Page 47 of Prince of Wrath

“We have toast,” I sign a bit too fast, knowing he’s used to Maddie’s instantaneous ASL.

He shrugs. “Yeah, that’ll do.” Tristan is gone into the living room, standing near the bookshelf next to the chimney.

“What is he…” Nate signs, stopping mid-sentence.

“He’s looking at a history book,” I reply silently, enjoying the fact that both of us share the ability to understand each other in this particular way.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters out loud.

“Planning is winning,” I sign, not even knowing where it comes from, though I do remember him telling me something like that from a book before going to bed a few nights ago.

“You know, the book thing, the obsession with what kings did and how wars were won, it started after our dad passed away. Eight years ago,” Nate signs, then circles toward the sink, opening drawers at random while chewing on a piece of toast with no butter or jam. I eye him. “Hey, I’m a simple guy,” he protests. Then he looks past me and shouts, “Napoleon!” The word pierces the air. Tristan turns sharply, two books as thick as doorstops in his hands. “See?” Nate grins. “Always works. What do you have there?”

“War and Peace,” Tristan says casually, coming closer. “And stop fucking shouting Napoleon.” He glances at me. “Last time he did this at our performance meeting.”

“Because you weren’t attentive.” Nate chews on his toast.

“I was.” Tristan’s jaw tightens. “It’s called multitasking. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh, you mean watching Ella on your phone?” Nate nods, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard some people do that. Weird ones, though. Real creepy.” I snap my fingers twice, cutting through the brotherly banter before Nate can keep poking Tristan, who steps in every trap he sets. “Just kidding, you guys,” Nate says, chuckling as he lifts both hands in surrender. “You’re perfect for each other. I’m just giving you shit to lighten the air.” His smile turns kind. Tristan gives him a look sharp enough to cut bone, but I am already distracted by the books in his hands. There are tabs inside them, dozens. Color-coded, neatly placed, peeling from the pages like little flags marking a battlefield. Is this how he survived grief? By turning it into a strategy?

“How many times did you read it?”

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Like hell you don’t. At least four.” Nate smirks. “Between this and chess, my, my, Ella, you’re in for a treat.” I let out a genuine smile, because yes, I’d like all the different flavors of Tristan.

“There she is,” Tristan says, catching me off guard. “Perhaps you could… I mean, it’s heavy and full of deaths, but…still a great story.” He shrugs with a shy spark in his eye.

“I’d love to,” I sign, as our gaze locks, sharing a deep understanding, a recognition only we could affirm. And it’s everything. Everything worth living this life for.

“Well,” Nate clears his throat, breaking our spell, “I’ll see you guys tonight for the big show, just…no one dies, okay?” Nobody answers and we watch him head out of the door, leaving us in a heated silence. Tristan shifts toward me, his thumb and index finger lifting my chin, his touch drawing along my jaw the promise of possession and love. I look at him, thinking that this, between us, is the reason wars are won. When there is something to fight for, something bigger than us. And with it, we deploy the strength of a thousand men and overcome, over and over, the next obstacle.

I love you, I almost say. Instead, I look at him and let the words shine in my eyes. Our love is why they will never stand a chance. We got to live something real, something they could never touch. No matter what happens, we’ve already won.

* * *

“I wish you would come,” I write in my notes app, then show it to Anja, who has been fighting with the zipper in my back for the last two minutes. We are both in the massive dressing room adjacent to Tristan’s bedroom. He is almost back from work, and Anja came over after her shift at the hospital to help me get ready. We spent the first hour doing each other’s hair, laughing, or trying to, in front of a chick flick with bad writing and even worse acting, feeding ourselves chicken wings she brought from a deli on her way here. It feels normal. Almost like I am not walking toward death itself tonight.

She does not know Cole might be there. I didn’t want to burden her with one more thing, not when she’s already been such a good friend to me. She came after a full workday, after juggling her life and her children and everything she carries alone. Soon, I hope to help her too. Cook for her. Help around the house. Take some weight off her shoulders the way she has done for me these past few weeks, when I was about as fun as a ghost, barely alive and barely myself.

“Nonsense,” Anja huffs, still working on the zipper. “It’s not my crowd anyway. And I promised Jessie we’d watch a movie with popcorn tonight, so maybe another night, love.”

“Thank you again for helping me.”

“What are friends for if not getting you in your A-game when needed?” She finally clasps the dress behind my back. “You know he’s going to lose it when he sees you, right? Men are always saying they like women natural, blah, blah, blah, but when we actually dress up, they end up stumbling over their own words.”

“I don’t think he’s the kind of man to express…” I start writing, but she cuts me off.

“And that’s why you’re too good for this world. Trust me, his jaw will be on the floor.”

“What about you?” I type, then hesitate before showing her the screen. “Did you see…Matt?”

“Um.” She blushes. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

“I think you did.” I write on the tablet. A smile tugs at my lips, and she laughs, her metallic bracelets jingling as she gathers a makeup powder. I take a second to reflect on the fact that the sound didn’t trigger me. Metal. Cell. Spiral. Not this time, though. So progress is possible.

“He’s actually…” Anja looks at herself in the mirror, pretending to fix her hair. “Kind of cute.” I snap back to reality.