“You know I wouldn’t,” I admit. “And I get where you’re going with this. And yes, I know you’re right,” I add because I can literallyfeelhis self-satisfied smirk through the air between us.
“’Tis better to have loved and lost—”
“Since when do data analysts quote Tennyson?” I grouse. “Besides, I don’tlovehim. I’ve only known him for—”
“Tell me,” Alex cuts through my protests smoothly, all the while grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat. “Why exactly are there so may stories of love at first sight if that’s remotely relevant?”
“Jesus, Alex.” I scrub my gloved hands over my face out of frustration at my friend’s ridiculously illogical logic. “You know there are lots of stories about witchcraft and Santa Claus too, don’t you?”
Alex shoots me an uncharacteristically sharp glare before flicking his eyes meaningfully toward the twins, and I wince apologetically to let him know I’ve taken the hint. Though, if I’m being honest, given the distraction of all the snow, I seriously doubt they’re likely to even hear our conversation, let alone realize the childhood-crushing implications of what I’ve just said.
Christ though. I don’tloveTristan. That would be categorically absurd. I barely know him. And yet, I can’t hide from the fact that it’s utterly terrifying how easy it could be tolet it happen.
“Listen, Jess,” Alex drags me back from that particularly unsettling line of thought, and I’m glad for the excuse of the cold air because I can feel the telltale prickle of a blush creeping through my cheeks again. “God knows I don’t want to see you get hurt. Nor am I remotely interested in nursing your sorry ass through the fallout if you do.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine, a silent reassurance I don’t need. Reassurance that, if the bottom ever does fall out of my life again like it did when Stephen died, not only would Alex be willing to see me through it again, nothing in the world would stop him from it.
“But don’t run away from this guy and whatever’s going to happen with him just because you don’t know what it’s going to be, alright?
“It’s okay to take things slow if you need to. Be honest with him and tell him what you need. If he’s anywhere near worth your time, then he’s going to understand that. If he doesn’t, then he’s a douche and you’re better off without him.
“If there’s the potential for something there though?” He turns, pinning me with a look even more cutting than the one he flashed me a moment ago when he thought I was in danger of stripping the magic of Santa away from the twins. “Don’t you fucking dare throw that away because you’re scared or whatever else is holding you back. No one knows what’s going to happen tomorrow, and I know I don’t have to tell you that. What I do know is that he does something for you. It’s been too damn long since I’ve seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like most of you didn’t die that night too.”
18
Jesse
Ihave to admit that I didn’t mind one bit when Alex practically threw me out once I’d finished helping him clean up the lunch dishes, all the while fending off his ongoing barrage of questions about every last detail he’d felt like I’d left out of my account of last night and this morning. Not that I’d really minded, or that I hadn’t loved my time watching and laughing and snapping pictures with him and Ellie as the twins stumbled around in the snow, or the cozy, family-feeling comfort of lunch with them afterwards. Even so, not for one solid minute did thoughts of Tristan leave my mind.
Now, despite the fact that my right leg is stiff and starting to get that bone-deep ache no amount of half-hearted PT seems to be able to rid me of, probably from the cold and all the standing around in Alex’s yard, I pick up my pace, walking as briskly as the deep, now slightly sloppy snow will allow.
True to most Seattle snowstorms, the freeze is already lifting. Instead of the dry bite of cold from earlier this morning, the air feels cool and damp, like the weather’s remembered suddenly that the year’s supposed to be moving on toward spring. The roads are worse than ever now, slushy and marked with uncertain tire tracks packed down to wet,slick ice, but at this rate, they’ll be clear by tomorrow.
Which means someone will probably be able to come out to fix Tristan’s heater.
It’s totally selfish, but I can’t help the small punch of disappointment that thought brings.
Nor can I help hoping that Tristan being able to return to his apartment doesn’t have to mean the end of things between us. I can’t deny that, by some baffling miracle, he wants me. How and why, I have no clue, and yet, I’ve been forced to accept it.
Beyond that though, Jesus, maybe it’s stupid and ridiculous, but I’m starting to let myself hope (maybe even believe) that I’m not the only one feeling the possibility blooming between the two of us.
It’s probably only wishful thinking, and most likely all just in my head, but I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking it isn’t.
One thing that most definitely isn’t just in my head though was his clear and undeniable invitation this morning.
I’ve gotten thoroughly ahead of myself by the time I reach the steps to my apartment. Nerves at last pushed aside, I’m sunk deeply into a fantasy of doing precisely what Tristan had said, of picking things up exactly where we left off before I had to go. And not just that; more. Maybe more than I’m ready for yet, but everything I wantwith him, so badly that I can hardly see straight.
I’m mentally peeling him out of his clothes to let my hands roam his hot, firm, smooth skin as he shifts and squirms under my touch, arching up from the mattress to grind against me, when the sight of footprints—not just my heavy boot marks, but the smaller, lighter track of what looks like sneakers—leading away from the base of my stairs, dumps a metaphoricalbucket of ice water over the scene.
It’s not like Tristan can’t leave my apartment, or that his doing that means anything remotely fatal about the situation. My knee-jerk reaction of foreboding is nothing more than my own insecurities and I damn well know it. Besides, there, next to and crisscrossing the departing step marks are the same shoe prints heading back up the stairs.
The uncalled for tightening of disappointment in my chest eases enough for me to mentally laugh at myself for the paranoid pessimist that I am.
However long I’m lucky enough to have it, I have a feeling Tristan’s particular brand of sunshine and virtually irresistible temptation to give in and let go are precisely what I need.
