by Meg Jolie
That had been nearly a month ago. Since then, I’d started avoiding his calls completely. I didn’t want to accidentally end up with another scheduled lunch date.
I’d had a hard time sitting there. Just thinking about him made the nausea roll in. Sitting across from him, seeing his face was even worse. I’d been so blown-away that day when I’d walked in on him. I’d been hysterical. The memory forever burned into my subconscious. I’d been terrified of what I’d have to tell my mom. I’d been devastated knowing that what I had thought was my happy, stable family was all a lie. In the end, I didn’t have to tell my mom anything.
He’d confessed everything. But obviously, only because the conversation was inevitable at that point.
I hadn’t realized that just thinking about it was upsetting me so much. My eyes were burning and my skin was prickling. My chest was heaving and my breaths were coming a little too quickly. I fought the urge to burst into tears.
Tristan put his hands on my shoulders. “Britta,” he said softly, “take a deep breath. You’re going to start to hyperventilate or something.”
“You don’t understand,” I said as tears started flooding my eyes. I blinked them away.
“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe I don’t.”
Willow was right. He had grown over the past year. Quite a lot. I had to tilt my head to look up at him. He looked older, too. Not so much like a kid anymore. Actually, not at all like a kid anymore. He’d grown his hair out. It wasn’t in the nice, neat cut it had always been in. It was longer and bit floppy across his forehead. I…liked it.
I pushed those realizations away and brought myself back to the real issue.
“Nobody gets it!” I complained. Why can’t I just be mad at him? What was so wrong with that? I wondered. “Nobody gets it!” I repeated. My voice was full of frustration.
“Maybe not,” Tristan said as his hands slid off my shoulders. “But do you really want to spend the rest of your life being mad at him?”
I wanted to say that yes, yes I did. I realized how childish that would sound so I said nothing.
“Look, Britta, all I’m saying is that you and your dad used to seem so close. He’s obviously trying. He must want to fix things. I do get that it must be hard…But you must miss him a little bit, don’t you?” he demanded. His dark brown eyes were scrutinizing.
I turned away from him because he was right and I didn’t want to admit it. I straightened a stack of books that I had on my desk. I was sure even if I didn’t deny it; he’d see it written all over my face. I did miss him. I didn’t want to. But I did. It was frustrating to have such conflicted feelings. I wanted to hate him. A lot of the time, I thought I did. Then there were the days that I didn’t.
And those days, I felt guilty for it.
“So why were you and your mom talking about it? If you don’t mind that I ask,” he tacked on. “Doesn’t she want you to see him?”
“No,” I said as I turned back around. “Just the opposite, actually. She thinks I should go. She hadn’t realized that I’ve been avoiding him. But he was so pushy the last time we got together. He was just…too happy or something. And he asked too many questions. I felt like he was trying too hard to pretend like nothing was wrong. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Since then,” I said with a helpless shrug, “I just haven’t wanted to see him. It all just felt like it was too much. Too fake. But I hadn’t told my mom so she just found out tonight. She wasn’t happy about it.”
“So she wants you to have a relationship with your dad?” he carefully asked.
My shoulders heaved in a resigned sigh. “She says she does.” Or possibly, she was just saying that because she thought it was the right thing to do. And unlike my dad, my mom usually tried hard to do the right thing.
“Then she probably does,” he decided.
“Maybe,” I muttered.
“Not that you want my opinion,” he began, “but I think you should talk to him. Or at least, try to talk to him. The sooner you do that…maybe things can get back to normal for you. Maybe you can get past the awkwardness. I really think you’d be happier.” He paused before adding, “I mean…you couldn’t be unhappier about the situation at this point. Could you?”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“So really, you don’t have anything to lose,” he pointed out.
The only thing I was losing was this argument.
And Tristan wasn’t even finished yet.
“Just think about it. You don’t really think you’re going to be mad at him forever, do you?” The thought, though unrealistic had crossed my mind. “So that means you’re going to have to have to forgive him sometime. And since you’re pretty miserable about it right now, why not just do it and get it over with?”
“Why do you always have to be so reasonable?” I demanded.
He grinned back and shrugged. “Can’t help it.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. My room became oddly quiet. I had been fidgeting with one of the bags on my bed but when I glanced at Tristan, he let out a sigh.
“You know what I said earlier, about the dance? Can we maybe just forget I even brought it up?” he wondered. “You’ve got enough going on in your life. I don’t want to make anything weird between us. Okay?”
That answered that. He had definitely withdrawn the semi-invite. This was a good thing, I tried to tell myself.
“Okay,” I said. “But just so you know, I thought the offer was really sweet.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah? Sweet enough that you might actually want to go with me?”
I opened my mouth to respond but he cut me off.
“I’m kidding. Forget I said that. I might not want to hear your actual answer. I’m just going to pretend that you might have said yes,” he told me in a teasing tone. Then he turned to leave. “See you later, Britta.”
And out my door he went.
4
I spent the next few days contemplating what to do about my dad. Tristan had a point. I was going to have to get over it eventually. Why drag it out? Yet I continued to do so until the end of the week. I waited until Thursday night. Mom had left that morning for her extended ski weekend. That way, on the off chance Dad brought her up, I could tell him how she’d left for a romantic getaway. With a guy. Who made her happy and made her smile in a way that I didn’t remember him ever doing.
Fortunately for me—and maybe him, too—his phone was off. It went straight to voice mail. I left a message. Short but probably not all that sweet. But hey, at least I tried. The proof was there.
Mom had asked me to invite a friend over while she was away. She said she’d feel better if I wasn’t home alone. Only, I wanted to be home alone. It gave me time to read. So, with a request to the Garrett’s—who lived diagonal from us, across the street—to keep an eye on me, she was satisfied. Of course, the Jacobs lived right down the road. And we knew everyone in Secluded Pines, if not well, at least by name. So even though she was worried about leaving me home alone, I felt completely safe. And if I decided at some point I didn’t want to be home alone, I was pretty sure Jamie would come over immediately. Or I could go there. Either way, hypothetical crisis averted.
And just in case there was a crisis that could not be averted, Mom had left the name, number and address to the lodge on an enormous hand-made sign on the fridge. She’d also insisted I enter it into my phone. In case I decided to leave the house and I encountered an emergency while I was out having fun.
I nearly had to shove her out the door to be sure she left on time. When she finally did leave, she assured me that the neighbors would be watching. And that she would be calling.
As if I doubted that for a single second.
Once she was finally gone, I’d spent the rest of the afternoon tucked away in my room. Later in the day, I’d called my dad. After that, I received a text from Jamie asking if I could come over for a while. My first thought was to tell her she could walk over here, sinc
e I had the house to myself. And her parents would be getting home from work any time. But before I could do that, I started wondering if Tristan was home. While the logical part of me knew I shouldn’t be wondering that, that it shouldn’t make a difference…it didn’t stop me from wanting to know. Once the thought lodged itself in my head, I couldn’t get it out.
Not that much later, I was once again traipsing through the snow.
I rang the doorbell as I let myself in. Instead of Moonlight Sonata I was met with a different kind of melody.
Tristan.
Singing.
I recognized the song from the CD he’d given me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I remembered the name. But the lyrics were familiar. As soon as my winter gear was properly stashed away, I followed the sound of his voice.
I didn’t have to go far. Just around the corner to the kitchen.
Tristan was singing away, his ear buds in, feeding him the music he may or may not need. I was sure he hadn’t heard the doorbell chiming. I perched myself against the archway of the kitchen door, waiting for him to see me. When he did, he just smiled, as he walked toward me, still singing.
If it were me caught singing? I’d be humiliated beyond words. Especially without any background music to drown out the sound of my voice. However, I realized Tristan’s voice was just another part of his perfection. I realized then that yes, I thought Tristan was perfect in more ways than one. With that perfect voice he walked toward me, still singing. If it were me, I’d have instantly sealed my lips shut. But I have a singing voice of…well…me. And it’s not pretty.
It’s not even tolerable.
When he was in front of me, he turned his music off and took the ear buds out.
“Aerosmith?” I wondered.
“Good guess,” he affirmed. “Can you narrow it down?”
“Sweet Emotion?” I asked without having to give it too much thought.
He grinned back, looking as though he were proud of me.
The look on his face made me want to laugh. Tristan took his music seriously.
“I didn’t know you were coming over,” he admitted. “I thought with your mom gone, you were looking forward to being home alone.”
I nodded. “I was. But Jamie just asked me to come over so I thought I would. For a while, anyway.”
“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” he wondered.
I bit my lip and raised my eyebrows. I wasn’t. I had no real plans for the weekend. Did I want him to know that? It might depend on why he was asking.
When I hesitated he started talking again. “Jamie and I got a stack of new releases for Christmas. Evan’s out of town visiting family, or something. Our parents are going to some after-Christmas party. We haven’t heard of anything else going on. So Jamie and I thought we’d probably be watching a few of the new movies.” He shrugged like it was no big deal. Probably because it wasn’t. I watched movies with them all the time. “You can come over if you want. If you get bored with being home all alone.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll think about it.” It didn’t surprise me that he and Jamie had plans. As much as she pretended to dislike her brother, I knew she really didn’t.
“Well,” he said with a casual shrug. “We’ll be here. So come on over anytime. I mean, if you decide you want to.”
“I’ll let you know,” I told him.
I got a smile in response. I knew then that I’d be joining them but I kept that to myself.
Instead, I peered around him, at the mess I’d caught a glimpse of when I’d walked in. There was a disaster spread across the countertop.
“Watcha making?” I asked, though I thought I knew.
“Whipped cream,” he told me with a frown as he turned back around to look at it.
That’s what I’d suspected.
“It’s not going well?” I wondered.
He shook his head and made an annoyed face. “We have all this pie left over and I wanted a piece. Mom said there was whipped cream in the fridge. I thought that stuff came already made?”
I shook my head. “Not the real stuff,” I said. I wandered over to the counter. He followed as I peered into the bowl of liquid. “Well for one thing, you’ll have better luck if you use a mixer,” I told him. “You know, with beaters?” That’s what they were called right? Maybe not. Maybe this was like the culinary-challenged leading the culinary-challenged.
He waved a whisk at me.
“That’s a whisk. A mixer is the thing that has two…” He gave me a blank look so I cut myself off. “Do you mind if I look for one?”
He motioned toward the spacious kitchen. “Go ahead.”
I started rummaging around in the cupboards.
“Why do you need a mixer, anyway?” he demanded. “Isn’t this supposed to be whipped cream? It says it on the carton.” He poked it with an accusatory finger.
“Whipping cream,” I stressed. It was only in that moment that I actually realized the difference myself. “As in, it needs some whipping to be turned into whipped cream.” It made sense. I’d just never had a reason to think it over before.
Tristan nodded his agreement.
I found what I was looking for in a lower cabinet and I pulled it out. Tristan stood back as I turned it on and proceeded to whip the cream. In no time, it had fluffed up substantially. He watched me with appreciation. When it looked as fluffy as I thought it was going to get, I turned the mixer off.
He immediately stuck his finger in the bowl, swiping up a bite. He made a face as he popped it in his mouth.
“Not good,” he decided as he grimaced.
I copied his gesture. He was right. It wasn’t good. I’d watched my mom make whipped cream, not really paying attention as she did so. But I’d never made it myself.
“I think it needs sugar. And maybe vanilla,” I decided.
He found both of them and placed them on the counter. I measured out what I hoped was a reasonable amount for the portion we were attempting to make. I restarted the mixer just until it looked as though the new ingredients were blended in.
“Here taste it now,” I offered as I skimmed my finger along the bowl. I held it up to him. He leaned forward taking my finger in his mouth. The sucking motion as he swirled his tongue around my finger sent something spiraling through me. I didn’t allow myself to think too much about what that something actually was.
“Mmmm,” Tristan said. He was still—apparently—savoring the flavor.
I forced a laugh as I slowly withdrew my finger.
“What do you know? I, Britta Monroe actually taught the brilliant Tristan Jacobs something,” I said with a teasing smirk.
Tristan smirked right back. “I’ve always thought there were a whole lot of things you could teach me,” he admitted.
“What are you doing in here?” Jamie asked as she marched into the kitchen. Her eyes darted back and forth between Tristan and me. Then she spotted the mess on the countertop. “You better clean that up.”
He put the rest of the carton back in the fridge and grabbed his plate. “I’ll get in a little bit.”
“Why are you in the kitchen?” Jamie asked me with a little laugh. “Was he conning you into helping him?”
I shook my head, not sure what to say. Tristan had scooped the whipped cream out onto his pie. He walked past his sister without looking back.
I stood there, blinking after him. Wondering what he had meant when he’d said he thought there was a whole lot I could teach him. Because really, there was no way he meant that the way it sounded.
Did he? He couldn’t have because…I couldn’t think of a logical reason other than…Just because!
*~*~**
“I think something is going on with Willow,” Jamie admitted. We were downstairs, far away from Tristan. That was good. Because I was finding I had a hard time paying attention to anything else when he was around. She’d put in a new romantic comedy, something he probably wouldn’t want to watch. “When is the last time you went to her
house?”
I had to think about it. “I don’t really know.”
“I can’t remember, either,” she said. “But the other day, I offered to pick her. Then later, I offered to drive her home. She wouldn’t let me do either. After I started to think about it, she’s been doing that for a while. Don’t you think that’s kind of odd?”
Willow didn’t have her own car. So Jamie and I frequently drove her around. Neither of us minded. We both knew, though we would never say anything to remind her of it, that her family was having financial problems. She had brought it up one time. When she told us they were moving. Jamie and I had listened without interrupting.
“I’m only talking about this once,” she’d said. “And then I don’t ever want to bring it up again.” So she’d told us about how her family was struggling. She’d clearly been embarrassed so we hadn’t pressed her on the issue. We’d just tried to be as supportive as possible.
“I know she hates her new house,” I said sympathetically.
I’d only been there a few times. It was a small rental. A major downgrade from their previous, gorgeous home. She and her sister had to share a room. When her parents’ business started to struggle, they’d had to make a choice. Get rid of their business, or get rid of their home. They decided the home had to go. The business, though struggling, at least brought in a little bit of income while the house, obviously, did not.
“Maybe she’s just feeling self-conscious,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Jamie agreed. “But it’s not like we haven’t seen it before. I mean, we’ve both been there. And I thought she said things were picking up for her family? And even if she does hate the new house, I thought she hated having her parents drive her around even more.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Another thing…” She faded off. A concerned wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Does she look like she’s getting really thin?”
I hadn’t noticed. Very likely because I’d been throwing myself an extended pity-party over losing Corey. I instantly felt like a horrible friend.
