“Okay, I get it… I get it now,” Leah cuts me off, one small tear trickling down her face.
“So why’d you do it?” I ask, feeling my stomach fall. I talk a good game, but I sure as fuck do not like to hear all the shitty things that people think about me—even if most of the time I deserve what they’re saying about me. But with Leah, I need to know how she saw me then, and how she sees me now. I’m just not certain I can handle knowing what she really thinks of me.
“I was foolish Tristan. God, I realize it more now than ever,” she explains, slumping defeated back down on the bed. “I guess it was the same thing for me. I saw myself the way I’d thought you saw me too.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You kept saying ‘I want you to see yourself the way I see you.’ Well, I wasn’t certain what that meant,” Leah admits, as more tears fall down her face.
I wipe them away and say, “Like the most beautiful, intelligent, strong, and talented woman I’d ever seen.”
“And that’s what I wanted to believe… and started to believe… until…”
“Until you woke up and I was gone,” I finish her sentence this time.
“No Tristan, that’s not how it went,” she says, explaining how she woke up and took a shower, waiting for me to come back with doughnuts and chocolate milk. For the first time, I can see that morning from her eyes—from her point-of-view—and my heart breaks for her.
“The sketch? The sketch sent you over the edge?” I asked shocked.
“Yes, I mean, I told you the story of how special that picture, that moment was to me and you said—”
“That I’d keep it forever,” I say, opening my wallet, taking out a folded, crumbling, dirty sketch, torn at the edges. “I don’t say shit just to say it, Leah,” I explain, handing her the tattered and torn paper.
“But how? I saw it on the floor. It was in my hand.”
“Then you must’ve thrown it in the trashcan, because I spent all afternoon in the fucking trash room looking for it… before the daily trash went into the compactor and incinerator,” I explain, hoping she understands how much I went through just keep a promise I made to her. “I even paid some of the workers to help me sift through the trash. Do you have any idea how much trash… disgusting trash… a hotel has?”
“Oh my God, how could I be so stupid?” she asks, putting her head in her hands.
“I think we both were,” I say, pulling her hands away from her face. “We both did some shitty, terrible things.”
“Tristan, I’m so sorry… for everything. I’m so so sorry,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “I hate myself for everything I ever said and did. I’m sorry, Tristan.”
“Me too, Leah, me too.” I say, wrapping my arms around her, surprised that she even lets me. Coconut suntan lotion. The future just grabbed on to the past, and yanked with all its might to meet right in the middle of the present.
“Oh my God, can we stop yet?” Leah asks, breathing hard.
“Nope, two more miles,” I say, turning up the speed on my treadmill.
“I think… I think… I’m going to die,” she cries, hitting the emergency stop button.
“What the Hell? I thought you were tougher than that Franchetti,” I say, watching her bend over to tie her new tennis shoes. “If you don’t run, how do you keep that ass of yours in perfect shape like that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, taking a drink of water and pouring the rest on her face. “It’s hot as Hell in this state.”
“I don’t think 58 degrees is ‘hot as Hell,’ but I can think of something that is,” I say running harder to avoid any reaction my lower half has to her bending over and pouring water on herself.
Oddly, as soon as we talked, we fell right back into our little games of banter and jokes. It took some convincing, but I got her to agree to work out with me—mainly because I want to see her in a bathing suit.
“Are you sure we’re swimming in this temperature?” she asks, looking out the window. “There’s nobody at the pool.”
“Sure we are. It’s heated. We’ll be fine,” I encourage her. “Plus you just said it was hot as Hell.”
“Hyperbole Stan, look it up,” Leah says, sitting down on abdomen incline. Hearing her call me “Stan” again makes me run harder and look away from her. I don’t want her to see the reaction she has on me—not just yet anyway.
Leah does two crunches and half of one, and says, “Man, I feel the burn. You good? I’m ready to throw in the towel.” She heaves her hand towel at the bin and misses by a foot.
“You’re quite the athlete,” I say, laughing and slowing down my machine.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, sitting down on the ground. “Some of us were using our God-given talents while others, not naming any names, were running around fields trying to get little tiny balls into big old goals.”
“Hey, the goals weren’t—okay they were,” I admit, riding to the end of my treadmill and hopping off. Hanging the towel around my neck, I take a long drink of my water. When I drop my head back down, Leah’s staring at me. “Like what ya see?” I joke, watching her face flush.
“The view was never the problem, Stan,” Leah admits, hopping up. “I’ll go get my suit on.”
“Wait!” I call after her. She turns and looks at me. “You never answered me. Where’s Sam?”
“Gone,” Leah says, walking into the bathroom.
Gone. Gone is good. Gone’s fucking excellent really. I grab my swim trunks off the window ledge where I tossed them and head into the bathroom. My thoughts go directly to the fact that she is getting naked in the next bathroom over. Her naked body is only a few feet from me, only a wall separating us. I’ve got to keep my cool, try hard as shit to keep it in my pants, because I do not want to blow this—again. Her body is so damn incredible that maybe swimming with her wasn’t such a well-thought out plan. I’m going to want to touch her, hold her, fucking eat her alive. Damn it, reel it in Stan.
Oh Stan. Fuck, when she called me “Stan,” I could’ve blown a load right then and there. It was like the last three shitty years hadn’t passed. But they have, and we’re right back where we started from. Or are we? Maybe we’re further ahead, smarter, wiser, and more careful. Or maybe, I’m just reading more into shit than I should be. I sound like a fucking girl—or worse. I sound like Adrian. He’s so damn whipped, I could top my hot fudge and ice cream with him. I don’t want to end up like that—like some pile of whipped goo on some frigid dessert.
But yet, I’ve got that little fuck-nugget on my other shoulder whispering, “Really? Adrian’s happy! Are you happy?”
I’m going to flick that little sappy shit off my shoulder and say, “I’m going to be happy as a clam when Leah’s back in my bed. That’s for damn sure.”
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and Leah yells from the other side. “Dude, I’m sure you look fine in your suit, just come out already.” Laughing, I grab my shit and walk out.
Walking out of the bathroom, she’s done it once again. She’s shocked the shit out of me. “Really Leah?”
“What? Were you expecting something a little skimpier, maybe a little slutty… with a few strings to untie here,” she says, pointing between her boobs, “and maybe here,” pointing to her hips. I have to shift my weight and adjust my hardening dick. Just watching her direct my attention to her breasts and hips is almost enough for me.
“I expected a bathing suit,” I said shaking my head.
“This is a bathing suit,” she counters. “UV rays are very dangerous.”
“You look like you stepped out of a 1960s synchronized swimming contest,” I say, rolling my eyes.
The bottoms of her bathing suit (and that is using the term “bathing suit” very loosely) look like Lance Armstrong’s bike shorts from the Tour de France. The top of her “suit” has a high neck, short sleeves, and covers her entire stomach and hips. I’ve seen toddlers with neurotic parents wear less on the b
each, but never a grown woman.
“Hey, you told me to go buy a suit in one of the shops. I did exactly what you said,” Leah argues, spinning dramatically for me. “I just want to make sure that this new ‘just friends’ thing you talked about up in your room stays right where we want it.”
There’s a huge problem with this “just friends” label we decided on. Let’s get this straight, I know we’ll never been anything more than friends. I get that. I’m glad we’re beyond all that crappy, scandalous stuff. Granted, it was all stuff that I created and caused. I like talking to him, seeing him, joking around with him—always have. But now, for some reason, it’s new and exciting, flirty and fun—nothing like spending time with Samuel. Maybe that’s the difference. A few years with “Slimy Sammy Nogasm” sure puts things into perspective.
But truthfully, it’s like this: it’s like one day someone gave me lobster, dipped it in warm hot butter. I devoured that scrumptious succulent seafood, while the liquid butter dripped down my chin and at the same time it coated my ravenous throat. It was delicious and satisfying, making me crave it even more. But then it disappeared, leaving me with only the thought of it, the taste of it lingering on my lips, making me long for it again.
Then, for the next three years, someone else gave me a can of tuna and a fork, without even a small dollop of mayonnaise to stir in. I was forced to eat straight from the can, cutting my fingers on the severed edges of the can. Day in and day out, I ate the tuna, swallowed it in small, vomit-inducing gags, dreaming of that decadent lobster.
Finally, after that tuna went dry and foul, swimming upstream and gone forever, the warm, buttery lobster was back, hotter and fresher than ever before. But this time, it was just out of my reach, dangling like a carrot I couldn’t have. I could see it. I could smell it. My mouth watered for it—parts of me could still even taste it. I could feel it’s pull on me, but I just could not get to it. Unattainable temptation. The memory of it was even worse. There was this constant nagging reminder of what it could be like, how it would taste, and how it would feel. I could recall its delectable satisfaction, but I just couldn’t get close enough to taste it again.
So what am I saying? I’m saying I want to fuck Tristan O’Donnell. I want him to do things to me that I’ve only read about in books and fantasized about in my head. I want him more than a starving man wants bread. I want him more than a condemned man wants pardoned. I want Tristan O’Donnell like you cannot imagine. I’m worried that if I let him come too close to me, I’ll latch on like a parasite and suck him dry—suck him so fucking dry there will be nothing left of either us when we’re done. That is how badly I want him. But, I can’t. So, we’re playing the “just friends” game, a game that fucking blows ass, because holy Mary Mother of God, I want him.
Swimming didn’t happen. We both jumped in on the count of eight. Three didn’t seem long enough to get pumped up enough. We held hands and jumped in on the count of eight straight into the deep end of the pool. A split second later, both of us sprang like jackrabbits right back out of the pool. Heated my ass. It was like swimming in a melted glacier, but colder, much colder and more painful. Shivering like morons, we ended up getting in the hot tub, opposite sides, and talking until we were both shriveled like raisins. We talked about everything and anything. I don’t think I spoke to Samuel that much the whole time I was with him. No topics were off limits.
Of course, Tristan invited me to his room. I declined, explaining that I had to meet my father at the Oasis for dinner. Yeah that surprised him—surprised me too. But at the end of the night, we however separated and went off to our own rooms, not tempting our will any longer.
My dad, Mr. I-never-leave-New Hampshire, told me that it’d always been a dream of his to see Charleston. My dad refuses to fly, so we drove the eighteen hours through the night. Shockingly, it was a very memorable drive. Granted, my dad refused to drive over 50 miles an hour, so it took a little longer than the anticipated fifteen or sixteen hours. However, I was trying to prolong this meeting anyway, as my nerves were in overdrive, even though we were in “underdrive.”
My dad spent the majority of the drive telling me three things that I hadn’t realized: (1.) He hasn’t seen my real smile since my mom died. (2.) He can’t wait for Jill to get pregnant, because he loves babies. (3.) He set up accounts on eHarmony and Match.com. Needless to say, I was floored as Hell—about all three things.
My father deserves to meet someone, spend his time with someone special. I can’t believe I never even thought about it before. Seeing my father snuggling a baby will be strange; I don’t think I’ve even seen him around a small child before. And the smiling business, he’s got to be wrong about that. I’ve been happy since my mom died. Hell, it’s been over ten years. I’ve been happy some time in the last freaking decade, haven’t I?
I made plans with Tristan for lunch at the Oasis. Tristan tried to convince me that there were other restaurants in town, but I wouldn’t budge on my choice. There’s just something about that place that makes everything seem more alive and magical. Even my dad could feel it at dinner last night.
I erroneously figured I’d spend the morning with my dad, showing him around Charleston and then meet Tristan for lunch. Piper apparently had different plans. Hosting last night at the Oasis, she latched on to my dad, like her long-lost father. Piper and Lanette had plans today to go on one of the planation tours and some creepy ghost tour at night, so she convinced my father to go with them. I offered to go too, but Piper said they only had three tickets. Jose had to study for some test, so he’d bailed on them.
The three of them were going to be gone all day. My dad loves all that history stuff. I was bummed that I wouldn’t get to see it all with him, but glad that I’d get a little more alone time with Tristan. It’s hard when you really want to be in two places at the same time, touring history with your dad and making history with God’s gift to women.
Tristan had shown up at my room at the ass-crack of dawn with chocolate doughnuts and chocolate milk, claiming that it was better to be three years late than never show up at all. Showing up with doughnuts and chocolate milk, he was offering so much more than a 2000-calorie breakfast, but was offering an apology and a promise of friendship. Luckily, my father was already down at the continental breakfast, scarfing down free food. After Tristan left, I went back to bed, sleeping until it was time to get up for lunch. Sleep until it’s time to eat again! I love “vacation time.” You just can’t beat it.
I’d spent entirely too much time getting ready for lunch. I usually do not “primp and fluff” as much as I did, but I just couldn’t stop myself. I like the way he looks at me. He looks at me like if he were to take his eyes off of me, even for a second, I might disappear. If he’s going to look at me like that, then I better be something worth looking at.
I tried not to be ready too early, didn’t want to appear too eager. However, I arrived at the Oasis 15 minutes early. “Yay, you’re here. I’m so glad you came early,” Piper squeals, grabbing my hand and dragging me out to the patio.
“God, this place is more gorgeous every time I see it,” I marvel, stopping to look at the fountains. “Do you think Lanette would think it was stupid if I made her a few art pieces to display around here?”
“Uhhh No!” Piper yells, clapping and swooning. “Oh, you should make some stuff for Rory’s new hotel too.”
“Rory’s hotel? I thought he owned the one I’m booked at now?” I asked, wondering how someone Rory’s age could afford two hotels of that caliber and quality.
“Long story, I’ll let Tri-stand tell you,” she says, putting the menus down on the table.
“Ummm Piper?” It finally strikes me. “Aren’t you supposed to be with my dad and Lanette on some plantation tour?”
“Oh yeah, that,” Piper says, looking away. “Hostess called off—had to fill in. Bummer.”
“Bummer my ass,” Tristan says, walking up, kissing Piper on the cheek. “Leah meet Cupid. This is just
another one of her Saved By the Bell schemes to fix up a new couple.” Sitting down and picking up a menu, “Really Pipe? Leah’s dad couldn’t have been off limits? Christ, you’re unbelievable.”
“Well, you wouldn’t let me fix anyone else up—or push them together,” Piper grits through her teeth, eyeing us suspiciously.
“Go!” Tristan points to the inside of the restaurant. “Grab us two sweet teas and get us a real server while you’re back there.”
“Please,” I add for him.
“Please,” Tristan smiles, accepting my correction.
This is no good. My checklist is full. The checklist that I created years ago in my head, before Tristan and Samuel were ever in the picture, points to Tristan. The same checklist that I used to hold in such a high regard for my future is overflowing with so many check marks that I know I’m beaten. I’m out of fucking excuses. This is no good at all.
I even tried to think of something that maybe he wasn’t too keen on, and it turns out that he loves cooking and trying anything in the kitchen. There is nothing sexier than a man who can cook. I’m done. I can’t resist this shit anymore. I’ve tried everything in my power to say away from Tristan for over three years, and I just can’t do it anymore.
“Has anyone ever told you the legend of the Oasis Waterfall?” Piper asks, bringing us key lime pies that we did not order.
“No, and I think we’re good… you don’t need to tell us,” Tristan says, jerking his head back to the inside of the restaurant. “I’m sure you’re really busy in there.”
“Not really, I’ve got plenty of time to tell you about it,” Piper says and begins telling us the story of Lanette and her late husband. Legend has it that if you kiss your lover and the water from the waterfall hits you, sprays you while you kiss, then you’re bound for eternal love and happiness. Lanette and her husband kissed under the sprinkling mist, and they had a beautiful marriage and love, right up until the day he was taken from her.
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