“You can have the room now. She ain’t comin’ back.”
Considering all the men he’d seen her bring into her bedroom, he’d hated sleeping there, and now he wondered if that was where his insomnia issues originated.
Four months after that, the state child welfare department visited his grandmother, and after a long discussion—during which he’d sat silent in the tidied living room, dressed in clean jeans and a new shirt from Goodwill his grandmother had grumbled about having to pay for—Tristan answered question after question about his life and whether he wanted to stay with his grandmother. And as much as Tristan hated her cold nature and being her errand boy, the prospect of losing the last family member he had left terrified him, and he begged to stay.
With a final sweep of the premises, Tristan left the bank, confident he would be able to work well with the team he had in place. That put him in a good mood, as he had no desire to replace people.
His phone buzzed just as he was about to enter the subway. “McDermott.”
“This is Lila Richardson, from Corcoran? I showed you the apartment in Clinton Hill.”
“Yes, I remember.” He stopped walking and leaned against a building. “You told me it was snapped up immediately after I left.”
“It was, but I have another place in the building across the street. Similar layout, but the price is a little lower, since it needs some TLC.”
“When can I see it?” Tristan checked his watch. Four thirty. Still early. He wondered if Sean thought he’d be home for dinner. Tristan hated the thought of him waiting and expecting him, only for him not to show.
“Tonight if you want. I have other showings in the neighborhood, but if you’re interested, I can meet you at five thirty.”
For a brief moment, he wanted to say no so he could go back to the apartment and talk to Sean about what happened in the park that afternoon, but that would be stupid. Second chances for an apartment in the city didn’t come around too often. Besides, Sean had gotten a little too close to the truth, and Tristan had no desire to relive the past.
“I’ll be there.”
“Great. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks. See you then.” When the address appeared on his phone, Tristan couldn’t understand why he wasn’t more excited. This was another brick, another layer, in the rebuilding of his life—he had the job, and he had a chance to make things right for Terry’s family by being there as Nadine’s godfather. Now he needed a place of his own, where he could be by himself. The way he wanted. Tristan headed into the train station, annoyed with himself that instead of making plans for moving, he was wondering if Sean was home.
* * *
The agent certainly came prepared. She had an offer written up, all except the price. Apparently, she must’ve thought he’d show up, give a cursory glance, and spend his money.
Not him.
Tristan took his sweet time, opening and closing each cabinet, testing the water pressure in the bathroom, and going over the fees and tax statements, reading each line and taking notes. Meanwhile, Lila watched him like a hawk, ready to jump out of her seat at his every move.
As he read through the CC&Rs of the condo, Tristan cursed himself for snapping at Sean that afternoon. What if Sean was angry enough with the way they’d left it in the park that he went off to some bar and met some guy and hooked up? Bitterness swirled in his gut at the thought of someone pawing at Sean or hurting him and Sean being defenseless.
“So what do you think?” The exasperated edge to Lila’s voice made it clear she was on her last nerve with him.Fuck it.He rose and picked up his sunglasses from the table.
“I have to go, but take this offer to them.” He threw out a number on his way to the door, and she laughed.
“That’s seventy thousand under asking. They’ll never take it. The offer is almost an insult.”
His smile was thin. “That’s my specialty. And you’re supposed to be on my side, so work your magic and get back to me.”
He shut the door behind him and called for a car. The train here wouldn’t take him where he needed to be, and he had no desire to wait. Even with a tie-up on the bridge, it took him less than an hour to get home, and he opened the door to find Sean lying on the couch with a bag of chips in his lap and a jar of salsa on the coffee table, watching some reality show where people were running around on a boat. Sean had a bottle of beer in his hand and acknowledged his arrival with barely a flicker of his eyes.
“Oh.” Tristan felt stupid. Here he’d been thinking Sean might be upset over their conversation, but he was obviously wrong. “I didn’t know if you were going to be here.”
“Just got home a little while ago.”
Heart hammering, he tossed his keys onto the table and decided a beer would taste damn good. He got one from the refrigerator, the cold liquid burning through him but doing nothing for his overheated state. What the hell was going on? Sean was home, and Tristan had lost out on yet another apartment because of his overactive imagination.
Sean swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and lowered the volume on the television. “I got a job,” he said softly, but his chin tipped up with pride and a bit of defiance. “It’s at a restaurant, and it’s the morning shift, which is not the best, but at least I’ll be making steady money.”
“That’s great news. I didn’t know you were still looking. I thought the money you’d been bringing in with the busking was great.”
Sean smiled. “Thanks, but I talked to Charlotte, and she made a good point that when the weather turns to shit, like that monsoon, I won’t make any money. So thinking and planning ahead for the winter, I can do the singing when it’s chilly and sunny, especially at the holidays when people are generous and in a festive mood, but once January and February hit, I’ll be fucked. The restaurant job will tide me over.”
