ACCIDENTAL TRYST

by Natasha Boyd

  When we get to the facility, I step out of the car and stand there for a moment. The building is a squat brick monolith amongst equally nondescript and unappealing buildings. There's a fenced concrete area at the side where a few patients are sitting on benches. There are pots against the wall that probably pass as the gardening activity.

  I realize I always thought of nursing homes as happy farms and fields, a place to put ones loved ones out to pasture in the best way possible. Pushing wheelchairs through a garden, enjoying the shady pines and fresh air.

  This is not that.

  I take a breath, then walk through the front doors.

  "Trystan Montgomery to see David Dubois," I tell the security guard.

  The receptionist asks for ID and prints a visitor’s badge.

  "Mr. Montgomery," says a voice to my left. I turn and see a guy in scrubs.

  He steps forward. "You were the one who rescued David from his outing. Friend of Emmy's, right?"

  I hold out my hand. "Um. Yes."

  He takes it. "D'Andre."

  Ah. I nod and smile.

  D'Andre turns to the receptionist. "It's cool. I'll show him up."

  We head to the elevator.

  "This is a surprise," he says. "Not sure how much you know about David's condition, but he comes in and out, you know?"

  "Actually, I don't know what to expect. But I felt like visiting."

  The elevator doors ding open. "Well, here we are." He walks past an empty nurses station. "Lunch hour," he says by way of explanation and continues on to the third door down the hall.

  He opens the door and presses it back with an arm, letting me pass. "David. You have a visitor," he calls, and then to me, "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

  The smells of ammonia, stale urine, and clean detergent fight over each other. David is sitting in a chair by the window. He's skinnier than the personality I imagined. Frail.

  "David," I greet him as he stares at me with concern.

  "D-Do I know you?"

  "No, it's okay. We've never met."

  He breathes out, relaxing slightly.

  "I'm Trystan." I approach him and hold out my hand.

  He makes to stand up.

  "Not on my account." I smile then motion to the window. "Besides, I think you can see the ocean from here." It's a stretch, but between the buildings, maybe.

  "Trystan, you say?"

  "Friend of Emmy's." I perch on the end of his bed as there's no other chair.

  "Oh yes! I know you. You're her fella."

  I swallow, not sure what to say. But he looks ecstatic so I don't correct him.

  "Just had a lovely visit with Emmy."

  "You did, huh?"

  "She came by this morning."

  I can't help a bemused laugh. "And how is she doing today?"

  "Ah, you know. Always a big smile. She doesn't like me to worry."

  "Of course. And I'm sure you don't like her to worry, either."

  "Exactly right. I'm feeling good today. So clear about everything. I had to tell her to take some chances. She's scared."

  "Of what?"

  "Relationships. She was a foster child, you know?"

  Inhaling, I purse my lips. "She hasn't told me much. I figured that out, but—"

  "Well, she'd been through a bunch of families, but they hadn't worked out for one reason or another, then when she was about eleven she came to live with my sister and her husband."

  I feel uncomfortable that David is telling me Emmy's secrets.

  It should be her telling me, right?

  "They were older, of course," David goes on. "But still trying to do what they could since they'd never had kids of their own. She was a good girl. So nervous about getting in trouble and being sent away again."

  I swallow, my throat feeling rough. Thinking of Emmy as a nervous little girl, scared she wouldn't be loved or even kept, makes my heart feel jagged in my chest.

  "But they loved her," David assures me. "We all did. What's not to love, you know?" He laughs, and I stretch my mouth in a grimace that's nowhere near a smile.

  "Anyway, Trystan. I thought you should know she's always single because I don't think she trusts things will last."

  I shift. "Why are you telling me this, David?" Did Emmy call him or something?

  "Shouldn't I?"

  "I don't know." I know nothing anymore. I met a girl less than a week ago and am now getting all up in her business on purpose.

  "Ah well. Today my mind actually knows what day of the week it is."

  "Huh. Okay. And what day of the week is it?"

  "I have no idea." He chuckles. "Every day here is the same as the last, isn't it?"

  email to trystan

  To: tmontgomery

  From: edubois

  Subject: Thank you

  * * *

  Dear Trystan,

  This morning I found out David got a bed at Magnolia Meadows. I asked the administrator if you had something to do with it. She's either a fabulous actress or you really didn't pull any strings. My heart tells me you did though. So thank you. Again.

  Warm regards,

  * * *

  Emmy

  * * *

  P.S. Just a reminder that all the women who texted you while I had your phone are due to show up at your place on Thursday at nine p.m. Sorry about that. But honestly, it was getting a little nauseating.

  email to emmy

  To: edubois

  From: tmontgomery

  Subject: Re: Thank you

  * * *

  Emmy ~

  You probably won't get this because you won't be able to find it amongst all the junk in your inbox but stop thanking me.

  I didn't do it for you. I did it for David. He lives with enough regrets, and at this point in his life he can't change anything. I was in a position to help with that. So I did.

  Regards,

  Trystan Montgomery

  * * *

  P.S. Thank you for the reminder. I've informed my doorman. I'm sorry my active dating life nauseated you. Luckily you no longer have to deal with it.

  email to trystan

  To: tmontgomery

  From: edubois

  Subject: A life of regrets

  * * *

  Dear Trystan Montgomery,

  I heard you visited David. Thank you for taking the day to spend some time with an old man. You made him happy.

  Good luck with the sale of your business. You must be so proud of what you built. In spite of your grandfather not reaching out to you, it's clear from his actions he had the utmost respect for you. And he wanted you back with your family. Where you belong. Your family is lucky to have you. And so are all the people who benefit from the business you inherited. They have a hero at the helm.

  Regards,

  Emmaline Dubois

  * * *

  P.S. You weren't dating. You were hooking up. I hope you start dating instead of hooking up because you deserve so much.

  email to emmy

  To: edubois

  From: tmontgomery

  Subject: Re: A life of regrets

  * * *

  Dear Emmaline Dubois,

  If we are going to talk about value in the workplace, you can do better than having a boss who doesn't appreciate you.

  The sale of my business went well yesterday. I sold it to a man (Mac) for whom I have the utmost respect. Over the years he's become friend and mentor.

  I'm not sure I “belong” with my family, but it's nice to start getting to know them from a distance again.

  * * *

  Trystan L. Montgomery

  * * *

  P.S. What do I deserve? Who do I deserve? Because you made clear it wasn't you.

  email to trystan

  To: tmontgomery

  From: edubois

  Subject: Worth

  * * *

  Trystan L. Montgomery,

  Then you'll be pleased to know I put my foot down at work and got a promotion
, a pay raise, and more days off.

  Mac sounds like a good person to know and a good judge of character if he counts you amongst his friends.

  Of course you belong with your family. And I'm glad you are getting to know them again. You should move to Charleston.

  * * *

  Emmy

  * * *

  P.S. Please understand, I didn't reject you. I rejected being hurt again. Does that make sense?

  email to emmy

  To: tmontgomery

  From: edubois

  Subject: Re: Worth

  * * *

  Nothing makes sense.

  * * *

  Trystan

  39

  Trystan

  The streets of New York are bleak and gray. Even the heart and beating soul of the city—its people—are fraying my nerves today. The pedestrians are too thoughtless, the cab drivers too loud.

  My apartment echoes as I enter the front door, holding the bag of my belongings I picked up from the hotel. Now that I've sold my company, I can no longer include The Chelsea Grand amongst my portfolio. I went by today and closed my account permanently.

  My shoes clack along the hardwood floor, and I enter the bedroom and lay my suitcase on the bed. I open it up and pick up the hangers, unfurling my suits. I shake, smooth them out, and then hang them in my closet. Turning back to the bed, I reach for the stack of boxers and pause.

  There in the stack is a piece of clothing I don't recognize. It's white with yellow and green pineapples all over it. Unfolding the item, and holding it by an apparent waistband, I see it’s a pair of shorts. Women's underwear type shorts. Maybe pajama shorts and most definitely not mine. Emmy's? They must be. The night we—

  My stomach tightens. I mash them to my face before I even think and inhale as if they are her. I only smell strong hotel detergent. Of course, the hotel must have found them in the room and laundered them. I'm inexplicably disappointed and sink down to sit on the edge of the bed.

  I know Emmy's email this week was her trying to reach out. She was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of our parting. Her postscript about my dating life was meant to amuse. But it cut deep.

  She's an appeaser, a smoother of ruffled feathers. Even in the few days I'd known her, she had an uncanny knack of calming my nerves, distracting me, even taking the pressure off my interactions with my family. I know I have to put her out of my mind, but I'm finding it almost impossible. How did someone manage to completely barrel into every single area of my life? Her attempt at a joke pissed me off. I sent her an abrupt postscript of my own. And I've been feeling pretty shitty about it. In retrospect it didn't piss me off, it hurt me.

  Working with a realtor in Charleston to find a house, I find myself itching to text Emmy about her opinion a thousand times a day. Even when Mac and I went out for dinner at his club last night to celebrate the closing of our deal, I found myself wanting to reference something she said or tell him about her. I almost took a picture of my fucking food, for God's sake.

  And what was there to tell Mac, exactly? Nothing. He was old school. Telling him I had phone sex with a stranger and then met up with her to do it in real life would shock him. And I wouldn't be able to explain how we even got to that stage. How we just . . . clicked, and even though we didn't know each other, for a brief moment we'd had the kind of chemistry that clearly transcended time, place, and physical proximity.

  And I wouldn't be able to explain how it ended when I didn't understand it myself.

  Earlier in the week I opened a dating app and made an arrangement to meet up with a girl I'd texted with a few times, then promptly cancelled. The thought of trying to suffer through awkward conversation is bad enough. The thought of being naked with someone who isn't Emmy, flat out leaves me cold. And feeling slightly ill.

  But I also know it's not all about Emmy. It's about something that has fundamentally changed inside me, either from spending time with my family in Charleston, selling my business, meeting Emmy, or a combination of all three. I feel completely lost. But also like I found a lost piece of myself. I'm a different person, and I don't know how to fit into my own life.

  It could also be that it's Friday in the city, a weekday, and for the first time in ten years, I have no office to go to. What did I used to do on Friday nights? Did I really hook up that much? I had acquaintances, sure. But did I have good friends?

  On Friday nights, Emmy goes out dancing. I squeeze my eyes closed. In a few hours, it will be a week since I got to be inside her.

  Aaargh. I can't fucking get her out of my head.

  Fuck it. I strip and get into my running gear and leave the condo, heading for Central Park. Maybe if I tire myself out enough, I won't think about anything. I can run right through whatever existential crisis I'm having, and maybe it will all be better. I'm supposed to go out tomorrow with some guys I've known since I first moved to New York, and I'd like to be jovial and not a complete sad sack.

  I finally slow as I finish my loop. I'm not nearly exhausted enough not to think. I have a hankering to walk the city in search of a place like Armand's. Something small where someone knows me. But the city is massive, and it's no easy task, especially living uptown where I do. I settle for Starbucks and think maybe I'd be happier if I bought a condo in Chelsea. At least it feels like a neighborhood down there, and it has cobbled streets like Charleston.

  I should make sure any place I find in Charleston is in a charming historic neighborhood. Though I need to tell my realtor about my allergy to ghosts. Maybe a new building but still in a charming neighborhood?

  I pull out my phone as I walk and begin a quick email to the realtor, asking her to narrow down the search to the French Quarter. I lift my thumb off the screen before I hit send. I need to think about this, and I can't type and walk.

  Or I could move to Charleston permanently. I have to be there for Montgomery Homes anyway.

  But bumping into Emmy would be hard. Maybe for her too.

  God. And doesn't that just say it all? David's words about Emmy's growing up came back to me. She's single because she's afraid things won't last.

  I stop walking.

  Suddenly I'm thrust forward by a blow at my back. My phone and coffee fly out of my hands, and I get my footing just in time—a miracle since my legs are tired from running.

  "Geez. Watch it," a man yells. "This is New York! You can't stop dead in the street." He shakes his head and turns away, marching on. "Fucking tourists."

  I'm speechless, not able to respond, adrenaline ebbing from the sudden shock, and then he's gone. I lean down and grab my now empty paper coffee cup and step over the milky mess on the sidewalk so I can reach my phone. The screen is smashed.

  I think I might need a much-needed break from this city. I came here hungry, scrappy, and ambitious. Now I'm just fucking tired.

  "Excuse me?" a female voice says behind me.

  I move to the side. "Sorry," I say so she can pass.

  "No, I wanted to tell you that you have something stuck to the back of your shorts."

  She's a pretty brunette in a skirt suit and heels.

  "What?"

  "Turn around," she says, laughing. I smile, bemused, and do what she says. "Okay. Look."

  I look back to see her dangling a pale pink scrap of elastic, silk, and lace. Frowning, I bob my head back.

  "You're embarrassed. Sorry. But it happens all the time. Static cling from the dryer."

  "Those aren't mine." I'm so confused.

  She laughs again and presses them into my hand. "You don't seem like you wear women's underwear. Though who knows? But they belong to someone special, I hope?"

  I used Emmy's washer and dryer . . . wore these exact running shorts in Charleston. "Yes, someone special," I echo.

  "She's probably been wondering where they are. Have a good day."

  She strolls off. And I'm left holding an empty coffee cup, a smashed phone, and yet another pair of Emmy's undergarments. Twice in one day.

&
nbsp; What in the actual fuck is this life?

  email to emmy

  To: edubois

  From: tmontgomery

  Subject: Haunted

  * * *

  I'm being haunted by your underwear.

  * * *

  Regards,

  Trystan L. Montgomery

  end of trystan chapter

  On Saturday, I visit the smart phone store and buy a new phone. Thank God I have everything backed up, I think, and have a brief understanding of what Emmy must have felt like to have lost her phone and have nothing backed up. It's incredible how much we depend on these things.

  But I'm grateful.

  Without one, I'd never have met her.

  I re-download all my apps. Well, not all of them. I don't replace all my dating apps, except one. Then I go through my recovered texts from the days Emmy had my phone and save D'Andre's number, her friend Annie's number that I'd forwarded to her, and begin to make plans.

  40

  Emmy

  I'm not doing it!" I stressed to Annie and Armand as we hung out in his empty café on Monday after work. Armand was chopping and prepping for the next morning. Annie and I nursed a huge slice of gluten-free carrot cake.

  "Why?" asked Annie. "You told me you were ready to start putting yourself out there again. This was your idea."