by PK Hrezo
But I don’t know what this is. Everything about him has been so unexpected, yet so familiar at the same time. And here I am caring for him in this intimate and unspeakably foreign way.
I am so out of my element. Yet I couldn’t possibly belong any place else at this moment.
Tristan curls his body into a fetal position, shaking his head from side to side, shifting the weight of his torso in violent thrusts.
Placing my hands on his shoulder, I try to steady him. “It’s okay, Tristan. Calm down. It’s okay …”
If he hears me, he makes no indication. He grabs his head with both hands and yanks his hair so hard between his clutched fingers, I’m afraid he’ll remove fistfuls. His groaning becomes louder, more agonizing.
“Tristan, listen to my voice. You’re gonna be okay.” I try to force a soothing tone but I can’t hide the shakiness. Maybe this was a mistake—I can’t watch this.
My lids fall closed, my nostrils burning with the threat of tears. I whisper to myself the reminders from the detox data I read. This is normal, I chant over and over, trying in vain to drown out Tristan’s moaning wails. For what feels like forever, I stay this way, my hands clutching his jerky arm, holding on like it could detach at any second. My eyes stay closed, except for a few stolen peeks to ensure he’s not turning green or some other vile color of death.
All at once, he’s silent and still. Immediately, I lift his wrist to check his pulse and his arm is limp between my hands. A morbid kind of limp that sends a shiver down my spine.
His pulse is faint, but there all the same, and I flee to the sink for a wet towel to mop his brow. Before I can get back to him, he jerks in one swift motion and sits bolt upright.
“Tristan?” I hold onto his shoulders, trying to get a look into his eyes that are droopy and bloodshot and focused on his lap. “Tristan?”
Slowly, he lifts his head and just as I think he’ll meet my eyes, puke spews from his lips, and onto my glittery gray sweater, soiling me from my neck to my waist in mango-colored chunks.
I can’t move. The sourest rotten-fruit-like odor finds its way into my nostrils and I finally turn my head, gasp for a breath of uncontaminated air. “Holy hell. Tristan! What did you eat?”
He makes no attempt to answer, only pukes again, hard and volatile, spilling chowder mess onto himself and the floor.
I’m so glad we brought a change of clothes.
My brain finally processing again, I grab a basket by the kitchenette and place it under him til he grabs on and eliminates what must be every last content of his stomach. The info I read mentioned possible volatile puking, but this is more like the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. It also stated the harder the substances ingested, the more severe the purge would be.
Memories of Tristan blowing chunks on our first time trip together pop in my head. But that time-lag sickness was nothing compared to this atrocity. Who knew I’d ever be attracted to a guy with such a weak stomach. I realize now that this purge of intoxicants confirms what everyone around the Web has been speculating: Tristan was more than just drunk the other night.
I hand him the towel, he wipes his mouth and face, and takes a deep breath. But it’s not over. Unable to eject anything more from his insides, he goes into a fit of dry heaves. Raspy and harsh and grating. It goes on long enough for me to change out of my puke garb and wash my hands, face, and neck.
Returning to Tristan, I hand him a new towel, kneeling beside him to sop up the mess he made earlier.
“I’m … so … sorry …” His voice is barely above a whisper, dry and rough.
I meet his eyes briefly. “I know.”
He peels off his turtleneck so his chest and arms are left only in his white long underwear. The buttons are open down to his pecs, revealing the light sprinkle of hair curling at his chest.
“You’ll freeze, dumbass.” I move in to button him up. Even with thermal threading, bare chests in the winter in the Arctic is a surefire way to catch pneumonia. In Tristan’s condition, it’s probably even more likely.
He catches my hand at the last button and moves my arm up over his shoulder so our noses are only millimeters apart. “Guess I’m kinda revolting right now.” He chuckles, then hiccups.
“Wouldn’t call you Mr. GQ or anything at the moment.” I study his face, but his lids are so heavy, he’s not making eye contact. “But you’ll get there.”
“You’re all right, you know that, Butterman?” He scoots back to lean on the wall near the capped fishing holes, pulling me to him.
“Tristan, be honest with me, okay? What else did you take?”
His head rolls back on the wall, something of a smile alighting his still-blue lips while he gazes blankly at me. He says nothing, which is answer enough, along with the glimmer of guilt now flickering deep within his eyes.
I get to my feet. “Holy hell, why can’t you just admit it? Now is the time to be honest and purge yourself of everything.”
He puffs his cheeks as though he’s about to hurl again. I make for the basket, but as I slide it to his side, he only hiccups, cradling his torso with his arms.
“Go ahead, let me have it,” he says sloppily. “Not like I planned to screw up your life, you know.”
“I didn’t say that.” Tension snares my neck and shoulders. I didn’t want us to fight today, but now that I opened the can, I have to swallow the worms. “It’s just that … how could you have been so careless after everything we did to stick up for you?”
My voice is harder than I intended, and I’m convinced I’ve been harboring more than just slight irritation after that night at the diner.
Tristan hugs his knees, his chin resting over top of them, his face long and tired. “Careless. That’s me. What else is new?” Another coughing episode flares up, spittle flying from his lips til he gets control and his head wobbles on his neck. “Add in reckless, selfish, and juvenile and you’ve got a ready-made article to blast all over the interwebs.”
I resume cleaning the floor because my pulse is racing so fast I don’t know what else to do with myself. “How can you joke about it? I mean, the place was crawling with paparazzi and you think it’s a good idea to get high and drunk right after telling the world you’re clean?”
He shakes his head back and forth against the wall, his hands now flat on the floor. I have to shift my gaze away because now I’m pissed and I don’t want to feel sorry for him. He owes me an explanation.
“The cold … feels good,” he stammers. “It’s so hot in here.”
If he’s hot inside an ice shack, his body is all wrong-side out. I hand him his bottled water and he drinks. “The detox is doing its job, cleansing your innards.”
He tries to look steadily at me, but opts for resting his head at the wall again, his eyes now reduced to slits. “Impulsive. That’s what my mom calls it. I act on a whim and pay the price later. But impulse is what keeps me moving forward, instead of wallowing in my failure.”
Seriously? I let out a little sigh, softening my voice. “You haven’t failed at anything. You’re a superstar, or else all these people wouldn’t care whether or not you screw up.”
His lips lift into a faint smile, and then his body convulses so fiercely, his water spills to the floor and on his nylon snow pants.
He won’t stop shaking. I grab a wool blanket from the pantry, flick on its thermal thread nano-generator, and wrap it around his stiff, pulsing body. He tries to shove it off, but I hold it down, fighting to keep him still. I put a hand to his damp forehead and it’s burning up with fever. Fever is a bad sign—it means something worse—infection, or disease. Why did I leave my device at the house, like I know how to operate on instinct or something? This is the twenty-first century—I don’t have instinct, I’ve got Internet!
“Stay … right … here …” Tristan says, shivering.
Mom says it’s best to let a fever run its course, burn out any pollution inside the body. I lay the damp towel on Tristan’s head and grab onto his hand. I’m
surprised when he grips it back.
“I … need you here, Butterman. Now … and—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Golden Boy,” I interrupt. “Trust me.”
And for the first time, I fully understand the truth in that.
Chapter Nine
Four hours later, Tristan rouses from a deep sleep. After that first hour of sweaty convulsions passed, his body seemed to give up and he passed out. I’ve never seen him so peaceful before—like a corpse at a wake, and me with no flowers or words of condolences—just too much time to think. About what life was like before he came into it, about what it would be like if he left. About how either of us fit into the present, the past, the future.
No distractions, only acceptances. I’ve now witnessed him at his absolute worst, and for some reason, I feel closer to him than I ever have. Still, if I ever see him this helpless and weak again, it will be too soon.
“Water,” he says, propping himself up on an elbow.
I hand him a fresh bottle of water. “How’re you feeling?”
“Parched … and exhausted.” He guzzles the water til it’s gone and takes a big breath, as if the action took everything out of him. On his feet, he sheds the wool blanket and staggers to the sink, where he brushes his teeth and washes his face.
“Feel detoxified?” I fold the blanket.
“I feel … de-humanized.” He laughs, returning to where I’m standing with bloodshot eyes peering down at me. “Man, this is Hell’s hangover. Did your Dad know all this’d happen? He must really have it out for me.”
I hadn’t considered that til now. But Dad would never … would he?
Tristan stretches his arms and neck, making a noise like a sick cat, his face pained. “You sure a freight train didn’t run me over while I was out? Damn.” He pauses, rolling his head on his neck as if trying to snap out of his funk. “They weren’t messin’ around when they came up with this dose. Makes three weeks of rehab seem like a spa vacation.”
“Maybe you needed a good ass kicking.” I smile. “Just please say we won’t have to go through this again.”
He straightens, studying my face. “I’ve been selfish. Haven’t I?”
Unsure how to respond, I shuffle about the room, collecting the last of the empty water containers. “Had plenty of time to clean up around here.”
Tristan moves in toward me, straightening his shirt and snowpants, wobbling in between movements. Just as I’m sure he’ll tumble over, he leans in, his face to mine. “Nobody’s ever taken care of me like this before. Nobody.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Florence Nightingale, huh? Who knew?” I force a chuckle.
His hand slips around to the small of my back. “I’m serious, Bianca. I want you to know … I’m … sorry. For putting you through all this.”
I wince at the sound of my first name. He uses it at the most random times, and it always catches me off guard.
His smoky-blue gaze never falters. “If you could see in you what I see right now, you’d know every second was worth it.”
My stomach flips once at his words, then again at the sincerity in his face. In this moment, beneath the dim lighting and wavering firelight from the stove, Tristan’s vulnerability reaches me like a beam of sunlight, and every part of my body responds in a different way, tumultuous and alive.
He yanks me in closer, so my chest presses to his. “Pure beauty, Butterman. That’s what I see.”
My breath catches.
His pale lips get closer, his head lowering to mine, and just as I’m about to kiss him, he straightens, sniffs the air. “Why do I keep smelling fish?”
“Um, ‘cause you’re in an ice shack.” Although I was totally lost in the moment, I don’t mind the opportunity to recover my wits and unlock myself from his embrace. Things were getting a bit too serious.
Squatting to the floor, I remove the lid from the closest fishing hole and pull up my stringer of fish. Seven of them, shiny and flopping about. Droplets of ice water splatter my hands and the prickliness of it feels unforgiving and good.
Tristan’s eyes widen. “You caught all that today?”
I lower them back into the hole, cover it. “No Wi-Fi, no devices. What else am I gonna do out here?”
At my side now, he pulls me to my feet, brushing my hair away from my face. “I’ll show you.”
This time, his lips meet mine gently, our eyes still open, gazes locked. It’s not a kiss of passion, it’s something more. An invitation? An agreement? Or maybe just a thank you. His lids slowly close, his lips melting fully into mine now, blending and tasting. I allow myself to give in and sink into his embrace, returning his kisses with my unspoken response.
He really does need me—I know that now.
Lifting his head, he smiles lazily. “This thing doesn’t have a hidden shower compartment somewhere, does it?”
I let out a heavy, flustered sigh. “You’ll have to settle for a hot sponge bath.”
Now where the hell did that come from? Couldn’t have been from my mouth.
His smile widens. “Now you’re talkin’. I’m ready when you are.”
Initiate tactical modification. I scoff, gesture at myself. “Oh, you expect me to—?”
In a swift motion, he removes his shirt, revealing his California-tanned chest and sprigs of dark blond hairs. He shivers. “Whoa, it’s effin’ cold in here.”
I avert my gaze. “You’re probably still damp from sweat.” Stepping away, I toss him the neatly folded wool blanket and it lands at his feet. “Wrap up in that.”
My pulse races. It’s not like we haven’t been close before. But something about this moment has me trembling. There’s more going on here.
Tristan lays the blanket over his shoulders like a dark cape. “I’m grimy, and all I smell is fish, but this is exactly where I wanna be.” He holds out his hand. “Come here.”
I don’t know why I’m playing hard to get. Maybe because I have no idea what’ll happen if we take this to the next level—or if I even want the next level. Still, I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. He’s sort of adorable right now, in his hopelessly disheveled state.
Taking my time, I enter his open arms and he wraps the blanket around the both of us, creating a cozy cocoon.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
It takes a few seconds for me to answer. I ease my arms around his waist and hold on. “I don’t know where to go from here.”
His brows furrow, then relax. “Why do you need to? Can’t we just enjoy the moment, take it as it comes?”
That is so not how I operate. I’m a scientist and a mechanic. I need evidence and a plan. Always. “I just wanna—”
“You want a road map.” His voice has its usual lightheartedness again.
I pound his bare chest gently with my fist. “Is that so bad?”
“Not bad, just impossible. But I’ll see what I can do to break you of it.” He arches a brow. “Now how about that sponge bath?”
I push him away, flashing him a flirty smile. “I’m tired of playing nurse. Besides, I wanna get back to my desk so I can set up my Induction Day. You realize it’s almost here, right? And there is the little fact that the ENTIRE world is going to be watching.”
“Is that what you’re so uptight about? We finally get a little alone time and you’re worrying about your Induction.”
My spine stiffens. I hate it when he downplays my life.
“Alone time? Is that what you call me babysitting a sicko and cleaning up puke? Newsflash—this is not exactly the romantic interlude every girl dreams of.”
“All right, take it easy, Butterman. I get it.” Tristan moves in toward the sink and runs the water. “Youch, that’s cold.”
“Takes a few minutes to warm up.” I move in to stand next to him, my arms over my chest.
“Like you?” He casts me a sideways glance, cocks a half smile.
I slug his arm.
He grabs a hand towel and wets it. “Don’t stress
over it too much. Living in a fishbowl can suck, but it does have its perks, you know? Like front of the line at major events, or VIP security. Free stuff for endorsements. Sometimes you just gotta say screw it. I mean, life’s gotta go on. Who cares what the people watching think? Least we’re out there living, right? Those people who’re always criticizing and tossing opinions around are compensating for their lack of talent and drive. Nothing better to do with their own lives, so they feed off making others feel bad. Screw them.” He gives me a little nod, his chin jutted out, then begins washing his chest and underarms.
A twinge of guilt gnaws at my chest. I’m being cold and rude—possibly robbing myself of a very erotic encounter with this guy who’s put complete trust in me. Holy hell, I can be such a pain sometimes.
I step toward him til we’re face to face, him staring down at me, still bathing. “Just tell me we won’t have to go through this again.”
He stops, frowns. His dampened shag has been pushed off his forehead, leaving his face exposed and impossibly handsome. When his scraggly bangs are down, he looks like he’s caught between boyhood and manhood, but without it, his maturity is so obvious, my heart drums faster. I follow the strong line of his jaw to the barely-there stubble at his dimpled chin, then upwards over his parted lips and simple nose, to the slight creases above, where his brows almost meet. For the first time, I notice the dark shadows beneath his eyes, attesting to all he’s been through today, and I have to wonder if they’ve always been there. They speak of his entire life—how much he’s endured.
“I’m sorry,” he says, a deep sadness in his gray-blue eyes. “Never again.”
I want to believe him—have to believe him—or else all of this was a waste of time.
“Give me that,” I whisper, taking the towel from his hands.
He’s still beneath the blanket, so I tug it away from him, toss it onto the ground.
He says nothing, only watches as I warm the towel again and press it to his chest, slowly polishing every curve and line as if it were a rare statue. Moving down to his waist, I trace the corner of the towel just below his navel, then return for a fresh dip of warm water.