by Ginger Scott
“Riley, it’s fine.” He’s trying to make this okay, but it’s not. My dad doesn’t even know him yet.
“How am I supposed to live in a place where my favorite two people can’t be in the same space?” I lean my head with my question. My stomach is twisting more with each passing second. I look behind me to check, and my dad is still staring at me.
“You barely know me,” Tristan says, and a fire flickers in my belly at the words.
“Don’t say that,” I protest.
He laughs, backing down my driveway a little. I mash my lips and breathe in through my nose before turning and pulling the door closed completely and moving closer to him.
“You’re saying I barely know you because we’ve only just met, but that isn’t true. Don’t tell me that you haven’t opened up to me. I won’t believe it. Time doesn’t get to dictate how important someone is to you. That person gets to decide that. How they make you feel decides that. And in a few weeks, you have become important to me.”
I move to touch him, but he shirks his shoulder away, his eyes scanning behind me, looking for my dad. I stop where I am, and he backs up two more steps.
“Why did you come here?” I ask.
He’s sick, and I can tell by every muscle in his body that he’s not very strong right now. He got out of a warm bed and walked—walked—to my house. I’m important to him. He’s important to me. And Goddamn it that’s all that matters!
“I wanted to thank you, and just make sure you were okay,” he says, his tone nonchalant as if this moment isn’t a very big deal.
“Liar.”
His eyes snap to mine and his jaw flexes. I smirk but not in a teasing or friendly way. My eyes challenge him.
“Why did you come here?” I repeat.
He chuckles softly and shakes his head, lifting one shoulder a touch. I don’t stop though. I ask him again.
“Why did you come here?”
My door opens behind me, and Tristan’s eyes flit to what I know is my father for a brief second, but they come back to me. He looks lost, and he looks helpless. In days, I have become his person too. That’s why he’s here.
“Say it,” I demand, my voice low and gritty.
His lips part with short breaths, and his eyelids sag lower. I can see the vibration in his mouth, the trembling in his face from weakness and nerves. For a guy who’s stood up to some pretty scare shit, being vulnerable in front of a Tomboy and her dad seems to have knocked him on his ass.
“You wanted to see me,” I say the words for him.
He pulls his lower lip in between his teeth and closes his eyes for a second then nods, the movement subtle and for me alone.
“Yes,” he says, opening his eyes back on me. They’re softer, but the fear is still widespread in his expression and posture.
“Then stay.” I don’t ask him, because I’ve come to realize that Tristan isn’t good with options. He always chooses wrong, so I choose for him.
“Stay,” I say again, ignoring my dad calling my name behind me.
Tristan can’t avoid my father, though the good inside him respects my dad.
“Riley, it’s time to come in. Say goodnight,” my dad says, and his parenting makes me start to laugh.
Everything about Tristan grows stiff, his neck is flexing and his pale cheeks are blotchy from anxiety. His smile is faint, and fake—he’s working hard to keep it there, and his feet are desperate to prove to my dad that he’s leaving.
He’s leaving me.
“Then let’s go,” I say, feeling in my pocket for me keys. My feet are in slide sandals, and I’m wearing cut-off sweat shorts and one of my dad’s old shirts. It’s good enough to go just about anywhere in Miller County.
“Riley?” My dad sees me moving toward the truck, and I break a little inside because I’m about to disappoint him. I’m not doing anything wrong, though, and I’ll be back before curfew.
“I’m going out, Dad. I’ll be back soon. I’ll call you if I need you,” I say, turning to walk backward the final few steps. It was a bad decision to look him in the eyes, though, because what I see reflected in them is a replay of the heartbreak he’s lived with for two years since my mom left. My chest seizes and breathing feels impossible, but I keep moving, unlocking my door and sliding to the middle to unlatch Tristan’s side.
“Get in,” I say to him as I fling the door open a little more. He’s frozen in-between pleasing my father and pleasing me, but he eventually gives in, his eyes riddled with guilt as he climbs into my truck.
I pull out the second he shuts the door, not even waiting for him to buckle. I have no idea where we’re going, but I can tell by the way my heart settles right back in place that leaving right now with him is right. He needs me.
We drive in silence for blocks, passing the corner liquor shop, pay-day loan store, and a place called The Pawn Yard. I went the opposite direction of every other trip I’ve made from my house, and I’ve found a part of our neighborhood that’s somehow a little grittier. Weeds don’t even grow in the dirt along the sidewalk, and streetlights flicker.
“I don’t know where I’m going, really, so feel free to give me directions,” I say.
“Okay, how about turn around,” Tristan answers.
I glance at him and grimace.
“Very funny,” I say.
“I’m not kidding, Riley. Your dad is pretty mad,” he says.
“So,” I interrupt. “I’m pretty mad, too.”
Tristan laughs lightly and turns his attention to his window, holding his right fist to his lips in a poor attempt to quiet himself.
“What’s so funny?” I say, glancing from him to the road and back again, finally stopping at a light. The truck is rumbling, and I check the gauge to see maybe a gallon left of gas.
“Why the hell are you mad? That’s what’s funny,” he says, laughing a little harder.
I don’t get it, and after a few seconds of me not joining in, he quiets down.
“Look, your dad is being protective. He knows I’m in a gang, or was in a gang, or that I know a gang. Even if he doesn’t know for sure, he thinks it. Teenagers around here don’t have homemade tattoos branding them to…what? Express their creativity? I wanted to profess my love for pirates? X marks the spot?”
I crack a small laugh at his last suggestion.
“Riley, your dad is just being a good dad. And he sure as hell isn’t going to like me now that you ran off with me, but I really appreciate the sentiment,” he says.
My face sags as gloom settles in.
“Maybe that was a little spontaneous,” I say.
“Uh, ya think?” Tristan’s eyebrows raise, and his mouth curves up on one side, which pulls a half-hearted smile back to my lips.
“I need gas,” I say, the light changing in front of us.
“One more block up and on the right,” he says, motioning where to go.
I drive forward, finding the station just another block ahead, and I pull up to the pump and get out before Tristan can do it for me. I swipe my card, which my dad loads money onto once a week, and think about how he’s probably watching the bank statement online right now. I bet he’s panicked that I’m running away.
Tristan’s opened his door, and he’s started to slide out of the truck. His head is moist with sweat, and I worry that he has a fever again. I hold my palm on him, but he feels cool. Before I can pull my hand away, he slides his hand up my arm and weaves his fingers with mine, leaning his head into my arm with closed eyes. He opens them on me slowly, and without words I know he means thanks.
“I’m gonna grab something with electrolytes. I’m weak as shit,” he says, letting go of our hold and stepping from the truck. “Want anything?”
I shake my head. He looks at me for an extra beat just to be sure, then moves on to the small store where people are scurrying around inside looking for beer and smokes. This is the place where the cops fill up their drinks and grab late-night dinners. There are four of them in the park
ing lot, a rare sight around here without lights swirling.
I pull my phone from my pocket and see the three missed calls from my dad. With a deep breath, I press on his name to return the last one. He answers in just a ring, so I talk before he can.
“Please don’t be worried. I’m coming home soon. In an hour at the latest. And Tristan is a very nice boy. He’s a gentleman, and we’re friends. He missed school today, and I’m just going to catch him up on what he missed. I need you to trust me,” I say, holding my breath through every word, trying to make my case before it can be stopped.
My dad is silent when I finish, and I worry for a moment that he’s angry.
“An hour,” he finally responds, and I fill my chest with air.
“At the most,” I say, crossing my chest with tiny strokes of my fingers.
“Okay, Riles. I trust you then,” he says.
I hang up and turn to look inside the store, spotting Tristan in line. Two younger boys bolt through the back door with candy stuffed in their pockets, pieces falling free with every step as they spring away. Tristan and the store clerk both crane their necks at the sound of the alarm, but nobody in the store moves from their spot. The clerk remains at the register, eventually raising his hand and pressing something on an overhang above his head. The alarm stops.
Tristan says a few words to the man at the register, and their conversation lasts about a minute, longer than a single drink purchase usually lasts. Before Tristan leaves, the clerk holds out his fist and Tristan pushes his knuckles into the guy’s.
“What was that all about?” I ask as I hang up the gas nozzle and twist the cap on my tank.
Tristan glances over his shoulder as he takes his last few steps on his way to me, then chuckles as he looks back.
“Oh, I know those boys. They’re sorta cousins to Lauren. Like her mom’s sister’s step-kids or something? Anyhow, they’re pains in the ass, and that guy was going to get his pay docked for all that shit they stole. I just paid for it. No big,” he says, handing me a small chocolate bar. “You needed something sweet.”
His eyes glimmer, a happiness in them that I don’t think I’ve seen before. It will fade when the reality of his problems lap over us again, but for right now, it’s an awfully nice thing to see.
“Thanks,” I say, leaning into my truck. I’m aiming for flirtatious, but I don’t think Tristan gets it, because he keeps walking around to the other side.
I roll my eyes at myself and unwrap my candy bar, biting into half of it as I get in the truck. My dad needs to know Tristan like I do. He needs to see these things—the small things. Instead of the kid with an X on his arm, who might look a little stoned now that I think of it, even though he’s just zapped from being sick. My dad needs to witness the guy who saves a stranger’s ass at a gas station. Since I’ve known him, it seems like all Tristan tries to do is keep peace, find a balance between good and evil, rights and wrongs. Those kids got away with theft, and maybe he should have chased them down or scolded them, since he knows them. But really—what good would lecturing them do? Instead, he erased the damage he could. He covered up the bad with something good.
He works in layers.
“We have an hour,” I say, drawing a confused look from Tristan.
“I called my dad,” I say, lifting my phone in illustration.
Tristan smiles and nods.
“Good,” he says, leaving his tired eyes on me for a little extra time.
I’d be happy to sit here in the gas station parking lot, watching people and making up stories for them. I have a feeling Tristan would be good at that, but I also think some of his stories might not be made up. He seems to know or recognize nearly everyone.
“You’re infamous, huh?” I ask it as a joke, but Tristan doesn’t laugh. Instead, he chews at his lip.
“I’m not entirely sure what that means…I mean, I know what the word means, but I wouldn’t say I’m like…Jesse James or anything. Isn’t he that Western guy?” His analogy makes me laugh at first, but I let it fade when I realize that Tristan isn’t really making a joke; he’s deflecting an insult.
“No, you’re not Jesse James. I just meant you do seem to know everyone...” I shrug, not wanting to say more and make this worse. “I didn’t mean that like you’re a bad guy.”
“It’s okay,” he says, twisting the cap on his drink and sipping slowly as his focus turns to the front. “Sometimes I am…” He turns to me again briefly. “A bad guy.”
His eyes stick to mine through the rise and fall of his chest. They’re colored with regret and hopelessness, and I hate that I put that there. He turns back to the front window and leans into the door a little, his right knee lifted higher than the other.
I sink into my seat. My word-choice was stupid, and it’s not what he needs to hear. I reach over and touch his arm, resting my hand on it lightly, feeling the warmth of him underneath a thin layer of cotton. His chin dips and his eyes hover over my touch.
“Think maybe you could teach me how to drive a stick?” he asks, blinking once and opening his eyes on mine. His lip tugs up on the corner. He wants to move on. I’ll let him.
I nod slowly and grin faintly.
“Yeah…I think I can, Tristan. Where should we go?”
He sucks in his top lip with thought, then lets go as his smile expands.
“There’s an empty lot about two miles away, where they tore down that big grocery store that made you bag your own things,” he says.
“Okay then,” I nod, turning over the engine, shifting and pulling us away.
Tristan carefully watches every move I make, and I try to explain the timing of my clutch foot with my brake and gas foot. It’s hard to put into words for me because this is the only vehicle I’ve ever driven. I don’t really know another way to drive, and I’m pretty sure if I suddenly had an automatic, I’d stomp my left foot up and down just out of habit.
We pull into the lot just off the main road, and I drive to the very middle, where the asphalt has the fewest holes and gaping cracks—and where the surrounding fencing is hundreds of feet away.
“You think you’re ready?” I ask, and his eyes light up excitedly.
“Not even in the least, but that’s why we’re here,” he says, bursting out a laugh as he leaves the passenger side of my truck.
I puff out a heavy breath, letting the air glide up, missing how it used to catch my long hair that hung over my forehead. I look up until my eyeballs hurt, trying to see if I can spot my hairline. It’s gotten longer, and I think I’m going to have to start styling it soon. As it is, I push the centimeter-long pieces flat with water.
Kicking open my door, I slide out so Tristan can climb in. Before I leave for the passenger side, I familiarize him with the clutch position. He chuckles when I touch his leg.
“Sorry, I’m ticklish,” he says, shaking his knee as if he’s trying to get the feeling to fall off onto the floor. I laugh to myself and twist my lips as I walk away, amused that Tristan has such an innocent weakness.
I climb into the passenger side and put my hand over his on the gear shift. His mouth stretches wide at my touch, and we both flex our hands, letting fingers find their comfortable place against one another.
“We probably shouldn’t hold hands, if I’m still sick,” he says. I feel his shrug flex along his arm, and I squeeze into his fingers harder.
“Probably,” I say, with no intension of letting go. “Of course, we’ve broken that rule already, so…” I hear him breathe out and his hand shifts under mine affectionately, fingers flexing again to hold onto me more. I think he craves to connect with me as much as I do with him.
Eventually, my hand curls along his, and with the motor off, I walk him through each position and timing with the clutch. We say the words, “second, third, fourth…” over and over until it feels like a rhythm to a song, his left foot playing base drum.
“Think you’re ready?” I slide my hand over his knuckles, not ready to quit holding on. H
e wiggles his arm slightly and gives me a lopsided grin.
“Can’t be any worse than when I tried to drive your truck last time,” he admits.
I laugh, my mind imagining that crumpled stalling-out sound that my truck makes when things don’t go right. I rest back into my seat and buckle up, motioning to Tristan to do the same.
“Just in case. Dashboards are hard on foreheads and all,” I tease. He doesn’t laugh, but just agrees and buckles quickly.
With his hands wrapped on the wheel, his arms stretched out and body stiff, Tristan takes a deep breath then turns on the ignition. We both ride the rumble, waiting as the motor finds it’s happy place somewhere between a gurgle and a roar. Tristan gives it a little gas to keep it going. I didn’t have to tell him to, so he must know a little bit about cars.
“All right, let’s ease into it,” I say, bringing his eyes to mine. He nods, but everything about his expression is tight with concentration. His hand moves to the gear shift and he scoots forward, ready to give it some gas and hit the clutch.
We begin to roll forward, and the engine makes that familiar sound when it’s gasping for more—more gas, more shifting, more speed. It wants to travel.
“Do it now,” I say, but Tristan reacts a fraction too late and we stall out, both of our bodies slinging forward until our belts stop us. I grunt from the pull.
“Sorry,” he says. His voice is meek, and it makes him seem so much less threatening than his reputation says he is.
“It’s okay,” I reassure. I find his hand and place it back on the gear shift, holding on with him this time. “Let’s do it together.”
He nods and starts the truck again, his body perched at the edge of the seat and ready. He looks in the mirrors a few times, and I giggle.
“Don’t laugh,” he growls, playfully.
“It’s cute. You check your blind spots like we’re merging on the highway or something,” I say, squeezing at his hand while he repeats my words in a baby voice, mocking me. It makes me laugh harder, seeing him stressed about something like this and letting me push his buttons.
“I suppose you just hopped right into this thing when you first got it and sped off fine, huh?” he says, sighing and readying his arms and legs to give it a try again.