“’Bout time you got here, mofo,” he says to Tristan.
Tristan doesn’t offer any kind of jab in return, instead handing Mateo his coffee. “Who has you sulking, bro?” Mateo presses.
I shoot him a look that must be clear enough. Leave him alone, I try to say with my eyes. Please.
“Ready for the fight?” Tristan asks.
“The question is,” Mateo says, grinning, “are you ready?” He’s pointing to me.
“For you to fight?”
“Naw. Are you ready for your best friend to fall a little bit in love with me?”
No doubt, I think. In fact, I think a small part of me fell in love with him when we walked in the door. “Marley’s a tough shell to crack,” I say. “You might be giving yourself too much credit.”
“And you are not giving me enough. Trust me,” he says, “it’s a definite probability.”
I laugh. “A possibility.”
Tristan’s hand floats to settle on Mateo’s shoulder for the briefest of moments. “We gotta go, man. I have a ton of stuff to do before tonight.”
“Yeah, all right. See you later,” he says. “Thanks for the coffee.”
I follow Tristan out the door, but not before turning to look over my shoulder. “Oh, and Mateo?”
“Sí, querida?”
“Marley loves tattoos.”
Tristan is already halfway through the parking lot. I crawl back in the car and summon any bravery I can find to ask about what upset him. “Are you okay?”
He smiles weakly, but that smile is a lie. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“If you want to talk, I mean, if you need someone to listen . . .”
“I’m fine,” he says again, and quickly adds, “thanks anyway.”
He doesn’t want to talk to me about it. Point taken. “Okay.” He slides lower in the seat, wrapping his arms around himself, an act that mirrors my own thought—somehow the air just got a little colder.
The rest of the day is spent in horrible silence. Tristan moves from one task to the next almost robotically. He’s the total polar opposite of the guy I’ve come to know so far. I consider asking him a second time if he is okay, but it seems stupid when the answer is so obvious.
I’m closing out a batch of invoices when he utters the first words that aren’t absolutely required of him today. “Hey, Emma?”
I look up from the screen my eyes were zeroed in on. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry about today,” he says.
I cut him off. “No need to apologize.”
“No, there is. It’s just not something I can talk about, okay?”
“Okay,” I say quickly, “fair enough.”
“Listen, do you want to grab something to eat with me tonight before Mat’s fight?”
“Like a date?”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coveralls and shrugs. “Or like two people eating, or whatever.”
“No.”
Yes.
He cringes. “Ouch.”
“I mean, I do, it’s just, I shouldn’t get involved with anyone.”
“Neither should I,” he says.
I consider that. “Just dinner, like a one-time deal?”
“If you want it to be a one-time deal, that’s all it needs to be.”
Dinner with Tristan. Time spent alone with Tristan that doesn’t involve balancing the books or ordering parts. I finally smile. “Sure. I think I’d like that.”
“Yeah?” He seems surprised.
Hell, I’m surprised. “Yes.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty?”
“Sure, but Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not a date. It’s just two people eating, or whatever.”
“Got it, Peaches,” he says.
I gather my belongings and head home feeling rather giddy. I am going on a date with Tristan Banks.
Tristan
The first thing I do after work is set foot in a scalding shower. I will the water to wash away some of whatever possessed me to behave like an ass today and hope that I can at least make it up to Emma on our non-date. I hadn’t meant to become a recluse for the day, but I couldn’t help it. Seeing Katie’s mom this morning rattled me straight to the core. I wasn’t prepared for it. Pretty stupid, considering Stonefall is far from a buzzing metropolis. Of course I’d run into her at some point—we live in a town that can’t even be found on GPS.
I wrap a towel around my waist and shave, looking at my reflection in a mirror coated with steam. I look like crap, definitely not good enough to be seen with the likes of someone such as Emma.
I settle on a pair of dark jeans and a pin-striped button-down. I’m not a fashion victim or anything, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself stylish either. It’ll do.
The stack of mail that I tossed on the table when I came home beckons me, so I pick it up and shuffle through it like it’s a deck of cards. Utility bill, magazine subscription, and junk mail. On the front page of one of the home decor store flyers is a large wall sconce that is shaped like an old-fashioned, five-point sailor star. The kind you see in vintage-inspired tattoos with swallows and anchors.
Katie loved stars.
I quickly hide it with a magazine, but it’s no use, and the memory floods my brain.
Katie and I are lying in a field. We’ve been in the same spot for hours and after having shared a picnic in the afternoon, we watch the moon swallow the sun.
My arms are wrapped around her and when she turns her head to the side to look at me, her bangs fall into her eyes. “Tristan, make a wish,” she says.
“I have everything I ever wished for.” I brush her hair from her eyes at the same time she presses a hand to my chest and shoves.
“That’s not fair!”
“What? It’s true.”
“Please make a wish,” she says. “For me.”
I’ll do anything for her. “Hmmm,” I say, “I wish that all your wishes come true.”
“Tristan!”
“What? That’s true too.”
“A real wish, like the kind you’d make if you were a kid.”
“Well, if I were a kid, I’d wish for a puppy or something, so instead I wish that one day you and I can travel the world together.”
“Oh, that’s a good wish,” she gushes.
“What are you going to wish for?”
“I’m not telling.”
”What?” I pretend to be horrified. “You made me tell you; who isn’t fair now?”
“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
“So there’s like some wish rule book. Way to go—you made me tell you my wish, so now we are never going to travel the world together if your theory is correct. I disagree. I think you have to project what you want to in the world in order for it to come true. So come on. Tell me.”
“Fine,” she says. “I wished to own a star.”
“You can’t own stars.”
“Sure you can. You can buy a star and give it a name.”
“If that’s true,” I say, “why haven’t you bought one?”
“Because, silly, you can’t buy one for yourself. That doesn’t mean anything then.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“’Course.”
I bought her star a week later. The gesture made her cry. I still have the paper with its precise location in the universe. I don’t need the paper, though; I’d be able to find it anywhere. She’d spent hours with a telescope watching that thing, as though something about it stole her interest and held it for far longer than I ever could.
I take a moment longer to pay tribute to her memory, to acknowledge
our past, before I grab my car keys and move forward to my future.
TEN
Emma
The pile of clothes on the floor is almost level with the top of my mattress. My laptop is flipped open on my desk and Marley is using the dual screen as a mirror to fix her lip gloss during our Skype session.
“Mmmm,” she says with lips still puckered, “I like the other one better.”
She’s talking about my dress. I don’t even know if I should be wearing one. I mean, are dresses acceptable attire for a glorified event where two grown men beat the shit out of each other?
The frock Marley prefers is black with lace accents and fits me like a second skin. I slip it back over my head and tug the hem down. “It’s, like, two inches too short.”
“Emma, your legs go up to my chin. Embrace it.”
“I feel like a hooker,” I say honestly.
“Are you planning to sleep with Tristan in the restroom of the restaurant?”
I don’t even try to hide my disgust. “No.”
“Not even if he paid you?”
“Marley!”
“See?” she says. “You’re not a hooker.”
“I’ve got to go. Tristan said we’ll pick you up after dinner.”
She sighs. “Always the third wheel. Trust me. Wear that dress.”
“It’s a boxing match.”
“Who cares? All the more reason for you to look sexy. Wear the damned dress.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Promise.”
“Whatever.”
“Promise,” she insists.
I hold my fingers behind my back and cross them. “Promise.”
“Fine. ’Bye.” She speaks as though she’s a defiant child and closes the laptop shut.
As soon as she’s gone, I strip out of the dress and change into jeans and a worn T-shirt. I’m about to pair it with some Converses when it dawns on me that I didn’t exactly ask Tristan what the dress code for dinner was.
I pick up my cell phone and fire a text: Jeans and tee okay?
His reply is almost instant: Jeans and tee are perfect. See u soon.
I opt for a canvas messenger bag to complete my ensemble, mostly so I can shove the dress and a pair of wedge heels inside it. What Marley doesn’t know definitely won’t hurt her.
My mother, or the alien who has invaded her body, is in the kitchen. She looks exhausted, buttering bread on both sides for grilled cheese. I walk up and take it from her.
“Sit down, Mom. Let me make you dinner.”
I’m surprised when she doesn’t object, instead handing me the butter knife and flopping into one of the kitchen chairs.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’m not feeling too good.”
I nod and slather the butter on the bread while I scoop a spoonful into a frying pan and set it to melt.
I grab a pot from the cupboard, because I saw a can of tomato soup in the pantry the day before and the two go hand in hand. I open the soup and place the contents inside the pot before adding water.
Mom’s head is rested in her hands.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Thanks for trying to make things better. You know, for changing.”
She offers a weak smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see much of you, never mind you moving to Stonefall.”
I stir the tomato soup and try to get the lumpy bits out of the concentrate. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan on coming back here,” I tell her.
When the pan is hot enough I place a piece of bread in, butter side down, before adding two cheese slices and another piece of bread. The heat makes it sizzle. “I had to get away from there.”
I have no idea why I’m telling her this. There’s no way I can rehash what happened with her. Deep down she knows the truth. When I was in the hospital, her drinking got worse. Marley had told me that she was on a monthlong bender. Marley never knew why and won’t know if I can help it. I can’t relive every horrifying second of what happened.
She nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My heart begins to hammer behind my ribs, and suddenly my chest is constricting and it’s so hard to breathe. Bile threatens to erupt as it burns deep inside my belly. “No.” I turn my attention back to the pan. “I can’t.”
Mom doesn’t say anything else until I present her with her grilled cheese, cut into four, and her soup. “Going somewhere?” she nods to my bag.
Grateful for the change in conversation, I answer her. “Yes. To a boxing match, actually. Remember Mateo Cruz?”
She smiles. “Honey, I may be the town laughingstock, but everyone knows him. Are you two dating?”
I don’t mean to, but I laugh at her question. “Uh, no. Mateo is head-over-heels in love with Marley.”
She dips the corner of one of her sandwich portions into the soup. “Does Marley know?”
“Not really,” I say, “but I think she will soon enough.”
“Good grilled cheese.”
“Thank you.”
I’m about to offer to make her another when the doorbell rings. The clock on the microwave tells me it’s six thirty. He’s punctual.
I try to stop my heart from speeding up as I stand. “My date,” I tell Mom. Already I feel like I’ve shared too much information with her, yet not nearly enough. I’ve never had a mother who cared enough to ask questions before. She continues to eat, only instead of watching the edges of her sandwich become saturated by the soup, her eyes are fixed on the door.
I swing it open and there’s Tristan. The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing jeans too. His grin is wide and I notice that his teeth are all perfectly aligned. Rosco, my dad’s best friend, who is a dentist, would be impressed.
“Emma Fletcher,” Tristan says. He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss. “Looking simply perfect this evening.”
Heat flares through my body. He looks perfect too. I pull my hand away and use it to motion to my mother. “Tristan, this is my mom, Bernadette.”
“Pleased to officially meet you,” he says to my mom. “Don’t worry, I’ll have her back in one piece.”
“Good,” she says. “You kids have fun now.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Fletcher.”
After we leave the house, he holds the door of his truck open, along with his hand to help me up. I hoist the bag containing my dress onto the bench seat before I follow suit.
He shuts the door, rounds the truck, and starts the ignition. “Jeans were perfect,” he says.
Tristan
Em’s mom can’t be more than forty-five, but she looks sixty. The years haven’t treated her well. Scratch that—she hasn’t treated herself well, drowning her body in the throes of a horrible and unforgiving disease. My mom’s cousin is an alcoholic, and seeing her family destroyed because of it makes me feel for Emma. Rumor has it her mother is clean, but the damage is done.
Emma examines her fingernails, like she’s too nervous to look at me.
“So I thought maybe we could be casual tonight,” I say in an effort to grab her attention. “You don’t really strike me as the kind of girl who’d be impressed by a show of the person I’m not.”
“I appreciate that,” she says. “It’s true I’d rather that you just be yourself.”
I nod. She’s chewing on her lower lip and I’m fighting a very strong urge to stop her with my mouth. The path to my destination is not paved, so the gravel road we turn onto is causing my truck to bounce, which in turn is making parts of Emma bounce, and I swear to God if I were any other guy, I’d pull over and try to have my way with her, hoping like hell she’d let me. Instead, I think about carburetors and throttle valves.
I turn on the radio. The station is having a retro throwback, and the song “Do You Love Me” by the Contours blasts through
the speakers. I almost change it until Emma laughs and surprises me when she begins lip-syncing. She’s shaking her fine ass all around the seat, a small crinkle forming across the bridge of her nose, her head bobbing in time with the music as she holds a pretend microphone and sings to me.
As she lets loose and mouths the words “Do you love me?” I want to tell her that I will. I will love her, despite everything that tells me I shouldn’t.
I will love you, Emma Fletcher.
By the time she’s done her song, we’re at the lake. It’s opposite the pier, directly south, but it’s pure waterfront real estate. A little cove I like to call my own. I back the truck up to the water’s edge and cut the engine. “Here we are.”
She lets out a disbelieving giggle. “We’re in the middle of nowhere for dinner?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “Wait here, rock star.”
“Okay,” she says, drawing out the word. She’s skeptical of my dining choice, not that I can blame her.
I exit the truck and walk around the back, popping the tailgate. I’ve only ever brought one other girl here, but there’s something about Emma that makes me feel at peace. I don’t know why. It’s not like she has her shit together. Even if she’s a great pretender, I can tell she’s hiding something. She’s way too jumpy and often reserved—telltale signs of someone who is keeping a part of herself tucked away. A defense mechanism.
I hoist myself up into the box and gather the few supplies I had packed for tonight. I spread the blankets first, making sure they’re plush enough for her to be comfortable. I toss a few pillows toward the cab and set them in an upright position before I grab the bag of food and candles. There is no movement, not even the softest breeze. Perfect. I light a few of the candles and place them on either side of the box. When I think it looks good enough, I jump off the back and make my way to Emma’s side.
When I open her door, she offers a warm smile in exchange for my extended hand. I help her out and lead her to the back of the truck. Her eyes scan the lake. In this heat, the stillness of this night, it’s like liquid glass. I watch her watching the lake and I wish my brain were a camera so I could freeze the way she looks right now.
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 9
