“That’s right,” Tristan blurts out and this time he’s the one doing the bobble head doll impersonation.
Craig lowers his cutlery to either side of his plate and grants the two of us his full and sceptical attention. Yikes, is this what it’s like to have a dad? “You’re telling me Tristan has spent the last few months taking meditation classes in order to improve his performance at work.”
Tristan and I look at each other and then back at him. We both nod.
The older couple stare at us. They know every word out of our mouths is a lie. I know they know. But they make no further comment. I get the impression they’re used to it.
My stomach sinks as I reach for my glass of wine and take a gulp. The once refreshing taste is now bitter as it flows across my tongue. I put the glass back down, but the base catches on the edge of my bread plate. When I let go, the glass tips over. It lands on the tablecloth with a muffled thud, spilling wine everywhere.
Gasping, I jump up from my seat to right the glass while Tristan and his parents rush to move dishes from the centre of the table. I lift one of the candles up out of the way so I can use my linen napkin to cover the spreading wetness.
“Sam! The flowers.” Tristan’s warning comes too late as one of the dried flowers catches light. There’s a gentle woofas a large banksia gets in on the action. Horrified, I grab my water glass and dump the contents on the flames with a splash.
The fire is extinguished, along with any hope I might have had of winning favour with Tristan’s parents.
I stand there, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. The bouquet of flowers is partially blackened and soggy all over. Half-eaten meals are swimming in water and wine. The once pristine tablecloth is sodden.
Dragging my gaze from the mess, I look at Tristan’s mother. She went to so much effort to make Tristan’s birthday special and I’ve ruined everything. I try to speak, but my vocal cords have shut down completely and I have to rely on an exhaled breath to make myself heard. “I’m so very sorry.”
Ursula raises her gaze to mine, and the compassion in her expression threatens the last of my composure. “Don’t you worry,” she says, using her napkin to dab a few stray water droplets from her forearms. “Dessert is always the best part of the meal, anyway.”
Grateful for her understanding, I find the courage to face Tristan, but he’s not taking any notice of me. Instead, his gaze is locked on his father, who is busy clearing away the ruined meals.
I rush to help but Craig shakes his head. “You sit.” His voice brooks no argument and my butt hits the chair. Dads are scary. “Tristan, can you please give me a hand?”
Tristan complies in silence. He spares me a single, unreadable glance before he follows his father inside.
TWENTY-FOUR
______
TRISTAN
Adrenaline burns through my veins as I enter the kitchen, a stack of dirty plates clutched in my hands. On the top plate, diluted wine sloshes back and forth between a pile of sliced carrots and some mashed potato. It was only a spilled glass of wine and a few singed flowers, but Sam will be devastated by the blunder. I don’t want to leave him alone any longer than I have to.
Gritting my teeth, I place the dishes on the counter with care, so as not to damage them in my haste, then walk straight past my father on my way back to the door.
“Tristan.”
I stop, a long string of curse words streaming silently through my head. If he’s determined to do this, I’d rather get it done quickly. When I turn to face him, every muscle is coiled and ready for battle.
His own expression is mild by comparison. “Help me get the cake ready?”
Without a word, I make my way back to the counter. He carries over a large plastic container and pries the lid off to reveal an enormous layered chocolate cake. As a kid, I always picked this cake for my birthday. It was my favourite. Maybe it still is—I don’t even know anymore.
He opens a smaller container, full of birthday candles, and places it between us. I wait for him to speak as we put candles on the cake. I know what to expect. We’ve lived this conversation once already. He’ll deliver his verdict, as he did with Walter. He’ll tell me Sam’s not right for me, that I need to end it, do better. And he’ll expect me to comply because that’s what I do—I comply with his wishes. At first because I needed to. Then because it felt like the right thing to do. Now? I suppose I do it out of habit as much as anything.
More candles land on top of the cake, but still he says nothing.
What the hell is he waiting for?
At least my father had a point with Walter. We weren’t good for each other. I see it now. Walter clung to me as tightly as I clung to him and that made me feel safe and wanted. It was love, of a sort, but we never would have made each other happy in the long-term. I needed light where he had only darkness. He needed healing where I had only pain.
Everything about my life with Sam is different. The issues he struggles with are visible to the world, as Walter’s were. He craves comfort in the same way Walter did. But Sam doesn’t seek relief in a bottle, or a pill, or—god forbid—a needle, the way Walter did when I knew him. Instead, Sam has his own ways of coping. His meditation. My touch. Copious amounts of tea. Sam is messy on the outside sometimes, but on the inside he is everything I need.
Now, if my father will get on with the disapproval part, I can fucking tell him so.
A score of candles top the cake by the time I crack. “I’m not giving him up.” The words are ferociously quiet, so they won’t be heard through the nearby window. “I need him.”
