Tristan edges closer to my side, his hand settling around my waist.
“Let’s go out the back, shall we?” Ursula says, breaking the sudden silence. She takes her husband by the hand and drags him towards to back of the house.
As we follow, I turn mournful eyes on the man at my side, gesturing at my throat. “I’m sorry,” I mouth.
He gives a dismissive shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”
I roll my eyes. Tristan always was a bad liar.
When we step from the house out onto the back deck, we’re greeted by an elaborately set table, complete with a crisp white linen tablecloth, polished silverware, flickering candles and a vase with a colourful bouquet of dried native flowers. Lanterns hanging from the roof overhead provide extra light against the approaching night. My lips curve as I look at Tristan, but he seems appalled by the display.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” he mutters.
“Of course we should have,” his mother says firmly. “It’s important to celebrate your birthday.”
Tristan’s lips press together, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he looks at me, his hand gripping tight to mine. The conflicting emotions on his face cut through my anxiety. Tonight isn’t about me, or what his parents think of me. Not really. It’s about Tristan, and he needs me to put my own issues aside and get him through this. I won’t let him down.
Taking a deep breath, I concentrate on Tristan. “Let’s sit down,” I say, quietly. Pulling out two chairs on one side of the rectangular table, I sit in one and tug Tristan down into the other. After a brief pause, his parents do the same on the far side.
I keep a tight hold of Tristan’s hand as I turn my focus towards Ursula. She’s friendly enough and my vocal cords work better for her. “This is great.”
Her smile contains all the same shadows as Tristan’s… and then some. “Thank you, Sam.”
Now we’re seated, Ursula pulls a cover from the middle of the table, revealing a small platter filled with cheese, crackers, fruit, and nuts. Meanwhile, Craig cracks open a bottle of white wine. “Would you care for a glass of wine, Sam?”
I keep my head perfectly still as I breathe in, and then reply on the exhale. “Yes, please.”
Once all the glasses are filled, Craig proposes a toast to his son. Tristan forces some semblance of a smile as he lifts his glass, but he doesn’t drink before putting it back down again. I take a small sip. The wine is delicious, cool with a slightly fruity flavour, and I allow myself one more sip before putting it back on the table and picking up my water glass instead. While the temptation to dull my nerves is strong, I’d rather keep all my wits about me.
There’s a long moment of silence as Craig watches Ursula, and Ursula watches Tristan. For his part, Tristan keeps his gaze on his empty plate. If the circumstances surrounding this behaviour weren’t so grave, I’d have to laugh. After all the time I spent studying body language and the intricacies of navigating social situations, I end up here—where everything works backwards and the normal rules have long since expired. Greeting kisses result in unshed tears and a beautifully dressed table is cause for dismay. Tristan’s family is all wrong and although I understand why, the disparity throws me. I want to be supportive, but I have no idea how. The riot in my limbs ratchets up a notch.
Tristan’s dad slices up the cheese for the crackers. Following his lead, the rest of us take something from the spread and dutifully eat. When Craig asks me about my business, I answer each question carefully. I use as few words as possible to avoid rambling, aiming for a professionalism I’ve never felt. This is the man who took care of Tristan when he was at his lowest. Improbable though it may be, I want him to like me.
Eventually, dinner is served. Craig eats with swift, mechanical movements, as if the meal is a task to be ticked off. Tristan and his mother push the food around their plates, taking the odd mouthful. I’m not hungry, but I choke down one bite after another with determined chews and swallows.It doesn’t matter what’s put in front of you, my mother would say upon occasion.If someone has cooked for you, you eat.
So, I eat.
“Tristan tells me he’s helping you with your business, Sam,” Craig says, partway through the meal.
“Yes. It’s a quid-pro-quo kind of thing,” I add, not wanting him to get the impression I’m taking advantage of his son’s generous nature. “Tristan’s ideas have turned my whole business around.”
“The ideas are the easy part,” Tristan insists. “You did all the hard work.”
I give him a grateful smile. “Thank you for saying that.” I have worked hard these past few months, so it’s a compliment I manage to accept with grace. “Even so, I never would have gotten so far without your help.”
Tristan’s return smile is genuine, adoring even, but then his gaze darts towards his parents and he sobers. Turning away, he withdraws from me completely. I don’t understand. Doesn’t he want his parents to know how well we get along? That we make each other happy?
Ignoring the slivers of hurt slicing at my insides, I straighten and tug the corners of my mouth upwards as I address his parents. “Your son is very good at what he does.”
Craig nods his agreement as he gestures to me. “And you, Sam? What have you been doing for your part of this arrangement?”
“I’ve been—” My mouth stalls. Beside me, Tristan stills. I feel the breath he’s holding as surely as I feel my own locked inside my chest.
I’ve been helping your son deal with chronic insomnia caused by the life-destroying guilt he harbours over the death of your daughter.
Casting around for anything else to say, I blurt out the first idea that comes to mind. “Productivity training.”
Tristan’s parents raise their eyebrows. I glance at Tristan. He hasn’t moved. Sweat prickles on my forehead and I start to pant. “Sustained productivity requires periods of intense focus followed by periods of intense recovery. Meditation is an excellent form of recovery.” I read that in a book once and have discussed the topic with students on many occasions so the idea itself is absolutely true. “My classes have provided Tristan with an opportunity to improve his recovery times.” And there it is—the big, fat lie.
