She looked at me. “We’re all depressed. That doesn’t stop you from moving forward.”
I thought that was exactly what depression did, but I didn’t say anything. I held her hand. She stroked her thumb over my knuckles.
“Can I ask you something and can you not get mad?” I said.
“How can I promise not to get mad if I don’t know what you’re asking?”
“Mom.”
“Fine.”
I held my breath. Then I released it. “Who’s Sam?”
She turned away. “Now, why would you ask me something silly like that?”
“I saw the birthday card.”
“Cut it out, Catherine.”
“Why don’t you ever want to tell me stuff?”
“Because it’s private, it’s mine,” she cried. “It’s a birthday card, that’s all. Now, I don’t want to be asked about this again.”
I went quiet. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “It’s all right, baby. How’s Jay doing? Did you all have a good time?”
“Yes,” I lied. The truth wasn’t an option. The moment wouldn’t have survived the truth.
“Good.” She kissed my forehead and left.
I searched “Sam Washington DC middle-aged man,” but of course found nothing. I got in bed early, my phone pressed to my face in case Jay called. It’d been four days since we last spoke, the longest we’d ever gone. He was probably celebrating New Year’s Eve with friends, but I hoped he might give in and call me.
Around eight, my phone glowed behind my eyelids. The screen was slimy with sweat and dandruff when I pulled away.
Tristan:Got NYEs plans?
Me:no I’m a loser. U?
Tristan:guess I’m a loser too
Tristan:wanna come over?
I nearly coughed my heart up. It seemed meant for someone else. Someone who’d “come over” before. Why wasn’t he with Nia? Had they broken up? Jay still hadn’t called or texted. I contemplated staying home, waiting for him. I knew going over to Tristan’s would cross a line. But Jay’s words about a break played in my brain, and that line shifted toward my feet.
Chapter 35
Tristan stood on the stoop of a terra-cotta townhome. His eyes followed me to his door, which he held open with his body. As I passed, I smelled an ocean-inspired cologne different from his usual one. A fresh, bright fragrance. My skin grew hot imagining his fingers dancing around his bathroom cabinet, searching for the right scent.
I followed him up a steep staircase that groaned under our feet. A skylight poured moonlight onto the hallway floorboards. His unit was at the top. He had to perform some aggressive, complicated ritual to unlock his door. “Sorry,” he muttered. Flecks of sweat on the back of his T-shirt seemed to have appeared since my arrival. I could tell he was nervous.
We found ourselves in a small open-plan room: living room, toy kitchen, study nook.
He went to the fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Cool. Want something to drink then?” He nodded at a corduroy couch that looked like it had seen a million asses. “Feel free to sit.”
