan must feel—never having a moment away from being on display, his every action scrutinized for signs of debauchery or headline-worthy notice. The constant observation would make anyone crazy. I watched Tristan as he carefully picked up a Tiffany style lamp as though it weighed nothing. That got the shop owner’s attention. The one constant in trendy neighborhoods was for shop assistants to ignore anyone who came in. I watched as the woman approached him, shoulders back for a confrontation, recoiling slightly in shock when she realized who it was, then softening, as Tristan turned his warm smile in her direction. Charm was supposed to be the ability to get yes before you even asked the question. If that was true, he was nothing but. A vague sense of protectiveness overcame me, and I couldn’t resist. I wandered up and stood nearby, just managing to keep myself from threading my arm through his, possessive and visible. She gave me a brief once-over and carried on.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t see you when you came in! It’s been so busy in here today.” Tristan smiled at her.
“No problem, no problem at all. I’m just browsing. Looking for some rad stuff for gifts, you know?” He rested his hand on the old wooden and glass display case, looking down at the trinkets cradled in silk on the glass shelf within.
She stumbled for a moment, then regained her composure. “Can I help you find something? Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Tristan didn’t respond, but was staring intently at a group of necklaces. He glanced over at me, then went back to studying the jewelry. Without looking up at the shop keeper, his voice rang out. “Those three. Could you take them out. Thank you.” It wasn’t a request. She opened the back and taking out each one individually, she laid them out on the glass. She rested her hand nearby, but Tristan just looked at them, and waited for her to retreat slightly. Then he reached out, and with a crazy delicacy, lifted up each one, and held them up to the light. They were old—enameled silver pendants surrounded a flower-like shape of what looked like sapphires and pearls. The two others had no stones, but continued the shapes on tiny drops of silver. They were beautiful. I stood there, admiring the beauty of the two together, his strong sculptural features intent on his examination of the finely worked pieces. I couldn’t imagine how he had spotted them, in the midst of all the m
id-century modern bric-a-brac and tables that filled the store.
“When did you get these?” Tristan asked. There was a certain tension in his voice that surprised me.
“Last night actually. A box of things I had been promised finally turned up.” She looked apologetic. “Another store closed, down in Bed-Stuy. They’d promised me first rights on their antiques.”
Tristan said nothing, but turned the necklaces in his hands. I noticed he was holding all three at once, as though he was reluctant to put them down. Finally he spoke. “How much?”
“For one?” she asked, rather stupidly I thought.
“No, for all of them. All three. What do you want for them?” Tristan looked out the window. The girls were still there. A flash from a cell phone camera broke the dusty light in the shop. Tristan glanced over at me, and I gave him a quick nod. He turned back to the woman, and waited for her answer.
“They are beautiful pieces, aren’t they? Art Nouveau, I believe.” She hesitated. Tristan pulled himself up and looked down at her.
“Don’t sell me. Just tell me. Then I’ll tell you. Yes or no. How much?”
She turned and opened a ledger she had by the cash register. I felt certain that she already had a price in mind but was buying time. She spoke in to the book. “I have them down for, all of them, would add up to 6, but seeing as you are you,” she turned back to face him, “let’s say 5800.”
Tristan smiled. I knew that smile. She obviously didn’t. His voice was a slow drip. “Did you know these were stolen?”
She went pale and looked at the floor before she could stop herself. “I never know where things come from. By the time they get to me they’ve been through several people.”
Tristan simply looked at her. “I imagine that’s true. I also imagine you know some of these people. Let’s say 3000, and you tell me some names—before someone comes along with a warrant.”
She turned back to the book. I felt Tristan go rigid next to me. “I won’t be…”
He interrupted her. “You will be. You ought to learn to lie better if you’re going to be in the stolen goods trade. But…if you don’t think that’s fair, let me just call my bodyguard who’s circling round in the car. Do you know he’s an off-duty cop? Old friend. I’m sure he’ll be able to advise us on a good price. Maybe he can ask one of his friends who’s on duty to help. But that seems like a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?”
She slammed the ledger shut and I stepped back, startled, into the rack of dusty sports jackets and dinner jackets behind me. I flinched at the touch of the scratchy wool on the back of my neck. She thought I was backing off. That wouldn’t work. I walked over, very precisely, to stand by the display case, my arms crossed. She glared at both of us.
I looked over at Tristan, a question on my face. He inclined his head, ever so slightly, and stood up a little taller, one hand behind his back. I knew it was clenched tight, ready to fight, wanting to, holding back. I caught the woman’s eye. “Money is money. And this is going to be a great part of the article I’m finishing up.” She ignored me. “For The Core.” That got her attention. “I’m sure everyone will see it as human interest. I’m sure no other reporter will be interested in a hipster joint fencing stolen goods. It makes a good headline, doesn’t it? ‘Vintage Turns to Violence,’ or ‘Hipster Hung Out to Dry.’ Of course, ‘Bitch Should’ve Known Better’ works for me, but…”
Suddenly the woman was in my face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tristan was there in an instant, looming over us. His expression was volcanic; there was a dry violence crackling through him like a fuse ready to ignite. “Bring it on, doll. Not a problem. Assault and theft go together. But if I were you—I’d take the money and forget about all this. Just like we’re going to.” He pulled out a wad of money from his front pocket, and peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. “I’ll send someone around with the rest. You might want to have some names for him—he’ll be expecting some information in return for the rest of the cash.” She didn’t move. “Good. It’s a deal then.” He looked out the window, and spotted the small crowd outside. Then he turned back, and gave her a big air kiss on each cheek, visible to everyone watching. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned across the counter again, and spoke very slowly. She blushed in spite of herself at his proximity. He gave her a cold smile. “There. We’re friends now. I’m going to tell my fans outside with their cameras what a great place this is. You’ll be in all the blogs. What great publicity.”
He gave me the necklaces. I wrapped them in some tissues that I had, and pushed them down carefully to the bottom of my bag. Tristan turned back to the woman, who was now angrily pulling out a small box and a receipt book. “No, we don’t need a box, but thanks for asking. A receipt though. That will be great. Be sure to date it.” He watched her. “And stamp it, that’s right, name of the shop. Your name at the bottom. No point lying,” he shrugged towards the window, “they’ve been photographing us the whole time.” She finished writing and pushed the receipt over to him. “What, no phone number? Darling, don’t forget to add that. And your personal cell.” He winked at her. “I might need to get in touch.” He pocketed the receipt and put his arm around me. “Thanks again.” His grip around my shoulders was firm, bordering on painful.
At the door he murmured, “Lily. We’re going to sign some autographs. You’re going to stay for a couple of minutes then find a cab. Get it to stop out of sight.” We went out the door, the tinkling bells marking our passage. Tristan went right up to the girls and posed for pictures, his arm around their shoulders, big hugs for all of them. He gestured to me then, almost imperceptibly, and I smiled at everyone, then started down the sidewalk, keeping a lookout for a taxi. I’d walked two blocks before I saw one coming towards me. I flagged it down, and texted him, while I told the cabbie I was waiting for someone. I stood outside the cab, one hand on the door. Tristan came strolling down the street, both girls still hanging on. When he saw me, he extricated himself. I got back in, as he looked around the street for any other onlookers, and the cab pulled away. Tristan gave him an address in the West Village.
He pulled me to him. “I like your tough side. All that repressed anger. We’ll have to explore that.” He smirked. “But it was the perfect distraction.”
I shrugged, making a face at him. “Very angry. Tristan. What the hell is going on?”
He glanced out the window. We were just going over the Williamsburg Bridge. The sun was nearly down, but there were the lights of the buildings shining on the water, and the reflected rays of the last of the day made the colors wet and shimmering, even if only for a moment. It was very changed from a few hours ago when we were in the park, trying to sort everything out.
“Lily. Those necklaces.” He rolled down the window and let the wind blow his hair around his face. “I didn’t tell you. We were robbed when we were away. Your stuff is still in storage—there wasn’t any reason to worry you. They didn’t actually take that much. Some gold records in frames. Pictures. These necklaces. Carefully curated. It looked like it might have been an inside job. Only a couple of people know where some things are.” His mouth was a thin, tight line, and he shook his head. “They only took a few items. I think they knew what meant something to me.”
“Tristan! Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked at me, his eyes suddenly vulnerable in the fading sunlight. He looked very tired. “Lily. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m used to dealing with all this crap on my own. Don’t hold it against me, please. I don’t need that now.”
I started to say something, then thought better of it. I took his hand. “I just want to help.”
Tristan nodded, thoughtfully. “I know. I’m sorry. Of course you do. Anyway—I thought they might turn up. I finally got a tip that they could be here.” He turned to me. “I wanted to get them back, if I could.”
“They are very beautiful. Fragile.”
Tristan shook his head. “They are. But that’s not why.” He stared at me, eyes still holding traces of the volcanic rage I’d seen briefly in the shop. “Those necklaces. They belonged to my mother.” His voice faded away on the last word.
I whistled. “But no ordinary thief would have known that.”
His voice was unnaturally quiet. “I’ve trusted…the wrong people. Sometimes. Sometimes people can be very…deceiving.” And he turned away, but his hand reached for mine.
His mother had died here alone, living in a hotel. Tristan had told me that one night. We had been in bed, afterwards, and he suddenly said he wanted me to know more about who he was and where he’d come from. So he’d described some of his childhood, and his mother, who’d been a great romantic, and very beautiful. She had met the slightly cold and distant, but extremely intelligent and icily good looking man who was Tristan’s father when she barely out of her teens. But the fairytale match she had dreamed of hadn’t worked out. She’d finally left his very British father, and her 8-year-old son, tired of all the infidelities, tired of having to play the role of a conventional middle class Englishwoman that she wasn’t suited to. Apparently she had thought she could remake her life back in the States, then return for her son, and show him a little bit of the country she had left behind when she had fallen in love with his father. The irony was that Tristan’s father had just brought him over to New York for a visit, looking for her, hoping to coax her back.
When he thought of his mother, or the last time he had seen her, it was an image of her sitting at the very end of a neighborhood bar, where everyone knew her name, surrounded by warm-hearted drunks all delighted to meet her sweet and polite child. No one obviously had an inkling of what was coming, only a week later. Apparently the strain of an uneven life, with too few kindnesses and too many drinks and too many pills, had weakened her system. They had found her, unconscious on the front stairs of her building, hypothermic. She never woke up again. It had been very unexpected. After a lonely funeral attended by one other person, a blank room of grief sparsely decorated with some flowers from the bar and a bouquet from the super, Tristan and his father had returned to the UK, and had never spoken of it again.
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