by Kristie Cook
"Do me a favor, please? Keep your distance from Tristan at least until I get back? We can talk about it then, okay?"
I plopped into a chair and shrugged. I hadn't planned on seeing him anyway. Except for that one time at the coffee shop, I never saw him on weekends.
"Please? Promise?" She nodded her head slowly, part of her persuasion technique. Next, she would reach out to touch my hand or arm.
I glowered at her, refusing to let her get to me. "No, Mom, I won't promise. It probably won't matter, but I won't make a promise I don't want to keep."
She didn't even try her next move.
"Fine," she snapped. "I'll see you Sunday night."
She marched down the hallway and I heard the suitcase roll over the tile floor, then the front door open. Almost in a whisper, she said, "I love you."
"I love you, too." The door closed and I didn't know if she heard me.
"Stay away from her, Tristan." Mom's harsh order came through my open window.
Tristan's here? I dashed to my room and peeked out the window. He leaned against Mom's car as she dropped her suitcase in the trunk. I stepped to the side so they couldn't see me, which meant I could only listen and not watch.
"She's not ready yet," Mom said.
"You mean you're not ready yet." Tristan's voice was also confident, but not cold like hers.
"That, too."
"It's out of your hands, Sophia."
"We'll see about that." A second of silence.
"You're going to see them, aren't you?"
Mom answered with her own question. "When was the last time you saw your kin?"
"I've never gone back and I never will." Complete sureness in his voice, with that steely undertone, as if he despised his family.
"And you expect me to trust you?"
Tristan exhaled loudly. "You have to, don't you?"
"Why should I? She's my daughter, for heaven's sake." Oh! She just blew our cover! My breath caught and my hand flew to my mouth, afraid they heard.
"It's time to let go, Sophia. I think she'll be okay."
"You think she'll be okay? I need more than that, Tristan. I need one-hundred-percent surety."
More silence. When Tristan spoke, his voice was low and grim. "You know I can't give you that."
"Exactly." Her icy tone sent a chill up my spine. I heard her car door slam, then the engine start. A moment after she left, the motorcycle fired up and sped away.
I threw myself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. What the hell just happened? They apparently knew each other, well enough that Tristan knew where Mom was really going and Mom thought she couldn't trust him. And obviously, he hadn't come to see me. What is going on with them?
When I finally glanced at the clock, I groaned. Class started ten minutes ago. Tristan was sitting in women's studies, probably wondering where I was. And I wasn't sure if I cared. I just didn't know what to think of him at the moment. I decided to skip both classes, a first for me. I rolled over on my side, for some reason wanting to cry.
Instead, I took a shower. I stood under the spray of hot water, just letting it flow over me, when the answer became clear. Mom had mentioned his kin—she must have dated his father or brother or other relative.
She had many boyfriends over the years and it always ended badly. She never explained what happened with most of them, whom she seemed to love one day and couldn't get away from fast enough the next. We moved immediately after every break-up. I could only figure she was unable to love a man and let him love her, because they were usually good men, according to my sense. Except for Lenny….
My mind flashed the memory of Mom throwing Lenny across the room, his body hitting the wall with a thud, blood smears on the white paint as his limp form slid to the floor. Two minutes before, he'd tried to kiss me. I was twelve. "Don't worry, he's not dead," she had said once we were in the car, driving to a new city. I shuddered at the memory. He was bad and, if they were related, it would explain her reaction to seeing Tristan. It would also explain his non-reaction when Mom said I was her daughter.
But why did they hide this from me? Why all the secrets?
***
As afternoon started to slip into evening, I began to grow anxious. I was used to being home alone during the day and even if Mom came home after dark, I at least knew she would be home. Now I had a long, lonely, scary night to look forward to. Until the phone rang.
"You weren't in class today." Tristan's lovely voice. I couldn't help my smile. Did he miss me?
"Sophia and I had an argument."
"Ah. Is it safe now?"
I didn't know what to say at first and briefly considered lying, but there was no point in it. After all, I hid just as much as he did, probably more. Besides, if my theory was correct, it wasn't fair for us to hold Lenny or anyone else against him. And whatever Mom was so concerned about, it couldn't be too bad—she made it clear to him she was leaving me home alone. "Yeah. Actually, she's gone for the weekend."
"Would you like to go to the beach with me? The sun will be setting soon."
I thought about it—for half a second. "Sure. That'd be great."
Not able to sit still, I waited outside, pacing the driveway. I heard the Harley from more than a block away and butterflies fluttered in my stomach by the time Tristan arrived.
"Ride or walk?" he asked over the rumble after pulling into the driveway.
"Let's walk."
Our cottage was less than two blocks to the beach, the street covered with the broad canopies of the many-legged banyan trees that were larger than the Old Florida-style cottages they guarded. It was a gorgeous evening, the warmth of the afternoon still hanging in the air. We walked in silence the entire way. Every once in a while, Tristan would look down at me and smile and I'd automatically smile back.
I tried to ignore all the questions soaring through my mind, because they all had to do with a conversation I probably wasn't supposed to hear. I wished I had the chutzpah to just flat out ask him who he was and what happened between him and my mother. But I didn't. Besides, I'd realized this afternoon, there were two problems with seeking the answers to my questions.
One, it would likely lead to me being on the other end—the one answering questions instead of asking. If I wanted to know more about Tristan, then I had to be prepared for him to know more about me. And I wasn't ready for that yet. At least, not the deep stuff. He already knew too much—one of my biggest secrets—Sophia was my mother. Surely he had to have his own questions about how that could be, which leads to the second problem. Two, getting into the deeper conversation about all of our secrets meant giving up any kind of normalcy to our relationship—or whatever it became. And I wasn't ready for that, either.
I was probably lying to myself, trying to make it all more than it could ever be. But, for now, I wanted to at least pretend this was a normal girl-meets-boy situation.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Tristan asked, breaking the silence as we crossed the boardwalk accessing the beach.
"Hmph. They're worth more than that," I teased.
He chuckled. "Okay, a Benji for your thoughts?"
"Huh?"
He pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. I raised my eyebrows and he put it away, laughing. "You're right. Your thoughts are priceless."
We walked to the edge of the water, kicked off our shoes, and then turned and meandered along the wet sand. It gave me a chance to edit my thoughts before sharing them.
"I wouldn't go that far," I finally said, "but…I was just thinking that we've been hanging out for a couple months now, and I hardly know anything about you."
"Ah. What do you want to know?" He peered down at me from the corner of his eye, seemingly hesitant—like I felt when someone asked about me.
"Um, well, where are you from?" That was an easy one, especially in Florida. Hardly anyone was from here.
He was silent for a moment, as if it was difficult to answer, and then said cryptically, "Lots of place
s…nowhere in particular."
I could relate to that. It could be my own answer.
"So…you moved around a lot?"
He shrugged. "You could put it that way."
"What do your parents do?"
"They don't do anything. They died a long time ago."
"Oh." Oops. I didn't know I was headed into heavy stuff. "I'm sorry."
He looked down at me and smiled gently. "You didn't know. I hardly remember them anyway. It was a long time ago. I was raised by…distant relatives, I guess you could say."
"Did they bring you here?"
"Oh, no, I came here alone." There was that steely undertone again. "I've been on my own for quite a while."
More silence as I thought for a minute. I remembered what he'd told Mom…he'd never gone back and he never will. I thought about how awful it was to lose his parents and then to have to live with what must have been dreadful relatives. I decided to leave that subject alone.
"So where were these 'lots of places' you grew up?"
"Pretty much everywhere, but mostly Europe."
"Really? You don't have any kind of accent."
He chuckled.
"I've been in the U.S. for a few years and I adapt easily and pick up the local accent quickly." He changed his tone and spoke with a perfect English accent, "Would you rahther I hahd an ahccent?" Then he switched to French, rolling the R's, "Or, pear'aps Francais eez better, ma lykita?"
I laughed. Although I couldn't understand it all, the French accent was especially delightful with his lovely voice.
"Do you speak other languages, then?"
"Seven altogether."
"Wow," I breathed with awe. I tried to imagine growing up in Europe, moving around as much as I had, but to places such as London, Rome and Paris. I probably glamorized it, but it seemed much more exciting than my life.
"If you came here by yourself, what brought you here?"
He didn't answer at first and kicked at a wave. Then he shrugged and said, "Just needed a change."
"Oh." That was a non-answer.
He looked down at me. "Actually, I want to be honest with you. I came here for a job…or an assignment is more like it…and stayed because I like the people."
"Oh, okay." I hadn't realized he had a job. I started wondering what he did besides a couple college classes. He had mentioned once he had lots of other things going on in his life, but he never talked about anything.
"But if I told you any more, I'd have to kill you." His tone was serious and I looked up in surprise. He laughed.
"Oh, I see. CIA or FBI?" I played along, remembering the old secret-agent movies Mom liked to watch. "Oh, no, wait, probably Scotland Yard. Or maybe the KGB?" I widened my eyes in mock horror.
He laughed again. "You're way off."
"I'll figure it out," I promised lightheartedly.
He frowned and his tone darkened. "Yes, I'm sure you will. Some day."
"Would that be bad?"
The frown quickly disappeared, as if he hadn't realized it was there until I said that. He peered down at me as we walked a few steps in silence. "I don't know yet."
There was definitely honesty and seriousness in his tone…and a bit of sadness. I sighed in frustration. He raised more questions than he answered.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
I wanted to tell him how annoyingly cryptic he was. But I didn't. Because he could always turn that back at me.
"No, I guess not."
"We better turn around," he said.
I looked behind us and saw we had walked much farther than I realized. We played in the water on the way back, kicking it up at each other and running away from the splashes. Then he took my hand and pulled me to dry sand, where we sat to watch the sunset. We gazed in silence, both in the same position—knees pulled up, arms wrapped around our legs. I rested my chin on my knees.
God displayed His divine artistic ability, painting the sky with brushstrokes of dark violet, lavender, magenta and soft pink against a light blue canvas, with a bright splash of gold at the horizon reflecting on the water. Waves gently lapped at the sand and seagulls cawed at each other. I inhaled deeply, trying to pull it all into my body and embed it in my memory as one of those perfect moments to be cherished forever. The brackishness of salt water and the sweet-tanginess of Tristan's scent nearly intoxicated me.
The sun dipped behind the water, leaving darker purples and pinks behind it. I turned my head toward Tristan, resting my right cheek against my knees. He cocked his head to look at me, his beautiful eyes sparkling. I felt so content. His conversation with my mom seemed vague and nonsensical now. He was right. She needed to let go. Because I wanted to be nowhere else than right here with him.
"Ready?" he finally asked.
I frowned. Ready to go back to my empty house and spend the evening alone? No, not really.
"I can hang out with you…if you want, I mean," he said, as if reading my mind.
"That sounds…" Wonderful. Fabulous. Perfect. "…good."
***
As soon as we entered the cottage, I panicked. I hadn't been truly alone with anyone besides my mother in years. I suddenly realized just how inexperienced I was—not just in the whole man-woman thing, but in any kind of relationship. I stopped abruptly in the small foyer, not knowing what to do in my own house.
"I'll be right back." I dashed into the bathroom and couldn't close the door fast enough. I leaned against the back of the door and took deep, calming breaths. My stomach twisted itself into knots, untwisted and twisted again. What do we do? Eat? Watch TV? What if he's bored? Oh! What if he's expecting something?! How much would I give?! I jumped at the knock on the door.
"Alexis?" Concern filled Tristan's voice. I could only imagine how terrified my face looked before I fled to the bathroom. "I was thinking…I'm actually kind of hungry. You want to go get a pizza at Mario's?"
I took a deep breath, picturing it. Public place. Lots of people. He seemed to know exactly what I needed. After another deep, cleansing breath, I opened the door and said, more calmly than I thought possible, "That'd be great."
Mario's was a pizza-parlor-slash-bar. When we arrived at nearly nine o'clock, it took on more of a bar atmosphere. The lights were dimmed and neon beer signs glowed colorfully on the walls. The jukebox played oldies music and people talked and laughed loudly over it. We shared a sausage-and-mushroom pizza and, after eating, Tristan somehow convinced me to play darts.
He was excellent at it. I sucked. He seemed to be able to easily zero in on his target—several times I swore he aimed away from the bulls-eye to prove he could "miss." Most of the time I couldn't hit the board, let alone any specific place on it.
Tristan's close eye on me didn't help. He leaned against a table about halfway to the dart board and to my right, watching me with an amused expression. He made me nervous. I held the dart in my hand, up near my face, eyeing the board—no particular place, just the board in general. It's a big enough area. Surely I can hit it at least once. Just before I let the dart go, my eyes slipped to Tristan.
And the dart flew. And missed the board. By a long shot.
"Oh, oh, oh!" Both hands flew to my mouth. Holy crap! I stabbed Mr. Beautiful!
I stared at the dart lodged in his bicep. He raised his eyebrows with an I-can't-believe-you-just-did-that look as I hurried over to him. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
He grimaced. "I don't know."
I lifted my hand gingerly to pull the dart out. He flinched and I jumped back.
"Don't touch it! Aren't you supposed to leave these things for the doctor to remove?"
I fretfully bounced on the balls of my feet. "Then what do I do?"
The grimace disappeared and a huge grin spread across Tristan's face as he easily plucked the dart out of his arm. He leaned forward and whispered, "You can kiss it and make it better."
I narrowed my eyes and scowled at him. He burst into laughter.
"I'm…sorry…but…you…should'
ve…seen….your face!" He nearly fell over from his belly laughs.
I crossed my arms against my chest and glowered at him. I couldn't hold it for long, though. He was laughing so hard and he was so dang irresistible. I couldn't help it. I started laughing, too.
"I am seriously sorry," I said again once we regained our composure. "I can't believe I did that. Are you really okay?"
He lifted his sleeve. The only evidence of my assault was a miniscule hole, though I was sure the steel-tipped dart had pierced at least half an inch, maybe more, through his skin. I exhaled with relief, expecting it to be worse.
"I think I'll live," he said, grinning. "But you are rather dangerous. Let me show you how it's done before you really hurt someone."
He stood close behind me and tried to teach me the proper way to hold the dart and when to let it go, but the electricity distracted me every time he touched me. We laughed at my absurd technique. I had more fun than I'd had in a long time—maybe ever.
When he slid the bike into the driveway a little after midnight, though, the panic started to set in again. Not like earlier, but enough to make my stomach flutter.
"Did you have fun?" Tristan asked as he walked me to the door.
"Yeah, I did. Thank you." I watched the ground.
"My pleasure. Maybe we can do it again sometime?"
I took a breath to steady my nerves and looked up at him as we stood on the front porch. "Hmm…you're brave."
He chuckled. "I'll just be sure to stand behind you next time."
"You saw my throws. That doesn't guarantee anything."
"Yeah, you're right." He smiled. "But I'll take my chances."
My heart raced as I looked into his sparkling eyes and wondered if he was thinking about kissing me.
"I better let you get some rest," he murmured.
"Mmm, yeah. I do have to open the store in the morning."
He held my gaze for a moment and then cupped his hand gently around the side of my face. My skin tingled. Then he leaned over and ever so lightly brushed his lips across my cheek, then whispered in my ear, "Good night, ma lykita."
I closed my eyes as the sensations washed over me—his smell, the warm breath on my ear, the electric touch on my face.
"'Night," I breathed. He let go of me and when I opened my eyes, he was already half-way down the walk. Electricity still pulsed on my skin and throughout my body. Part of me wanted to call him back, but, with a heavy sigh, I turned and went inside instead. And I realized I didn't get to ask what he called me. It couldn't be bad, but it was annoying not to know. It had sounded like something in French. I made a mental note to research it.