Chapter 11

I'm thankful that my apartment in New York isn't as plain as my apartment was in Chicago. Here, I've decorated parts of the wall with colorful pictures, and my apartment isn't so clean that it seems sterile. It's obvious that someone lives here, so when Tris comes over to my apartment for the first time, I'm not extremely nervous about what she will think.

I make her dinner, chicken parmesan, and chocolate pudding for desert, which she's extremely complimentary of. I'm proud that she enjoys the meal.

I don't have much of a living room since I don't have many guests, so Tris and I lounge in my bedroom after the meal. She sits in the middle of my bed with her legs crossed under her. I try to mirror her position when she pulls my lips to hers for a steady kiss.

"Thank you for dinner," she says.

I kiss her again. "My pleasure."

She snakes her arms around my neck, and I bring her to sit up on her knees for more of an equal height. "So, if it's okay with you, I told my aunt not to be worried if I don't go back to my place tonight."

I smile innocently. "I don't see how that has anything to do with me."

Her eyes widen before she realizes I'm kidding, and she draws back, removing her arms from me. "I guess you're right. It doesn't have anything to do with you."

I pull her back to me and press my lips to her neck, dropping the pretense altogether. "Of course it's okay with me."

She kisses my lips teasingly. "Yeah?"

I nod. "And besides, when I went to the grocery store for dinner, I happened to pick up some stuff for breakfast, too," I admit.

"A little optimistic of you," she says as I continue to explore the skin she has exposed. It's not enough for my liking.

I feel her laugh against me, not so much nervously as she did our first time, but pleasurably, and the sound only encourages me more.

After a minute, though, she seems intent to hurry things along because she pushes me up and kisses me forcefully, more confidently than she did the first time we had sex. I'm more than willing to return the action with the equal amount of ferocity, firmly placing my hands at her rib cage while she runs her fingertips through the hair at the nape of my neck.

The air in the room feels thick, thankfully not claustrophobic, and everything suddenly feels hot; my skin feels like it's on fire, and I'm sure she's having a similar reaction, so I reach up to remove her shirt and liberate her from the discomfort elicited by clothing. I throw her shirt near the lamp on the bedside table, keeping it somewhat clean for her to wear tomorrow.

I feel her play with the hem of my own Henley, inching it up little by little, but she loses her grip when I place open-mouthed kisses all along the expanse of her newly exposed skin.

I intend to unclasp her bra before I let her take off my shirt, but she's determined for me to shed some clothing, too. We practically start a war with each other, one fighting for the other to surrender control. The funny thing between the two of us is that we never fight to receive pleasure; we have this unspoken battle to determine which one of us will deliver it first, even though we know full well that we will both have a turn. Remembering this, I finally lift my arms above my head to make it easier for her, and she throws it in the same direction I threw hers.

Her hands outline the tattoos on my back, symbols that represent characteristics I strive to exemplify. I told her about them during our first night together – the flames that represent bravery; helping hands to represent selflessness; the all-seeing eye to signify intelligence; scales to symbolize honestly; and the tree which represents kindness. She conveys her fascination with them now as she did before. She's careful at first, lightly tracing the ink with her fingertips while she kisses me firmly. Her fingers grow increasingly demanding as they begin to match the fervency of our kiss, trailing patterns up and down my back in a pattern of her own.

Then I realize that she isn't tracing the tattoos. She's tracing the scars the tattoos are meant to cover. I know she's curious about them. She has to be, and she's been incredibly patient, since I have yet to explain their origin. As much as I hate to put our rendezvous on hold, this is something she has to know.

"Do you want to know about the scars?" I ask against her cheek.

I feel her nod against me.

I sigh, wracking my brain for the right words. I've never really had to explain this before. "They're from my dad. When he was frustrated, or when I did something to set him off, little things of course, he'd hit me with a belt. My father, the perfect citizen, representing Illinois in congress, Marcus Eaton. I can't believe he hasn't run for president yet. It's all he'd talk about when I was growing up," I whisper.

I'm afraid to look into Tris's eyes while I speak, afraid to see any pity. I didn't want to ruin the mood between us, but I wanted her to know.

She cups my face in her hand, forcing me to look at her. I do, and I'm relieved when I don't see an ounce of pity in her expression. She doesn't say anything. She just kisses me passionately and presses her hands even more firmly into my back, brushing over every inch of skin, almost like she's trying to erase the marks that were left there.

And after we're both left sated and sweaty, panting beside each other, she gently resumes tracing patterns along my back. It's a comforting touch. I revel in the tenderness she exercises with her ministrations, and I close my eyes and sigh in contentment before I fall asleep.

"Okay. Top 5 countries you want to go to," she says from her seat on the kitchen counter near the stove where I'm currently making the two of us chocolate chip pancakes.

"I have to narrow it down to five?"

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Now go."

"Okay. Italy, China, Russia, France, Ethiopia. You?"

"Italy, Spain, Venezuela, Japan, Turkey."

"So we only have one country in common?"

"Bound to happen when there are so many to choose from." She takes the bowl beside her to stir the mix a little more. "It's one of my goals in life to visit every single continent at least once."

"Even Antarctica?"

"Especially Antarctica," she says while she helps herself to a spoonful of pancake batter.

I snatch the bowl from her. "That's disgusting, Tris. Raw pancake batter?"

She shrugs. "It's an acquired taste. Don't judge me for that."

"Even if I shared your preference for undercooked breakfast foods, you're still putting your germs all over the mixing spoon."

"You don't seem to mind germs when you're shoving your tongue down my throat," she teases.

I smirk. I set myself up for that one. "There are exceptions to every rule."

"But, seriously, Antarctica's awesome. And it's safe to go there. You could take some great pictures in Antarctica."

"You probably just want to go for the killer whales."

She takes one of the pancakes off of the plate and rips it in half to feed me a piece while I continue cooking. "That might be a part of it."

"Please don't tell me you think killer whales are cute."

"They are a little cute."

"Have you ever seen one up close in person?"

She shakes her head regretfully. "That's another one of my life goals."

"How many life goals do you have?"

"A lot."

"Which one do you think you'll complete first?"

"Going skydiving."

I laugh nervously. "Yeah, that's not something I can do."

"Why not?"

"Fear of heights."

"Oh."

I know I shouldn't feel weak for admitting my fear, but that doesn't stop the little twinge in the back of my head, buried deeply into my brain after years of my father's conditioning to 'make me better'.

"What kind of things are you afraid of?"

She shrugs. "Basic stuff, I guess. Helplessness, dying. Oh, and I'm terrified of drowning."

"That's not really basic. That's expected of every person."

"Which is why it's basic. It isn't unique."

"Whatever you say," I say noncommittally. "And guess what? Pancakes are ready." Her childlike smile is my favorite part of the meal.

September 2013

My mother calls me out of nowhere. She hasn't spoken to me in a little over four years. She called me on my eighteenth birthday to plead for forgiveness, but her voice was lost on me then, just as it is now.

"Tobias, if you could just try to understand," she says.

"There's nothing to understand! I know what happened!"

"You're blinded by what you went through as a child, and I understand that. And I'm deeply sorry for what happened after I left. I honestly had no idea that Marcus would direct his anger towards you."

"What else did you think would happen? You were gone; there was no one else! Did you really think that he would stop altogether?"

"I'm sorry!" she exclaims over the phone, her voice laced with tears. "I know I can't change what he did to you after I left, but I can at least change our relationship now."

"We don't have a relationship," I remind her.

"And doesn't that hurt you? Doesn't it hurt to know that the two of us are as estranged as we are because of your stubbornness?"

"Stop!" I shout. I can feel her voice stoop to one of her condescending tones – the one she uses for manipulation. "Our estrangement is not because of my stubbornness. It's because of your abandonment."

I hang up the phone before she can say anything else, and I turn it off completely before she can call again.

Tris knocks on the door a few minutes later. I have the day off work, so we planned on spending the day together in Central Park. The excitement I had for our date has depleted since my mother's call.

I let Tris in and offer her a drink.

"What's wrong?" she asks carefully, rubbing circles on the back of my hand with her thumb.

"Nothing." I can tell she doesn't believe me.

She pulls me closer; I follow willingly. "You know," she says. "We don't have to go to the park today. We could always stay in, watch a movie or something."

"You really wanted to go to the park," I remind her.

"I checked the forecast earlier. It might rain anyways. Let's stay in." I know she's lying about the forecast, but I'm really not in any kind of mood to go out. I'm thankful for her suggestion.

"Okay."

She takes her shoes off near the front door and makes herself comfortable at the kitchen table – I really need to set up a living room for the two of us to sit in. She smiles at me reassuringly, and I know she wants me to talk about whatever's bothering me, but she can tell I'm not ready yet, so she starts talking about herself.

"Caleb called me yesterday."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. He was telling me all about how his classes are going."

"What career is he working towards?"

"He wants to be a neurosurgeon. That takes about the longest amount of schooling since it's the most delicate part of the body, but he's wanted to be a neurosurgeon since he was eight years old."

"That's becoming a really popular field."

She sits up in her seat a little more and smiles brightly. "He says he'll probably be able to visit at Christmas."

I don't want her to get her hopes up since he couldn't make it last year. Still, I know how excited she is at the opportunity to see her brother again. "I'll have to meet him while he's in town."

"I'd like that."

I sigh. There's no point in prolonging this. Besides, everyone tells me talking is therapeutic; it's time to put that to the test. "My mom called just before you came over."

She's visibly surprised. "Your mom?" Regretfully, she adds, "I didn't know your mom was still alive. You never mention her."

"She left when I was six because my dad was, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"She's called me before. She hasn't in a while, but each time, it's always the same thing. She tells me that she did what she had to do; I don't understand the situation; I need to give her a second chance. She always has a way of making me feel guilty for what happened. I don't know how she does that, but she's really good at that."

"You don't owe her anything," Tris whispers. "And you don't have to explain yourself to anyone."

"But am I being cruel for shutting her out now?"

"No, Tobias," she says adamantly. "You have every right to ignore her for what she did, or take some time before you speak to her again, or try to start a relationship. It's your right to make that decision for yourself."

"But what do you think I should do?"

"I can't answer that for you. What do you think you should do?"

"I think…I think that I don't want to think about this right now."

I'm sitting across from her at the table, but she gets up and sits in my lap instead. I'd smile suggestively if I wasn't so tense right now. She leans back against me and kisses my neck.

"Okay," she whispers, and I'm grateful that she won't push the issue.

She keeps her head nuzzled against my neck, my arm around her, keeping her steady. No matter what she says about her height, I love that she's as small as she is. I love that I can hold her like this. It's almost like she's a barrier, a shield, protecting me from everything else, and I do the same for her.

"I finally bought my dress," she says out of the blue. "For the party."

The New York Times holds a party for the staff every year for the anniversary in September since the first issue was on September 18, 1851. It will be the 162nd anniversary, and I'm excited to take Tris.

"Do you have a picture of it?"

"Yes."

"Can I see it?"

"No," she says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll see it next week."

"Then can you give me a little hint? What color is it?"

"Uh-uh. No. I give you the color; you'll ask for the length and the fabric and the cut, and no. I want you to be surprised. This is my first really fancy date."

Her admission surprises me. "What?"

"Homecoming got in the way of my lessons. I skipped junior ring dance, and I was doing school by mail for senior prom. I've never had a date where you had to dress up like this."

"Okay, I'll stop asking. And given that this is your first fancy date, it's my job to make it worthwhile."

"It's already going to be worthwhile."

"Yeah, but like exceptionally worthwhile."

"Exceptionally worthwhile?" she repeats skeptically.

I nod against her and kiss her forehead. "Careful, Tris. You sound like you doubt me."

"Me? Never."

Thanks for bearing with me during my crazy schedule! I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this chapter.