by Kristie Cook
"Hey, Tristan," an unfamiliar female voice called from behind me a little later.
He glanced over my head and immediately stiffened.
"Hey," he muttered.
"We're going to the Phi Kaps' house for a pool party. Wanna come?" a different female asked as they came closer.
He shot them a strange look, almost like he was angry.
"On a Monday?" he asked, his voice full of skepticism. I could hear something else underneath—a steely hardness.
"It's the Phi Kaps. Any day is good enough for them," the first girl said. "So, you coming?"
The girls stood by his side now, towering over him as he remained seated. If he looked up, he'd have an eyeful of long legs in short shorts and big boobs in tight tops, but, for some unfathomable reason, he looked at me instead. They were exactly who I'd picture Mr. Beautiful with—a much better match than me, no doubt. Apparently, they felt the same. They didn't give me so much as a glance.
I wondered if Tristan was the college party type. There was definitely something edgy about him. And what warm-blooded male would pass up a pool party with college girls—especially these girls?
"No, thanks," he replied, holding my eyes, the steely undertone still there.
I blinked in surprise and, through my peripheral vision, saw both girls' mouths fall open. They obviously weren't used to rejection. They glanced down at the notebook in his lap, shot their eyes at me and then back at him.
"What ever ," they both huffed and stomped off.
Tristan relaxed as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I didn't understand his rejection. It occurred to me he was just being polite.
"You can go, if you want," I said. "You don't have to stay here with me."
He smiled. "Not interested. In going, I mean."
"Seriously. I'm used to hanging by myself."
His smile faded and his eyes flickered. "Do you want me to go?"
Yeah, right. I definitely didn't want him to go. It made me sad and lonely to just think about it. But he didn't need to know that.
"Does it matter what I want?" I asked, a slight edge to my tone. How did I get here, where being alone was a bad thing?
"It matters very much to me," he murmured.
My heart skipped. I stared at the ground, embarrassed.
"No, I don't want you to go," I whispered. "I just don't know why you'd want to stay. Most people don't hang around this long."
"I'm not most people."
He definitely was not like most people, but I knew he wasn't thinking along the same lines I was. I didn't know how to respond, so I just returned to reading my textbook, hoping he would forget the conversation. No such luck.
"Can I ask you a question?" he asked later as we walked to one of the on-campus cafés before communications class.
I shrugged and looked up at him. "You can always ask ."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Ah. So, then…will you answer a question for me?"
"Depends…"
"I guess I'll try my luck." He peered down at me. "What did you mean earlier when you said most people don't hang around this long?"
Crap. I shouldn't have said it . We were at the café and there was no line. I quickly ordered a salad and used the rest of the time to come up with a non-answer.
"So…you're not going to answer?" Tristan asked as we sat at a table by the window.
I shrugged. "I just meant most guys wouldn't pass up a pool party with hot college girls to do homework."
He leaned toward me, looking into my eyes, the gold sparkles bright and enrapturing. My breath caught. "That's not what you meant."
I forced myself to breathe, my head swimming from the intensity of his gaze.
"It's pretty close," I finally said. He continued staring at me expectantly. I sighed. Then I tried to switch directions with my own question. "Why did you pass it up?"
He shook his head. "You answer mine first."
I pulled my eyes from his and stared at my uninspiring salad. "Seriously…that pool party was an example. Most people wouldn't hang out for hours just doing homework and discussing trivial things."
I didn't add "with me," although that was the original meaning. It would point out something was wrong with me. I expected him to lose interest before he ever knew those things.
"I haven't found any of our conversations trivial," he replied. I looked back up at him and tilted my head, an eyebrow cocked. "You have?"
"It's not exactly exciting stuff."
His eyes flickered. "So…you're bored?"
"No!" I sighed again, getting frustrated. "That's not what I meant."
"Are you going to tell me what you mean, then? Or are we just going to continue in circles?" He sat back in his chair and took a bite of his apple, waiting for my answer.
I sighed yet again; it was nearly a groan. How could he do this to me? He was too irresistible for my own good.
"Fine." I took a deep breath. "I really don't get why you choose to hang out with me, doing nothing special, when there are so many other things you could be doing with so many other people. Most people would be long gone by now."
"I told you, I'm not like most people." He leaned forward, his gaze intense again. "I'd rather hang out, doing nothing special with you because you are …special."
My eyes widened, my heart getting erratic. A moment of silence passed as I recovered.
"You obviously don't know me very well," I muttered.
"Hmm…I know you and I are very much alike."
I raised an eyebrow. "In what alternate reality? We seem to be complete opposites."
He was perfect. I was ordinary…except for the weird things. He was a math whiz and I was an English major. He was athletic; I was far from it. He was beautiful. I was…me.
He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. "Hmm…yes, in many ways we are opposites, you're right. But, we're much more alike than you realize. You're not like most people either."
So he did notice. Yet here he was.
"And that's why I passed it up. College parties are no good for me. Trust me. You, on the other hand, are very good for me." He grinned beautifully and I just stared at him for a long moment.
"I don't get it," I finally whispered.
"You don't have to. It's just the way it is." He glanced behind me, apparently at a clock. "Eat up or we'll be late."
* * *
When I arrived home, Mom stood in the foyer, as if she had been waiting. She didn't look happy.
"You're still hanging out with him," she said. It wasn't a question. She would know the truth, if she were looking for it, which apparently she had been.
I shrugged. "I guess that's what you'd call it. We just study, really."
She glared at me for a long moment. "You really like him?"
"Yeah, I do. Who wouldn't? He's absolutely gorgeous!"
"Yes, well, looks aren't everything." Her tone was curt, almost cold.
"Of course, they aren't! You know me better than that."
She sighed. "You're right. So, what else?"
"He's nice, easy to be around and a real gentleman. And I think he likes me."
"You don't need to like someone just because they like you, Alexis. What about Owen? He's a sweetie."
"Mother, will you stop it? You're being condescending." I glared at her.
She crossed her arms. Her voice hardened. "I'm just looking out for your best interests, Alexis."
"And you think Owen is in my best interest?" It came out as almost a sneer.
"Owen or just about anyone other than this Tristan!"
"So, you want me to date, but I can only like the guy as long as it's someone you pick."
"I just don't want you to get hurt!"
"And how do you know Owen or whoever you choose wouldn't hurt me?" I nearly shouted
"And how do you know Tristan isn't just like James ?"
Ouch. That hurt and she knew it. She probably figured likening Tristan to him would be all it took to change my mind.
It only made me angrier.
"And I guess it's impossible for Owen to be anything like James, since you know him soooo well."
She narrowed her eyes and kept her voice low but hard. "Owen is nothing like James. You can trust me on that one."
"But you can't trust me with Tristan?"
" No, I can't! "
I flinched. She dropped her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. After a long moment, she finally looked at me, concern filling her eyes.
"It's not you whom I don't trust, honey," she said, her voice now soft. "How well do you even know Tristan?"
"Better than you do," I spat. I groaned in frustration, though, because she had a point—I really didn't know Tristan at all.
"I'm just worried about you." The concern in her voice wiped my anger away.
I sighed. "Do you want me to date or not?"
"I think it'd be good for you to date. You need to come out of your shell. But I want you to date a nice boy. Tristan…" She hesitated.
"What?"
She didn't answer, but her meaning was obvious.
"I just don't want you to get hurt," she said again. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I laid my head against her for a minute and then looked at her face, into her warm, brown eyes.
"I'm willing to take the chance with Tristan," I admitted and she frowned. "Mom, you know me. I don't make friends easily because I don't trust people—for very good reasons. James, for one. But I'm trusting my sense with Tristan and I feel that he's different. I want to spend time with him…as long as he wants to spend time with me."
She stared at me for a long moment, pressing her lips into a hard line. Then she abruptly spun around and marched down the hall.
"Even if he's not like James, he will hurt you," she said over her shoulder. Just before she ducked into her room, she added, "Just remember who you are, Alexis."
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"Why don't you tell me who I am?" I yelled. I stared down the empty hallway, I guess expecting her to come back and explain. Or for the answer to magically appear. Of course, neither happened.
I stomped to my own room and threw my bag on the floor. A notebook slid out and several loose papers scattered across the floor, including my research notes. I picked them up and glared at them for a long moment, wanting to blame them for everything—not them specifically, but the mystery of who I was. It seemed to be at the heart of everything wrong with my life.
I finally balled up the stupid papers and stuffed them in my desk drawer. I didn't need them anymore. The ideas were absurd and a waste of time. The research was only useful for my writing.
And now I had another mystery: Tristan. Who was he and what was Mom's problem with him?
Chapter 4
I couldn't sleep. Mom and I didn't argue frequently and I hated it when we did. She was my best friend, the only person in the world I could trust. I stopped trying to make friends in middle school, when everyone turned on everyone else so easily. And I was an easy target—the perennial new kid who just wasn't quite normal. Even if they didn't know my quirks yet, they knew there was something different about me and were quick to poke fun and spread rumors. But Mom was always there for me, with a comforting hug and a shoulder to cry on when the kids were especially hurtful. I could talk to her about anything. Well, almost anything. Our history was the only taboo subject. Until now.
And I really wanted, no, needed , to talk to her about Tristan. My feelings for him were a first and I wished I could talk to her to sort them out. It didn't look likely that would ever happen. Especially after she'd brought up James—and compared Tristan to him! Not that I hadn't thought about it before. James …I shivered under my comforter. Not with chills, but with renewed anger.
It was the last time I'd shared anything with anyone besides Mom. I should have known better, but I was fifteen and naïve. I'd experienced enough kids taunting me, but James was different…so I thought. He didn't give any particular bad vibes, but I became more attuned to my sixth sense later…after him… because of him.
He seemed genuinely interested and unusually friendly and somehow finagled out of me nearly all of my secrets. I wasn't ready for anything more than friendship, but that's not what he had in mind. On the last day of school, I let him take me to a party and learned that he only saw me as an insecure girl who would respond to the first guy who paid any attention to her. His mood—his whole demeanor—changed as if, by pushing his hand away when he made his first move, I had hit some kind of switch.
"You're really rejecting me, Alexis?" he seethed. "After I accepted you, you're rejecting me ?"
I felt like I'd been slapped. I had misunderstood every single kind gesture from the very first smile. He just wanted in my pants. Blood rushed to my face with a mix of embarrassment and anger. I stormed through the house, looking for an escape.
"You thought I'd sleep with you ?" he shouted as he followed me out of the house, dozens of people following him to witness my shame. "Did you think I'd feel sorry for you because you're such a damn freak ?"
I'd heard that one before. I could even get over whatever damage his twisted words had done to my insignificant reputation. But he continued and I spun around in disbelief as he aired everything I'd confided. My body trembled. My hands balled into fists. I could barely breathe. He ranted, sauntering closer to me as he did.
"Your own dad didn't want you! Ditched you before you were even born. Probably knew you'd be a freak. And your mom…well, she's hot, but she must have been thirteen when she had you. And with all the boyfriends…she's just a fucking whore !"
The next thing I knew, my right arm pulled back and, like a slingshot, flew forward. My fist jammed into James's nose with a crunch.
We moved the next day. Not because we ran away from my humiliation or a potential lawsuit or battery charge. But because when I hit James, he sort of flew about fifteen feet backwards, bowling over a group of witnesses—I had more power in my punch than was normal for a fifteen-year-old girl. Actually, more power than a grown man. I wasn't usually so strong, not like Mom. But I had never been so raging mad either.
That last betrayed trust set the final layer of blocks in the emotional wall I built around myself. There had been others like James, but I'd learned my lesson. I shut them down without ever giving them a chance. I just couldn't take the risk of that humiliation again. But now here I was, with another interested guy. There was a difference, though: the feeling was mutual. I just didn't know how smart that was.
* * *
Mom didn't say anything more about Tristan for the next several days and neither did I. In fact, we hardly spoke at all. I figured if I waited it out long enough, she'd come around. Either that, or Tristan would lose interest soon enough and it would no longer be an issue. That was more likely than anything.
Thursday I went to campus for a team meeting. I wanted to write—the first few chapters had poured themselves out and I fell in love with my main characters—but with mid-terms next week, I needed the extra help the study group would provide. That hope was lost when I ran into Carlie in the bathroom right before our meeting.
"Tell me if it's none of my business, but are you and Tristan going out or something?" she asked while I washed my hands and she primped.
"Um…no." I watched her reflection in the mirror, trying to understand where she was going with it. Does she like him?
"Okay, good." Her deep-blue eyes showed relief.
So that was a yes . A tinge of jealousy pricked my heart. But then she shocked me.
"Because he's kind of creepy, don't you think?"
" What ?" I suppressed a surprised chuckle. Tristan creepy ?!
"I don't know what it is. I mean, yeah, he's really hot. Drop-dead gorgeous, actually. But he's just…I don't know… different , somehow."
I wanted to laugh. I was so concerned about how unusual I was and she thought he was different .
"Something just bothers me about him," she continued. "
I think it's something about his eyes, in his eyes."
Like the sparkle? I like that sparkle!
"He's always been really nice," I said in a lame attempt to defend him.
"So you do like him?" She peered at me, and then made a face. I didn't know what to make of it.
"Just as a friend," I lied.
"Oh, okay. Personally, I would stay away. He just seems a little…dangerous. And you seem so nice." She smiled at my reflection, then fluffed her short, blond curls with her hands.
"Thanks for the, uh…heads up." I didn't know what else to say, so I left for the group.
I had a hard time focusing on our studies because I paid more attention to the interactions among our team members. Everyone's body language seemed cool toward Tristan. They didn't sit too close to him and held their bodies turned slightly away. They talked to him and laughed at his jokes, but not quite as warmly as they did with each other. Do the others feel the same way Carlie does?
I studied Tristan, trying to look at him with a fresh perspective, trying to see what they might see. But I saw and felt nothing…except his beauty, his laughter, the lovely sound of his voice, the kind tone it held when he spoke to any of us, the intelligent remarks he made when we actually discussed the exam, the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled…. He caught me looking at him and winked. And, yeah, there's that—the way my brain went pleasantly woozy when he winked.
I barely remembered leaving the study group and driving home, still pondering Carlie's remarks and everyone's behavior toward Tristan. Carlie thought there was something dangerous about him and she hardly knew him. Mom took one look at him and didn't like him. Am I missing something?
I knew I couldn't concentrate on studying or writing when I arrived home, so I went for a walk. I meandered along the streets without paying attention to where I went, wondering why I just couldn't sense what everyone else seemed to notice. Are my alarms broken? Or is everyone else just wrong about him? I decided I had to believe my own intuition, my own sixth sense. It had always been right before.
A familiar voice brought me out of my internal wanderings. His voice. I looked up and, with mild shock, found myself at the city park, bordering the north end of the Cape's beach. It was a small park, with a playground to my left and the beach just a few yards beyond it, a parking lot that could hold about twenty cars to my right and basketball and tennis courts straight ahead. An old, large banyan tree and pine and palm trees shaded the area where I stood, sunlight filtering through their leaves. A group of guys played basketball, talking smack to each other, and Tristan was in the group. I hid behind the banyan tree and watched.
