Making Ripples

by Katrina Abbott

  “...and a delicious Tempranillo from Spain. What can I get you, Tristan?” Dad asked.

  “Just a beer and a chair to plant my ass in, and I’m set for the night.”

  “Coming right up. My daughter is around here somewhere, passing around some snacks: sausage rolls, cheese, veggies and crudités, whatever those are. I’ll send her over; just tell her what you want and she’ll make you a plate. Come on...the best seat in the house is over here and then I’ll get you that beer,” Dad said.

  “Thanks very much,” Tristan said, the smile evident in his voice.

  Then it clued in what my dad had said about me and I realized I quickly needed to make myself scarce again—I could absolutely not ‘meet’ Tristan. Not after how I’d lied to him about my age when I wasn’t supposed to be out of the flat in the first place. Abandoning the need for artistic food placement, I carelessly tossed the rest of the sausage rolls onto the platter and zipped out the front of the kitchen just as Dad came in the back way toward the fridge.

  “Brooklyn?” Dad said, but I pointed at the platter of food in explanation and ducked away before he could nail me down.

  It would be only the first the first of many times I would do the dodge and weave that night to avoid meeting Tristan.

  ~ ♥ ~

  By around eleven-fifteen I was ready to pack it all in. Screw ringing in the New Year, I just wanted to go to bed.

  As more people drank and partied, the volume in the flat got louder and louder and the people seemed to get hungrier and thirstier, making me run around like a headless chicken to keep them fed and watered while being overstimulated by all the noise. Not to mention all the energy it took to avoid my father and—more importantly—Tristan while still making sure he had what he needed (because I couldn’t just ignore him—he, of all people deserved extra attention). Thankfully my mother jumped in and fulfilled the role of food and drink concierge when I had disappeared and he never had to want for anything with her constantly hovering over him.

  Still, I was pretty much done just as the party was really getting started. But then, as I slid another cranberry-topped brie into the oven, I heard a commotion, but one that was clearly different than the eruptions of laughter I’d been hearing through the night. I turned on the oven timer and then peeked around the corner to see Tristan out of his chair and clumsily heading for the door. His face was ashen as he spoke loudly, the noise of the party falling away as everyone turned to look at him. “...let me out! I need to get out of here!” he said, panic threading through his voice. I looked at my dad, but he was frowning at Tristan, concerned.

  “Let me help you,” he said, placing his hand on Tristan’s shoulder, only to have it shrugged off.

  “Where’s the door? Where’s the effing door?!” Tristan hollered as the crowd made way for him. He stopped only a couple of steps away from the front door, but to the right of it.

  I had been holding my breath, expecting him to walk right into the wall and exhaled in relief when he didn’t.

  “One step to the left and two steps in front of you,” my dad said, his voice calm, but his brow furrowed in sadness.

  Tristan took the direction and felt in front of himself for the handle, his mouth open and his chest heaving with his labored breath. His hand caught on the handle and he yanked the door open and went through, slamming it closed behind himself. Not one person in the room moved or even breathed, which meant we all heard the feral yell that must have come from the poor man himself as he made his way down the hall.

  Mom came up to Dad’s side. “What happened?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Dad said, still looking at the door.

  “His coat,” I said, drawing all the attention in the room to me. “I’ll grab it.”

  I jogged down the hall and found Tristan’s jacket among the big pile on my parents’ bed. I returned to the living room where my father held out his hand.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  “No,” Dad protested.

  “Look,” I said, nodding toward the window that overlooked the courtyard. Sure enough, as I’d expected, Tristan was shuffling toward the bench. “I’ll just go give it to him.”

  As the rest of the crowd noticed him out there, too, conversations started up around us, making me mad that people were talking about him. I was sure no one was saying anything overtly mean, but I hated that he’d become something of a spectacle.

  Seemingly immune to the whispers, Dad stared out the window for a second and then looked back to me and nodded. “Okay, I’ll be watching.”

  I was actually surprised he didn’t put up a fuss about me going outside—even just to the courtyard—but maybe that Spanish wine he’d been enjoying so much had loosened him up a little.

  “He’s not dangerous, is he?” Mom asked, her arms crossed, though a mostly empty wine glass dangled from her right hand.

  “No. Well, he was dangerous when he was in active duty, but not how you mean.” Dad said and then sighed. “PTSD. He probably just got overwhelmed in here with all the people.”

  I could empathize on being overwhelmed in such a loud and busy room, and I wasn’t blind nor did I have PTSD. My heart hurt as the agonized look on his face flashed back to me.

  “I’ll take him the coat and make sure he’s okay,” I said, determined to help him somehow, even if it meant just sitting beside him and flirting with him to take his mind off things.

  Dad nodded and leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Okay, be careful, honey.” He turned back to the crowd; most people were back to their conversations and drinking, though the overall mood seemed more subdued. “Who needs a refill?” he called out, grabbing a bottle off the bar.

  Despite my nervousness and pounding heart, I grabbed my coat and hat out of the closet and left the flat, determined to do something to help the man who needed me.

  Damage Control

  As I emerged out into the crisp air of the courtyard, my eyes were trained on the man on the bench, trying to gauge his mood. Sure, he’d been highly agitated only moments before, but he was sitting very still and quiet, like he always did. But as I got closer I noticed the difference this time; under the security lights, I could see the shining tracks of tears that started under his sunglasses.

  My heart ached as I halted my approach. Crap, I thought. This guy is really hurting.

  I took a silent breath and said his name, keeping my distance so he wouldn’t think I was looming over him.

  “Cinderella?” he said and then let out a soft curse as he wiped at his face with his sleeve. Then he pasted a smile on his face and looked toward me. “What are you doing here? You can’t tell me you had nothing better to do than hang out here in the cold with me on New Year’s Eve.”

  I stepped closer, making sure my feet made sound so he knew I was approaching. “I have your coat.”

  Another curse fell out of his mouth. “So you got to see my little show back there.”

  “I did.”

  He dropped his head, hunching his shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said, sitting down beside him and draping his coat over his shoulders. Without saying anything, I helped him slide his arms in the sleeves. “I mean, it was no Phantom of the Opera or anything, but it was still pretty good. Four stars.”

  He chuckled, maybe out of politeness, I don’t know. But it was something. Then, after a long moment, he said, “I have some problems.”

  No kidding. “You don’t need to explain.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?” he said after another long moment. “I get now why you wouldn’t give me your name before if you work at the agency, but now...”

  “I’d only just arrived,” I said, interrupting him with another one of my lies. “I didn’t have a chance. I actually didn’t know you were there until you were leaving.” I hated lying to him, but now wasn’t the time to come clean.

  He took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. I don’t do well in
crowds anymore. Especially indoors.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to offer. I reached to where his hand rested on his thigh and lightly slid my fingers around his, hoping it wasn’t the wrong thing to do.

  He responded by squeezing back and then twining his fingers with mine. “Thanks,” he said, giving me a weak smile. “Sometimes it’s so hard to feel grounded. I can’t see and my hearing isn’t great, either. My world has become very small, but I feel like I’m always floating around, not really knowing my place in it anymore.”

  I squeezed his hand in acknowledgment.

  “I was tortured in a cave in Afghanistan,” he said after a long moment. “That’s why I can’t stay inside for long periods without having panic attacks. Add too much noise and unfamiliar surroundings, and I guess tonight was pretty much bound to happen.”

  “Oh God,” fell from my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t tell you to make you feel sorry for me. Please don’t feel sorry for me. I knew the risks going in. I actually didn’t expect to come out alive, so believe me, I cherish every day I’m above ground. It’s just...the torture...it messed with my head and...” he shrugged, not needing to continue.

  “Of course it did,” I said. “How could it not? You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t have some sort of effect on you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, his face relaxing.

  Movement caught my eye and I looked up to see my father standing in our window, looking down at us. I gave him a thumbs up and flashed all my fingers when he pointed at his watch. He mouthed a Thank you and returned to the party.

  “My d...” I broke myself off before I blurted out something about my dad and covered it with a cough. “Sorry, my dear, look at the time.”

  “Did we miss it?” He asked with a frown. “You shouldn’t be stuck out here with me as the clock strikes.”

  All I’d be missing would be ringing in the new year with my parents and their drunk friends, I didn’t say. “I’m good with it,” I said, lowering my voice to what I hoped was a playful tone. “Although something tells me maybe this is just another part of your I don’t have game game.”

  He laughed, for real this time. “You give me way too much credit, but I do like the end result.” His fingers sought out mine and then he tugged me closer, making me suddenly panic about the fact that we were in a very visible location. My eyes flicked up to the window; they weren’t there now, but my parents could look out at any moment. Getting caught kissing this guy in the courtyard was a bad idea.

  I pulled back and he let my fingers go. “Sorry,” he said, misunderstanding. “I...of course you’re at the party with someone. You should go back.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “And I’m not in a rush to go back—I’m not with anyone. It’s just really exposed here.”

  He swore and then grinned. “Would you believe that sometimes I forget that not everyone is blind?”

  As weird as it sounded, it made sense.

  “So,” I said, not sure where to go from here. “You seem to be feeling better. I mean...”

  “I am,” he said, saving me from stumbling around awkwardly for something more to say. “Thanks.”

  “All I did was bring out your coat.”

  He shook his head. “No, you helped ground me, which is a big deal. Thanks. Really.”

  I shrugged, but then realized he couldn’t see it. “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I should get home.” He took a big breath and then stood up, wobbling a bit on his feet. “Whoa,” he said, holding his arms out for balance. I jumped up and steadied him, my hands on his big shoulders.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said after a second. “I guess I had one too many beers. I’m not really supposed to drink, but what the hell. It’s not like I’m designated driver tonight.”

  “Good thing,” I said, laughing.

  He smiled down at me, which was so sexy but also kind of weird at the same time, since he couldn’t even see me.

  “God, your smile...” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  His eyebrows rose over his glasses. “What?”

  I had to clear my throat. “Let’s just say, you’ve still got game, okay? That smile is killer.”

  “Well, I have been classified as a dangerous weapon,” he said, his voice practically a purr.

  I just stared up at him, my mouth turning to a pile of ashes.

  Tristan burst out laughing. “Oh God, that was awful, please leave me before I’m tempted to deliver another one of those horrible lines.”

  “That was awful,” I said.

  Awfully sexy in a cheesetastic way, I didn’t say. “But I’m not leaving you to fall down the stairs. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  “Young lady, are you trying to get into my apartment?”

  The young lady part made me pause. Was he onto me? Had he figured out who I was? “Uh...”

  He gave me a devastatingly sexy smile. “Because all you have to do is ask.”

  Countdown

  Ignoring the last bit, because: Oh my God, I put my hand on his arm and urged him toward the door on his side of the building. “Come on,” I managed to say as though what he’d said had no effect on me, “Where’s your flat?”

  “Third floor. Fourth door on the left after the elevator.”

  Elevator, good plan. My heart was already racing in my chest at just the thought of taking him up to his flat; the last thing I needed was aerobic exercise.

  Once the elevator door closed on us, I wondered if he ever had panic attacks in here. The lifts in this building were old and made weird noises sometimes, making me not mind the stairs so much. Not that I was about to bring up his claustrophobia now.

  “So,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “So.”

  “You going to tell me your name?”

  I hesitated.

  He smiled. “Never mind. After that enormously pregnant pause, I know you’d be making it up anyway. I know how the job works; there was a time I wouldn’t give up my real name, either.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said. I didn’t like lying to him more, but it was easier if he thought I was on the job rather than the seventeen year old daughter of one of the agency chiefs who might even have been his boss.

  The doors opened. “Left,” he said as I took his arm again. We walked down the hall amid the sounds of music and parties coming from other flats, but still, I worried he could hear my heart beating in my chest because the blood rushing through my ears was almost deafening. If he could, he didn’t say anything. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his keys and I was going to offer to open the door, but realized he did this every day and I would probably just insult him. I waited quietly as he slid the key into the lock and swung the door open.

  He turned to me. “Coming in?”

  “I shouldn’t,” I said, suddenly terrified because I was in waaaaaaay over my head. On the bench out in the open was one thing, but in this guy’s flat on what—if we were sticking with our joke about it—was our third date, seemed very intense.

  “Aw, come on, Cinderella. Don’t make me celebrate New Year’s by myself.”

  I crossed my arms, even though he couldn’t see. “That’s blackmail.”

  “Yes,” he said, unapologetic. “Come on.”

  “They say never to go to a second location,” I said.

  “I didn’t kidnap you,” he said. “And I’m hardly going to stuff you in the trunk of my car and drive off with you. Come on, just for a few minutes. It has to be close to midnight. I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

  “Just until midnight,” I warned as I glanced at my watch. “Which is seven minutes from now.” I closed the door behind myself, enveloping us in darkness except for the light that filtered in from the security lamps through the big living room window.

  “Deal,” he said.

  I looked around. “Where are the lights?”<
br />
  “No idea,” he said. “I’ve only lived here a few months, since...”

  I found a switch on the wall and flicked it. Nothing. Mood lighting it is, I thought to myself.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. I did the same with mine.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” he asked. “I don’t have much other than water and maybe a soda at the back of the fridge, sorry. I don’t have a lot of company here.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, following him into the flat.

  He sat heavily onto the couch with a loud exhale. “What a night,” he said, propping his elbows onto his knees and dropping his head into his hands.

  I took a seat beside him, keeping some space between us. He took a breath and faced me, the dark glasses still in place. “Thanks again for getting me off the ledge.”

  “It’s okay, really,” I said. I studied his face, noticing his five o’clock shadow and a freckle on the unscarred side of his cheek.

  “Can I feel your face?” he asked, drawing my eyes up to his, which of course I still couldn’t see.

  My heart stuttered in my chest at the thought of his hands on my face. “So you can know what I look like?”

  He smirked. “No. I don’t think I could figure out what you look like from doing that. I just...I want to touch you, but I’m afraid of poking you in the eye or something, so figure I’d better give you some warning.”

  I laughed.

  “And anyway, I already know you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low, that sexy purr again.

  “Another line?” I asked, my voice barely more than a squeak, because line or no, it was totally working.

  “No. I don’t need to be able to see your face to know you’re beautiful.”

  I lost the power of speech at that. Taking my silence as his cue, he slowly lifted his hand toward me and I met it with my own, bringing it to my face, pressing his warm palm to my cheek.

  “Your sense of humor, the way you saved me tonight, your confidence. God, your confidence—don’t ever let anyone take that away from you, because there’s nothing in this world sexier than a woman with confidence.”