Chapter 17
Tobias
Tristan's apartment smelled like expensive cologne and suppressed anxiety.
He met me in the lobby, looking more put-together than anyone had a right to at noon on a Wednesday. Navy suit, no tie, the casual elegance of someone born knowing how to dress.
"You look like you're about to puke," he said.
"Thanks. Very helpful."
"Just being honest." His hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing. "They're already upstairs. Mom's been pacing sinceshe got here. Dad's doing that thing where he stares out the window and pretends he's not nervous."
"Great. Can't wait."
The elevator ride felt too short. I wanted more time—more distance between this moment and the one where I'd have to face them.
When the doors opened, Tristan led me down the hallway to his door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good. If you were ready, I'd be worried." He pushed open the door. "Let's go."
They were already there.
My mother sat on Tristan's leather couch, hands folded in her lap. She looked smaller than I remembered. Older. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and when she saw me, something in her face crumbled before she pulled it back together.
My father stood by the window, jaw tight, spine rigid. The posture I knew from a thousand boardroom negotiations. But his eyes—his eyes were scared.
No one moved for a long moment.
Then my mother stood and crossed the room in three quick steps, pulling me into a hug that nearly broke me.
"You're safe," she whispered against my hair. "You're safe. You're here."
I couldn't speak, just held her while she shook against me, her careful composure dissolving into the fabric of my shirt.
"Mom..."
"Don't." She pulled back, gripped my arms, and looked at me as if checking I was real. "Don't say anything yet. Just let me look at you."
Her eyes were wet. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together.
Behind her, my father cleared his throat. "Eleanor. Let him breathe."
She released me reluctantly, stepping back but keeping one hand on my arm, as if afraid I'd vanish if she stopped touching me.
"Sit down," Tristan said. "Everyone sit down. We're not at a board meeting."
The humor cracked something in the air. My mother laughed shakily, and my father's jaw unclenched slightly.
We sat: my parents on one couch, me on the other, Tristan in an armchair between us like a referee.
Silence. No one knew how to start.
So I did.
