by Max Hudson
The paintings that Tristan had knocked off the walls were still on the floor, groveling just like Mark. As he shoved them aside to make room for himself, he heard his phone ringing again. It gave life to the empty studio apartment, sounding muffled beyond the cramped hall that led out into the other room. He could barely move to answer it, let alone to help himself.
He was stuck.
“What am I doing?”
The void didn't respond. Nothing came save for that ringtone that rang heartlessly through the air, chiming with life and the call of the outside world. He didn't want to answer it. He just wanted to stay curled up here on the ground where no one could find him.
His eyes cracked open. “This is too dramatic.”
As he rolled on his back, he felt his collection of canvas shift and he rolled his eyes, raising his arms above his head to stretch.
“I'm being dramatic.”
Mark rose resolutely from the ground and released the crushed flower from his sweaty hand, walking into the other room with his right hand still clutching his paint-spattered brush. He set it in the sink near the kitchen and went to his phone while wiping his hands on his pants.
There were two missed calls from Tristan.
“I won't be dramatic,” he told himself. “I won't be.”
When he lifted his phone, it felt like it weighed a few thousand tons. He could hardly unlock the screen to check his messages. There was a text from Tristan, but he didn't want to read it. Not now. He had to go focus on his silly cartoon for the week. In fact, it had to be particularly funny considering Valentine's Day was coming up.
He scowled. “Nothing but a scam for chocolate lovers and hopeless romantics. I'm not one of them.”
But when he glanced again at Tristan's name, his face softened. His features relaxed. Maybe there was something to it, but he didn't want to honor the thought any further. It was just his brain firing off synapses over familiar pathways. There was no correlation other than Tristan being associated with pleasure.
As long as he thought of it like that, then there wouldn't be an issue. He wouldn't have trouble cutting the rope. He wouldn't feel bad about releasing the rock from his gut and letting it tumble down the hill right toward that sweet, innocent ginger man.
He clutched his phone, getting yellow paint smeared on the screen. “I couldn't destroy him. That would be wrong.”
When his phone sprang to life, he answered it without looking. “Yeah?”
“Hey.” It was Tristan. “Haven't heard from you since Friday.”
“Yeah, I've been busy.”
“I can imagine. Clive sent me on a mission to gather something about Valentine's Day as it relates to the art galleries I was going to interview.”
“Sounds fun.”
Tristan chuckled. “It sure has been. Listen, I'm right around the corner. Want to grab a coffee with me?”
“Um... actually, no. I need to work on this drawing. I haven't been able to crack it yet and I'm panicking.”
“Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe we can link up later?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, well, cool. I'll give you a ring.”
“Okay, bye.”
Click.
Mark's shoulders sank as he pressed his phone to his forehead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid...why didn't you say anything?”
He felt frozen in his position like a statue in the middle of a park, waiting for the pigeons to take their rage out on his head and neck. As much as he wanted to move toward his desk—toward the light that waited for him near the window and the warmth that would come with it—he couldn't. He was stuck again.
“I could have said something. Why do I have to be so dramatic?”
Anything would have been better than nothing. A small peep about the incident could have easily cleared it up. He could have even mentioned the new painting he was inspired to create. That would have been much better than a few short words that coldly summarized his discontent.
“Why am I like this?”
He threw his phone on his twin bed and trudged over to his desk, slouching down into his cushioned chair. While he lifted the lifeless pencil once again to press to the paper, he became overwhelmed. Anything that came from him now would only be dripping with sarcasm and depression. He didn't feel confident—he just felt like a failure.
Chapter Twelve
A car chugged past Tristan with the windows rolled down and rock music blasting through the speakers. He regarded it with a smile, feeling the elation from Friday night still pumping in his veins. Though Mark had been relatively quiet since then, he still felt a sense of hope that seeing Mark today would be wonderful.
After all, it was the Monday before Valentine's Day.
As he pressed his hand to the front door of the El Paso Word, he immediately spotted his favorite person sitting at the front—Mark. The man looked utterly adorable even amidst his paper-strewn desk with his partially grown-out beard. It added a scruffy appearance to his usual dark demeanor and Tristan felt instantly pulled in that direction.
He studied Mark for a second, absorbing the details of Mark's crunched up expression. The man looked intense while concentrating, a sure sign that he was hard at work. As Mark shuffled through papers, Tristan pulled open the door and walked slowly inside.
He leaned against Mark's desk. “Hello, handsome.”
“Hello, yourself,” Mark said without looking up.
“What are you doing?”
“Work.”
“Right.” Tristan sat up from the desk, feeling disconnected. “Did you maybe want to get together this week?”
“Maybe.”
Tristan paused, holding his breath. His previously held hope was now slipping into a shadowy corner that was thick with mud. He could feel it growing sticky around his heart, taking away all the delightful things he had thought about doing—like maybe taking Mark out sailing for the coming holiday.
“Are you okay? You seem off today,” Tristan pointed out. “I hope I didn't offend you on Friday night.”
“You didn't.”
Mark still didn't look up. His eyes were hooked to the pages in his hands as they shuffled about in no particular order. Truly, this was an organized mess of some sort. Tristan couldn't really tell what he was doing other than staring at pages and pages of cartoons.
“Are those from this weekend?” Tristan inquired.
“Yep, they sure are.”
“Could I see them? Maybe I could help you choose one.”
Mark looked up. His eyes were red around the rims and he looked exhausted. Tristan sympathized with that expression. The poor man must have been up all night drawing. “Maybe not now.”
“Of course, I understand. I have to go drop off some of the work I did with the art galleries. Can I bring you back a coffee? You look a little tired.”
Mark raised up a foam cup next to his left hand. “Got it covered.”
“Okay.”
Tristan, feeling unsure about what to do next, made a beeline for Clive's office. He approached the secretary's desk, dropped off a folder with the three articles that were due, and hovered near the employee lounge. He couldn't decide if he should grab something or just leave because the small ripples of uncertainty were now becoming tidal waves that threatened to drown him.
It doesn't make any sense, he thought as he walked to the bathroom. He was so attached to me and now... he's so cold.
Inside the restroom, he dropped his bag to the ground, pressed up against the sink, and splashed cold water on his face. He straightened up and watched the water trickle down his cheeks in little rivers, almost looking like tears. He felt like crying. It was unlike him to feel this emotional, but it was happening regardless of how much he thought it strange.
Maybe I was too much. Maybe I did too much. He locked eyes with his reflection as his expression darkened. Or he could have met someone else.
He blinked twice, attempting to get rid of the thought, pushing it far away from it ever being a
reality. It was certainly a possibility. Anything was a possibility in this day and age. There were dating websites, dating pools, blind dates, and all sorts of hook-up apps that anyone could have on their phone. It was possible Mark was that type of person.
But it was superfluous. Tristan hardly knew him that well. They shared a few intimate dates and even had sex twice, but hadn't traded a great deal of information. This was so unlike him. He never went this hard this fast.
What was I thinking?
He shut his eyes for a moment while taking a deep breath to calm the anxious thoughts bustling around in his brain. Though it helped for a second, it started right back up as soon as he glanced at his reflection again. He released an exasperated groan and went back for more water, splashing as much on his face as he could possibly handle until his nose tingled from the cold.
He straightened up again, snatched a paper towel, and vigorously wiped his face. I'll offer one more time and drop it if he opposes. One more date—that might be okay.
After drying his face, he tossed the paper towel into the trash bin, sighed, and collected his bag. He headed for the front—which was where he was going anyway—and stopped by Mark's desk, hovering near the edge. “Hey, I was thinking that...we could do something for V-Day.”
“V-Day?”
“Yeah, I know it's not really your thing, but I'd love to do something special for you.”
Mark snorted. “Not this century.”
Insecure thoughts confirmed, Tristan thought. That's it.
“Right, then. See you around.”
Tristan turned and trudged out the door, greeting the sunshine with a sour grimace. His entire body felt heavy with sludge; with muddy disdain. It pumped through his veins with every beat of his heart, moving across his body at lightning speed. Each step he took away from the El Paso Word felt heavier and heavier, the cracks in the sidewalk seeming to grow wider as he passed them by.
And, just as he thought he might have been clear of the dark tendrils Mark was giving off, he heard a voice cry out to him from behind, “Hey!”
Chapter Thirteen
“Wait!” Mark huffed as he scrambled up the sun-bleached sidewalk toward Tristan. “Hang on!”
When Tristan turned, Mark could see the crimson filling Tristan's face. There was a heated anger there—a frustration that couldn't be hidden away. There were no shadows out here, but there was definitely darkness. Mark could feel it.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Why do you care so much about V-Day?”
Tristan looked taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah—why do you care so much? It's not like you love me or something.”
“I'm sorry. What are you even talking about?”
“Don't act like that, Tristan. You know what I'm talking about.”
“Actually, I don't. I'm completely clueless here. You've been practically avoiding me since our last date.”
Mark snorted. “I have not been avoiding you.”
“Right, so being short with me and not taking my calls is not avoiding me. That totally makes sense.”
“No, actually, it's not. You don't know if I'm busy or tired.”
“I can't read your mind, Mark. My crystal ball is broken.”
“Don't joke about this.”
Tristan forced a laugh. “Why not? This whole thing is a joke. You apparently expect me to know when you're working and when you need space, but you don't want to take the time to let me know.”
“Why should I tell you those things? You know I'm an artist. I'm always working.”
“Oh, right—because I have no idea what it means to be an artist who is always working. That makes sense.”
Mark scoffed. “I don't understand you.”
“You're preaching to the choir, buddy.”
“I really don't. I'm not even sure why I gave you a chance.”
Tristan shook his head and sighed, planting his hands on his hips. “You're a real piece of work.”
“Oh, I'm a piece of work? You're the one who went all out on a complete stranger and then told someone else that you love them.”
“Okay—now, I'm really lost. When did you ever hear that come from me?”
“Don't act dumb, Tristan. I heard you Friday night on the phone with one of your boyfriends. You said you loved him before you got off the phone. I'm not an idiot.”
Tristan's brows furrowed together as he recollected the memory. When it surfaced, his face lit up with recognition and he closed his eyes slowly. “You got offended that I said I loved one of my best friends.”
“That's not what it sounded like.”
“Mark...you can't be serious right now.”
“I'm more than serious. I don't take this sort of shit lightly.”
“Derrick is my best friend. I would never date him, not even for a second. He was going through a hard time, so I was comforting him.”
“So, you were lying to him?”
Tristan frowned. “I wasn't lying to my best friend. I've already told him about you, so he knows I was seeing someone. Besides, I like telling my friends that I love them.”
“That's just not what I heard, Tristan. It sounded like affection...like actual love.”
Tristan shook his head. “You can't be serious. This is not real life. How can you be this jealous?”
“Me? Jealous? You're full of it. You're the one who built me up with that sob story about your ex-boyfriend cheating on you.”
“Hey, I shared that because I wanted to share it. I didn't tell you to manipulate your feelings for me.”
Mark scoffed. “What feelings? We hardly even know each other. We literally just became acquainted last week.”
“If that's the case, then why are you so worried whether I love someone else or not? What business is that of yours?”
Mark groaned. “It's my business when that person is involved with me and sleeping with me.”
“You're making it sound like we have this intense connection that's based on superficial means. Is that how you think I see you?”
“Maybe.”
Tristan groaned. “You're just...you're something else. I guess I should have listened to my gut when you didn't answer your phone on Sunday.”
“You didn't have to call.”
“No, I didn't, but I wanted to. That's what humans like to do when we like someone, right?”
“I don't know, Tristan. It just feels weird. You gave me all this affection and put so much thought into our dates that it made me think you have ulterior motives.”
“So, what you're saying is that you're insecure?”
Mark's features darkened. “That's not nice.”
“But that's what I'm hearing. What you're telling me is that me being kind to you has just made you paranoid. Why should I keep being kind to you or seek your company if you're just going to think I'm doing it for superficial reasons?”
“That's not what I said.”
“But it is what you said, Mark. You just admitted it.”
“I—You know—” Mark stammered to come back with a response. His lips were dry, the heat was settling into his bones, and he was running on four hours of sleep. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
“Maybe. You didn't tell me that you lived here before. I didn't even know that about you. It's like you wanted to keep it from me.”
Tristan grunted. “But I didn't keep it from you. I did tell you.”
“You told me in a rush right before we had sex.”
“You initiated sex. I don't see what I did wrong here.”
“You dropped an emotional bomb on me so I could take pity on you and want to have sex with you.”
Tristan raised his hands in the air as if to surrender. “Okay, that's just beyond me and I have no idea how to respond.”
A silence fell between them. When a few people walked by, Mark hung his head low and kicked a rock across the sidewalk, waiting for them to get out of earshot. “Maybe this
was too fast.”
“Oh, well, look at that—I think we actually agree on something right now. Way to go.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, I don't know you that well and I think I took things too quickly. My apologies for that, Mark. Don't let me waste any more of your time.”
“In that case, should we part ways?”
“We should.”
Mark huffed as he flipped around on his heel, heading back for the El Paso Word. Behind him were a medley of sounds—cars chugging along, motors whirling, people laughing, conversations rising, and the sound of footsteps retreating.
Those footsteps were Tristan's.
Not shortly after, Mark heard the sound of an engine turning over and heard a car squeal away from the curb, heading in the opposite direction. The sound of the engine faded as it drove further away, mixing in with the rest of the sounds of the town.
Good, he thought. He better leave. I don't ever want to see him again.
When he walked back inside, the cool air greeted his forehead and calmed him slightly. Though it was a temporary comfort, he still felt the aggravating tension from his argument with Tristan. Everything he said—everything that Tristan had said—was giving him a bad taste in his mouth.
What had even come over him? It was like he really was a demon with a bad habit for causing more pain than necessary. He felt suddenly unattractive and disgusting as he sank into his office chair, melting into the cushions as far as humanly possible.
There was no reason to feel this way. After all, guilt wasn't a byproduct of being right. But however he tried to reason his way around it, the guilt was still there, prodding him to feel overwhelmed by the mass now forming in his gut. It was like he had swallowed too much food and his stomach was expanding with the massive lump of undigested sustenance. He even glanced down at his belly and held it, feeling it gurgle through the skin.
What am I worried about? I want him to go away. His stomach roared. Shit, maybe I was wrong. He regarded his desk wearily. This is a mess. Everything is a mess.