“Tristan.” Relief mixes with surprise in her tone. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Barely,” I tell her. “I need to be in a meeting in a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll be quick then. It’s about your birthday.”
My eyes close and I swear silently. “That’s more than two months away.”
“Yes, and last year when I called one month in advance you told me you’d already made plans. This year I’m getting in extra early.”
“You know I don’t like to make a fuss about it.” I have no desire to celebrate my birthday, this year or any year. It seems… disrespectful.
“I know, but I would like to do something to mark the occasion.” Her voice quivers slightly as she speaks and a painful lump lodges in my throat. “You’re my son, Tristan. I love you.”
Locking my jaw tight, I bite back the words crowding my tongue. There’s no point telling her how unnecessary it is to say such things, that she doesn’t need to pretend for my sake. If she feels the need to persist in the charade, I have no right to stop her.
“I may be too busy with work.” If I’m not already busy, there’s ample time to find a client crisis I need to work on. Clients have crises all the time. I’m sure at least one of them could be persuaded to fit with my schedule.
“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing your birthday is on a Saturday this year. You don’t work on Saturday.”
Damn. I could have sworn it fell on a Thursday or something.
“You can make plans during the day if you wish, but you’ll be having dinner with your father and me.” She sounds more determined than usual, but that could easily pass. Some days she’s more determined than others.
“I have to go,” I tell her, “but I’ll call you another day to sort the details.” I’m lying. She knows I’m lying. With any luck she’ll let it go and we’ll both end up allowing the day of my birth to pass in the way I prefer. Unnoticed.
“Don’t you worry,” she says firmly. “I’ll call you.”
Then again, maybe not.
“Talk soon.” My hand trembles slightly as I hang up. Talking to my mother is always uncomfortable. I wish she wouldn’t call. But then, anytime I go too long without hearing from her I find myself counting the days, seeing how high they go before she reaches out. Once I got as high as thirty-six. Sleep was harder to come by at the end of that month.
Putting the phone down, I notice one of Sam’s business cards still on my desk. I remember the sadness in him when he mentioned his own mother. They must have been close, as my mother and I were once close. What would he give to have what I have? More time with the woman who raised him.
Time is the one thing I’ve still got in abundance. But unless I find a way to turn it backwards, it will continue to be wasted on me.
SEVEN
______
SAM
This is not a date. It’s another business meeting. So, why do I have butterflies in my stomach?
At least they’re not the titanium butterflies that bludgeon my insides during most social interactions. These butterflies are made of something soft and fluttery. They take flight every time I replay my last meeting with Tristan. The way he looked at me, like I’m worth knowing, like I have secrets worth telling. The memory alone makes my thoughts go wonky and my stomach flip all over itself.
It means nothing, of course. I’ve received similar looks from students after helping them through a difficult class. Meditation sometimes allows people’s repressed emotions to surface. Guiding and supporting students while those emotions are released is a delicate process and one I happen to be good at. Afterwards, though, some students seem to convince themselves I hold the answers to the universe. It’s a weird kind of guru-worship that makes me uncomfortable. Especially when so much of my own life continues to be a work in progress.
Still, I like the way Tristan looks at me. The discomfort inspired by his gaze is of an entirely pleasant nature.
A knock on the front door makes me jump. I glance at the clock. It’s 8pm. Tristan is right on time.
I venture a smile as I open the door. He’s dressed in another suit, although this time he’s pressed and polished to perfection. His over-sized, black notebook is tucked under his arm and he’s holding two pens. One red, one blue. “Good evening, Sam,” he says as he steps across the threshold.
Definitely not a date. He sounds like a bank manager.
“Hello.” Closing the door, I lead him down the hallway to the kitchen.
“What smells so good?” he asks, sniffing the air.
