Chapter 29 - Exposure
Lynn's POV:
I look over my shoulder at Tris hunched over her art pad at the bar. She seems to be off in la la land, her pencil scrawling like a pigeon scraping at the ground. Sketching—Dr. Ramos suggested a dream journal for Tris, but she poo pooed that idea like a child. However, Dr. Ramos being the genius she is, found out Prior is Miss Secret-life-of-an-artist, so the doc suggested she sketch her dreams.
We've been staying late after closing during the week—the bar being totally shut down, so all we have are some light tunes in the background and minimal interruption to do our shit. Neither of us seem to sleep much, so having a reason to stay up late is…refreshing. I dread sleep and based on Prior's REM commentary, she may just feel the same. Not that I really give too much of a shit.
I hear Tris groan as if her notepad will understand her, and erase furiously. Who or what she's sketching this time? I'm sure I'll get my usual answer—"I have no fuckin' clue."
I sigh looking down at the mass amount of pictures I have of Prior—each one unique in its own right based solely on the type of camera I use. I move one picture that has a distinct shadow to it, next to the one that doesn't—
"Why are these all of Tris?" Tori asks over my shoulder as I jump out of my skin.
I turn, not having seen her in weeks, and I just about lose whatever is in my stomach. She's pale and looks like she had died twice in the last day. I've never been one to suggest make-up, or jewelry or anything to spice up your look (Aside from Tris, but only so she doesn't get mistaken for a twelve-year-old tween from the burbs.), but Tori could use some concealer and maybe a necklace or—
"Stop staring, Lynn. I know what I look like." She shrugs moving my Prior pics around. "So, why are these all of Tris?"
"'Cause Lynn's fuckin' weird," Tris mumbles without even giving Tori a second glance.
"Ignore the unimaginative dumbass in the room, please. I wanted to showcase my skills with antique cameras. Sofi suggested I use the same subject each time as to be judged on my skillzzzz…rather than my subject. Isn't she smart?" I ask of the beautiful blond who seems to love me…lots.
"Seems logical."
"But…to my misfortune, Prior photographs shockingly well." I roll my eyes, remembering Sofi and Tris daring me to say something nice about how Tris looked in one of the pictures. The only thing I could come up with was, "You have good bone structure."
"Yeah," Tori remarks holding one up closer. "She has that face. Wow, Lynn. They're all so…different—"
"Can you see the exposure on that one?" I ask, excited that someone's interested. "It's greenish. Just wish I could have nixed the lady in the background. I used my Nikon FM—"
"Tris, why did you agree to this?" Tori interrupts before I can explain anything truly interesting.
"Welp…" She smacks her pencil on the pad and stares at the ceiling, her face still visible to us in the mirror behind the bar. "I can't get the estate sale people out to my parent's house until April, which means, I can't close on the property until May. Therefore, my last-ditch effort before I bust into my savings is to be camera-ready for a shitty ½ off on rent. Thank you, Lynn." She pulls at her hair loosening it up, but not yanking it out like she usually does.
Her parents' digs... I actually feel bad for Tris. Never had I seen her more shaken up than when she answered a call on speaker in Tori's office, not knowing that the call was from her ex-piece-of-dog-vomit's father, Joseph someone-or-other, practically begging her to sell him the property to "keep it in the community." I remember her not even being able to answer him—just hanging up and walking out of the office. It wasn't shocking when she accepted the very next offer she got, even though she's pretty sure they're going to turn it into a Walmart.
"They're all candids?"
"I like to call them candidish. Ya see, she was exceptionally depressed, and I really needed to catch that look—au-naturel style. She was too weak to fight me on it—"
"I'm…right…here…Lynn!"
"I know."
"Tori, I basically just try to look like a bitch as much as possible, but Lynn catches me at shockingly good moments," Prior says, still without turning around.
"Wait, au naturel? As in…naked?" Tori asks, a completely ludicrous question at that, as she takes a closer look at ones that may have been questionable.
"As in…hell no?" I respond taken aback, pushing aside Prior's snickers. "As in…no make-up. Sans face-wear!"
"Tisk, tisk, tisk… Tell the truth, Lynn," Tris sing-songs…badly. "You just didn't want to be tempted."
I put my hand up as if to block out her existence. "Please. Not really into non-gays, lady. But, hey! Sof thinks you're hot. Can you dig it?" I ask waggling my eyebrows. "Brown chicken, brown cow?"
"With Sofi?" she shrugs. "I'd consider."
"She crushes on my lady," I state proudly to Tori who does nothing but quirk a barely-there eyebrow at me.
"That I do," Tris adds with an approving head nod.
"Tris," Tori whispers to herself, running a finger over one of the stills—the one Sofi took with her damned cell phone! And, of course, Tris posed for the picture because Sofi was taking it.
I purse my lips, trying not to be pissy because I do understand. In that picture, Tris looks better than she has in months. She looks the most like Prior in that picture. Ya know, when she's in a good mood.
Tori suddenly clears her throat. "Tris, some of these are…really beautiful—"
"Tris?! Fuck her! Me! Lynn! I took them!" I point to myself emphatically. "The begrudging subject does not get the credit!"
"Jesus, Lynn." Tris puts her pencil down and finally turns around while I move in front of the pics protectively. "No one is taking away your moment. What the hell are you doing with these, anyway? What's with the categorizing?" She walks over, still not looking at Tori.
"I'm categorizing, Captain Obvious." I turn to the side and scootch myself so she won't get closer.
"Don't be a twat. Why are you… Why does that say 'Submissions?!'" She grabs for the folder Ling gave me for my gallery photos.
"Because—Give it to me!—It says 'Submissions!'" I rip the folder out of her hand.
"Lynn," she growls. "Don't be a twit and tell me—"
"I thought I was a twat—"
"You're both!"
"Now that's talent," I joke, trying to change the subject, holding the folder away.
Her shoulders fall and she turns retreating slowly back to her lame-o sketches. I giggle triumphantly and turn to see Tori slip the picture Sofi took into her coat pocket. She makes don't-fuck-with-me-about-this eyes, so all I do is nod—"Ow!" I'm suddenly on my ass, my tailbone on fire from being ripped backward and tossed like a ragdoll. I scramble up as Tris scans over my piles, picking up the folder and running across the room with it. By the time I make it to her, her eyes have gone crazy-wide.
"Oh, hell no! None of these are going to a gallery!"
"Oh, hell, yes. Now go back to your mindlessness!" I point to her proper sketchy place at the bar. But not before I see her eyes flick to my unguarded pictures on the table, and she makes a break for it.
"Mmmmmgggghhhhh!" I hip check her…hard, knocking her over as she tries to grab my pictures. I carefully pick up as many as I can, but—"Stop it!" I screech as she tries to pull them out of my hands. "These aren't…digital!"
"No, YOU fucking stop it!" She moves so she's facing away from me, grabbing at more.
"They're mine!"
"They're of…me!"
"I don't care if they're of Kim Jong Un at a...Pimps n' Hoes party! Mmmmm!... I took them!"
"Well they're...not! They're of…me!"
She backs away with a handful of shots and so do I. But all our struggle has left a good amount strewn across the floor. We both seem to realize it at the same time as we slide to the floor grasping for what we can reach, me being much more careful than her and I'm seriously trying not to cry at the way she's handling them.
"Prior, please?" I find myself almost whimpering…piteously…pitifully…pathetically.
"Were you ever going to tell me about this?" She sits back on her heels. "Be…honest."
"I'm never…not honest."
"But you're a professional at skirting around the truth."
"I am not a professional skirter. I'm just really good at it."
"Screw your semantics and tell me…the whole truth. Please." It's a cross between ordering and begging. But I'm going with begging. Definite beggage.
"Look," I sigh. "I was in Pilsen—"
"Please tell us you were not expecting to be picked up by a starving artist scout," Tori droles from where she was enjoying the show, sitting at the picture table.
"No. I wasn't expecting it. It just happened! I was with Sofi. I was introducing her to legit tacos," I explain, moving past this scenario and picking up my pictures gingerly blowing the dust off them—
"Lynn!"
"What?!"
"Continue!"
I roll my eyes, not understanding why I even need to explain my damned self! "I was showing Sof my newest shots with my Autorange 220, and some chick grabbed one off the table—this one, in fact!" I hold up a pic of Tris in the wine cellar downstairs. Only her mouth is showing at the top—it's basically a torso shot, but her form is in perfect focus. "See this?! Look at the contrast! See how I did that? That's really hard to do with a 1930s camera! She said I was…really good, okay?" I tell her in a tone that feels terrible coming out of my mouth. "Along with a lot of other technical mumbo jumbo that I didn't understand—"
"I don't care! You can't give her pictures…of me!" she yells like a stubborn mule.
"Listen to me, you horse's ass, the ones she saw of you are the ones she liked. I didn't expect a virgin voyage of Mexican cuisine with my girlfriend to turn into…mmmm…mmmm…." I look around the bar, trying to figure out my closest escape route—
"What did it turn into?!"
I clear my throat and sit up straighter upon Prior's interpretation of a cracked-out screech owl. I will not allow the rug to be pulled out from under me. "If she likes them—her name is Ling, by the way—and if her partner does too…they have a gallery—"
"No. No, no, no, no, no, no—"
"Prior! Prior! Look, it's small. It's in Pilsen, Tris! You'll never see it and no one cares who you are!" I grit out. "I don't think they are interested in your face, per se. We honestly didn't talk much about the subject. It was more about my technique and my cameras."
"Why did I ever agree to this?" she moans.
"Hmmm…stop going to the ER and you may just be able to pay off your bills!"
"What happened now?" Tori asks, yawning.
Lord, she looks like she may pass out. I should move closer…just in case she keels over.
"I'm fine, Lynn, quit the not-at-all subtle scootching. Tris? Why the doctor's appointments?"
"It wasn't a big deal—"
"Yes, it was."
Flashback:
I hear some serious moaning from Prior's closet. "Oh, man…," I comment in a groggy voice to Sofi. "Whatever she's dreaming about…it must be somethin' special."
"Sweet dreams are a blessing for her."
"Yeah, I s'pose…" I remark dozing again while Sofi rubs her toes on mine to warm them.
"This apartment is freezing."
"I know," I sigh. "I'm sorry. You know we can stay at your place whenever you want. Just say the word." I roll toward her, moving a pale strand of hair away from her face.
She purses her lips and gets this adorable crinkle between her eyebrows. "Don't you worry about Tris? Her drinking and…I don't know. It's none of my business, but I think she's sleeping so heavily because she's taking prescription—"
"So do I," I interrupt calmly.
"Yes, but not with alcohol…ever," she corrects, knowing my aversion to prescription cocktails. "And she's running herself into the ground. You should be here, and I want to be with you. So…we'll just have to cuddle more." She rolls onto her side and backs toward me fitting our bodies together.
I smile and kiss the back of her neck. "I love you."
"I love you, too—"
Suddenly, excessive coughing and what I can only describe as a horse dying, resounds from the broom closet. Sofi and I both jump out of bed in a panic, arriving at Tris's bedside to see her curled up in a ball. She's in her workout clothes, shoes still on, bag thrown on the floor, as if she'd passed out right after working out. I put my hand on her forehead and it's freezing and just…gross and clammy.
"Tris," I shake her shoulder which must cause her some kind of pain because she shrieks. "Shit, um…"
"Tris, are you hurt?" Sofi asks crouching down next to her head where Prior is definitely awake, but…not with us, if that makes sense.
"…happened again. I can't… I can't do it. Why does…he…?"
"Tris? Who?" I move closer to Sofi and yank at Tris's eyelid.
"Madelynn!"
"What? I'm trying to wake her!"
"Did he…? It hurts. It hurts…again," she groans grabbing her side. "It's all…back—"
"Shhh, Tris. No, he's gone, he's gone," I say in her ear quite clearly.
"Who?" Sofi whispers.
"Okay, I'm going to grab her hands, you're going to lift the right side of her shirt," I order, quickly gripping Tris's wrists where she is protectively guarding herself, and pulling them up.
Tris shakes her head and curls up more trying to pull her arms back in. "Sofi! Now! Just do it!"
"I, okay, okay!"
I glance down to where Sofi has softly moved Prior's shirt—all I see is a large, swollen, tumor-like red and purple swell. "Stay with her. I'll call Rodrigo."
"She woke up, couldn't move, could barely breath, hyperventilating and whatever else was going through her mind. Rodrigo didn't even know what to do!"
"Who the hell is Rodrigo?" Tori asks.
"The neighborhood medic. He's the custodian at the clinic, so he picks up on a lot. But seeing as Tris is snobalicious, she only wanted to see some nurse Evie—"
"Evey," Tris corrects, seeming to stare off at nothing.
"So, we got to drive all the way to Advocate! And let me tell you, getting her into Santi's low-rider was no piece of cake. Strapping her on top of the car would have been easier," I say sarcastically, but Tori doesn't seem to think it's very funny. "So turns out Miss Tris over-exerted herself with…hmmmm…obsessive working out, dance classes, Krav Ma-fuckin-ga—seriously, who the hell even does that?!—and basically just being non-stop and not giving a shit about her health. And then, to top it off, she tore the musculature, right here in the old rib-eye that hadn't healed properly yet."
"Thank you for that very curt, emotionless, shitty-as-shitty-can-be description, Lynn." Tris stares at me, knowing I just outed her to get back at her.
The truth is, she scared the shit out of me that morning and I know there was more going on there than the physical pain. I avert my eyes, unable to apologize. "Look, I have an idea. What if I brought along a few of your pieces—"
"No."
"Why? You have an entire storage unit…full of them! They may LOVE them—"
"No, they won't. Trust me—"
"Please don't do this to me!" I plead.
What I want to say is—"I'm fucking sick of working at this bar! This is my chance to…NOT…have to work in a bar for my whole life!" But, with Tori present, it may not be the best thing. "I, I, I'm sick of you rejecting…everything!" I state dramatically, knowing guilt will be the best way to get to Tris.
"God, Lynn." She hangs her head in annoyance. "What exactly have I rejected?"
"My sister." I shrug like a snot, knowing that's a particularly sore subject for her.
"Can you pleeeeeaaase stop shoving that in my face! You know how much I hate…that!"
"Just sayin', she's down two attendees because of yoooouuuuu—"
"I tried to make that right with her! I… I'll take responsibility for me, but he fucking up and left! Didn't even give a shit enough about…" She pauses and softens her tone. "…anyone. Couldn't even…say good-bye."
A quick twinge of guilt starts to take over upon hearing her say those words, especially because I'm, like, 101% sure they're untrue. I see the pain on her face. The good news is that it has faded a bit—it doesn't come out as often. But I can still tell that it hurts.
"Ahem, well, what about…Christmas with my family? I felt quite rejected!"
"Are you serious? After the array of shit you pulled at Thanksgiving? No…fucking…way. I am done with the Meyer-Pedrad mix."
Flashback
"Hey." Tris pulls on my arm, or more like jiggles it, before we go into my parent's house. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Egh." I shake off her hand. "I wasn't going to let you stay home by yourself. Plus, then I'd feel guilty about it for days, and I don't have time for guilt." I think of the many, many photos I still need to develop. I'm really nervous that my 'black room,' a.k.a a storage closet at Hangars, is good enough.
"Well, Thanksgiving was, like, THE big holiday with my parents. Ya know, being grateful for everything and all. And Caleb still won't see me, so—"
"Can we please go in?" I ask, really wanting to get out of the freezing weather and get this holiday over with…also to stop her from babbling.
She nods and I brace myself for what's about to happen. I open the door and take a quick glance to the right. Yep, there they are. I hear nothing behind me, no movement, nothing. And the same goes for the small crowd gathered in the stupid formal sitting room that my mother reserves only for holidays and entertaining—Zeke, Uriah, Shauna…I look around for Marlene—no sign of her. Damn! She was going to be a great buffer. Tris continues past me toward what she's assuming is the kitchen, purposefully knocking me in the shoulder, causing me to grunt…loudly.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you guys too," I say in my snarkiest tone as I follow Tris, not even waiting for a response. I scoot around the corner to follow her and feel a casserole dish shoved at me.
"You…are the worst!" she growls as I just about drop the Pyrex on the floor. "So much for Shauna going to the Pedrad's! And Zeke?! Really? What am I supposed to say to—"
"They did go to the Pedrad's…for brunch." I shrug. "I never said they WEREN'T coming here—"
"Give me that!" She rips the casserole out of my hands. "Now introduce me to your FUCKING FAMILY—"
"Tris, hey," Uriah whispers giving her a hug from behind, which she returns with an awkward backward head knock while still glaring at me. "Ow. Happy Turkey Day."
"Yep."
"I didn't know you were coming."
"Well, Lynn likes to lie by omission—"
"What, just because Uriah never asked me if you were coming? That makes me a liar? Uri…" I direct my attention to him. "…next time I'll call first."
"Is Marlene here?" Tris asks hopefully as she peeks around the corner.
"She's having dinner at her aunt's. But she would have definitely been here if she knew she had back-up. Mom's on a roll these days," he chuckles.
"Hana's here?" Tris breathes out, smiling a little.
I give her the awkward side-eye. Apparently, she's never met Hana. Her boys worship her as if she's the sun goddess, but truth-be-told, she's a huge crabby bitch. We have absolutely nothing in common.
"Oooooohhhhh, yeah." He slings his arm over her shoulder. "Be happy you're not a girlfriend anymore! Makin' lemons, right?"
"Lemonade," Tris and I both correct as Uriah tries reflect, having no idea where he went wrong.
"Enter, Prior," I gesture, prodding her around the corner toward my Mom's way-too-big kitchen.
The granite countertops, chocolate brown cabinets, and a back splash of the perfect complementary colors of beige and timber being every suburban mother's dream. The grout color is a perfect shade of taupe—however, that's not the real color. You see, she wasn't happy with the shade the contractor used, so she painted over the grout to make it just a tad lighter as to not contrast too much with the tile. So now all people see is a beautifully put together tile back splash, one unit of perfection. Unless you look really close…
"Hey, everyone, this is Tris Prior," I announce as my mom turns around, wiping her hands on her apron. "Tris, this is my Uncle Leonard and Aunt Renske, my Aunt Jasmine, and my cousin, Jenniversary," I announce over my shoulder as I make a bee-line for the booze.
"Hi," Tris waves meekly as everyone erupts in a predictable chorus of 'Hey's,' 'Nice to meet you's,' 'Happy Thanksgivings,' and a "Petty met your tanoggin" or however you say 'Nice to meet you' in Dutch.
"She's already breakin' out the Dutch?" I ask Jen quietly because I need to know what I'm in for.
"Proost," she says flatly, quirking an annoyed eyebrow at me.
Aunt Renske tends to get schnackered at holidays. Her no-nonsense attitude—a mix of informality combined with adherence to basic behavior goes right out the window and she turns full-fledge American sassy-pants with a side of cruditude and sexual exploitation.
"Oh, well… Um, hello," my mom begins all frazzled and weird as everyone seems to get back to their conversations. "I wasn't expecting…a guest. Introduce us to your…friend," she says nervously rushing over to Tris.
"Mom, I just did," I retort, grabbing two wine glasses and filling each generously with whatever is red and in front of me.
"Well, I was…just…surprised…and I missed it."
"Tris Prior, this is my mom, Cheryl," I introduce, noticing my mom's perfectly rouged face is turning three shades of red.
"It's nice to meet you, um, Tris. We've heard…a lot…about you—"
"Um…no ya haven't," I interrupt taking a huge gulp of Tris's wine as she hands my mom her cornish casseroley stuff.
"Nice to meet you too. Did Lynn not tell you…I was coming?"
"No, no…I would have…remembered that," Mom answers a little rudely, as Tris turns and flicks me in the forehead, mouthing 'Fuck you!'
"Ow! Mom likes to hide my extended family from the public. I didn't think she'd let you…come," I whisper roughly in her ear, shoving the wine in her hand.
"Thank you for the…" Mom pauses as she peeks under the aluminum foil with a nasty look on her face. "I'm sorry, what exactly is this?"
I rush back over to Jen as she takes a large under-aged drink of Aunt Renske's cocktail that she lay neglected for thirty seconds on the counter. "What's my Mom's problem?" I whisper.
"I think she's in shock that you brought your 'special friend' to Thanksgiving," she remarks using air quotes as I about barf my wine up.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I not have brought…? Well, it's my mom's corn soufflé recipe. She…um…loved Thanksgiving so—"
"Tris isn't my girlfriend, Cheryl!" I yell.
"And let the games begin!" Uncle Leonard chimes in.
"Holy shit, no!" Tris adds as the entire room stifles a laugh. "I mean, Holy…um…heck—"
"Pretty sure you meant 'Holy Shit,'" Aunt Jasmine adds holding up her wine glass in cheers. Aunt Jazzy is the ultimate feminist—swears like a truck driver, dances likes a stripper and apologizes to no one. She wears the bras that she has burned just to prove that she did it.
"My girlfriend, Sooooofiiiiii…is at her aunt's house, not celebrating 'zee hideous American holiday zat is Thanksgiving,'" I imitate, channeling Gertie even though Tris is the only one who understands. She flicks me off, instead of laughing.
"Why? What the hell's wrong with Thanksgiving?" Uncle Leonard asks.
"Nothing. She's just French and her Aunt would threaten to stuff her eyeballs with escargot if she tried to celebrate it."
"Ooooorrrr…could it be, Len, that we're celebrating the pre-cursor to the genocide of the Native American population, you asshat?"
"Mom, get off your high horse! You're Canadian. You're, literally, VOLUNTEERING to celebrate Thanksgiving," Jen fires off totally calling her mom out.
"Jenniversary Gloria Steinam Meyer!" Aunt Jazzy roars…yep, like a lion…to Jen. "I have marched on behalf of the Native Americans more times than you've smoked a joint, young lady! Now, I brought you into this world—I can—"
"Yeah, yeah…please take me out of it," Jen droles. "Or, at least, let me smoke more of your weed—"
"Wait…I'm sorry, what was your name?" Tris asks Jen as I stifle a laugh. I can't wait for this one…
"Jenniversary," Zeke sighs shaking his head, clapping Tris on the shoulder as she jumps about ten feet in the air. "And the best part is, she's white." He laughs jokingly raising his beer to Aunt Jazz as she returns the gesture.
"Ezequiel," Mom says softly covering her heart dramatically. "We're colorblind in this family—"
A throat-clearing noise resonates from next to the fridge. My dad. "Smells wonderful, Cheryl," he interrupts before she can continue with her token suburban-white-woman-trying-to-posture-as-being-non-racist-by-denouncing-color speech, which in and of itself is fucking racist.
I instantly stand up straighter, ignoring the prying side-look judgey eyes of Tris. I love my dad. He's dressed like a…well, exactly what he is—a college English professor—slacks, collared shirt and cardigan, geeky glasses that he pulls off as handsome rather than hipster and greying hair that stands in stark contrast to the dark hues of his natural color. He immediately spots me and smiles kindly as I wave back. I won't lie—I'm his favorite.
"Thank you, honey," Mom responds patting his hand while he rubs her shoulders.
"Now, in vague terms, I'm no anthropologist and there is some debate here, but from what I can see, there are three races in this room—white, black, and Texas."
"Damn straight," Uncle Len, who's technically my Mom's cousin, downs his glass of Firestone and Robertson (He brings his own bottle, but never shares.), thrusting it blindly to a begrudging Jen to fill up while everyone else laughs at my dad's dryer than dry humor.
"In addition to that, we have several nationalities. But we'll stick with American, Canadian, and Dutch, although we could go deeper if we wanted— Zeke, Uriah—"
"WHAT?!" Uriah yells in response from the living room, where he's being an asshole and watching football.
"Your father was Haitian, correct?" Dad continues addressing Zeke.
"100%." The deep commanding voice of Hana comes from the back corner as Tris whips her head around, smacking me in the face with her hair.
"My nationality…got me into this family. Right, Len?" Aunt Renske asks, caressing his face.
"The second I saw your face on that screen, I knew I wanted to get in your Nether Lands," Uncle Len remarks taking a handful of her ass as she squeals.
"Oooh…my…Gooooddd…" Tris mumbles.
"It's even worse than you think." Zeke leans in to Tris. " ."
I get hit by Tris's hair again, her wide eyes begging me for confirmation. "It is what you think it is," I mutter, watching Aunt Renske eye fuck my redneck uncle.
"Who knew you could get both love-at-first-sight and a 20-year marriage in the mail?" Shauna comments coming up behind Zeke and smiling at Tris.
"….. ….. ….. two distinct types of…ahem…sexual orientation," Dad continues, trying to recapture my attention.
I clear my throat and raise my glass toward Tris. "Three. Prior's into Sofi," I remark, trying to include Tris in the weirdness of my family, and embarrass my mom at the same time. And by the way Mom's eyes widen slightly, it worked.
"Good for you, sweetheart," Aunt Jasmine adds, cheering Tris on before Prior can even denounce my comment.
"Verdict is still out on Uri," Zeke adds.
"Stop talking about me when I'm out here!…I can't hear…SHIT—"
"Uriah Amadeus Pedrad, watch your filthy mouth!" Hana orders, still from where she's sitting in the corner.
"His middle name is Amadeus?" Tris asks Zeke, trying not to laugh.
"Yeah, uh…pretty bad, huh?"
"Fucking terrible," I add as Shauna laughs, burying her face in Zeke's back. "What's so funny?"
"Well, I'm pan sexual!" Jen announces, like the high school rebel she thinks she is, while making eye contact with me. "Don't throw your daggers at me, Madelynn. Just because I one-upped you," she jokes, even though, it's not funny…at all.
"Oh, honey… I'm so proud of you. That was…very, very, brave of you to say…" Aunt Jazz wraps her arms around her daughter in a pacifying embrace, much to the horror of Susie Homemaker who probably doesn't even know what pan sexual—
"What the…?! What in Sam Hell is a damned pan sexual?!"
"All I know izat I…wanna get in…to your pannnnnnts…sexually," Aunt Renske slurs, which is hilarious considering her Dutch accent that gets stronger the more she drinks.
"I love this family," Zeke chides, putting his arms around me and Shauna, ignoring the chastising looks of my mother.
"Crazy ass white folk," Hana mumbles behind me, unapologetically.
"My point exactly," Dad continues. "Thank you for bringing this full circle, Hana. We are not, by any means, a color-blind family. We are all very aware of the beauty of our differing colors. Can we all agree?"
The follow up "Here, here!" "Proost!" "Halle-fuckin-lejah!" and "Lord, help us," ring true…the look on Mom's face in response to my Dad putting her in her place, thrills me.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Madelynn," Dad mouths to me.
"Thanks, Dad," I return.
"I feel bad for your mom," Tris says in my ear.
"What?"
"She's just…ignorant. At least, she was trying. I come from a town where people pat themselves on the back for being ignoramuses—"
"Don't talk to me about this," I snap, putting my hand in her face, which she smacks away.
"Yep. Keep that shit in, Lynn. Well done," the hoe bag mutters loud enough for me to hear.
Does she even remember, for one second, the situation my mother put me in? The one that still grates on me today? I can still hear the words. 'Madelynn, you don't want to disappoint your father, do you?' loud and clear every time I make eye contact with my mom! The unexplainable twinge deep in my belly? That feeling of loss over something I never had to begin with?!
"I'm sorry, can I just ask one more question?" Prior announces, subsequently preventing me from back-handing her. "That doesn't answer the Jenniversary thing."
"Well," Jen covers her mom's mouth before Aunt Jazz can tell the family Jen's very detailed conception story again. "When your mom is GAF, she names you after the day you were conceived, which happened to be my parents' anniversary."
"What's GAF?" Tris whispers out the side of her mouth.
"Granola as fuck," I reply, using my best angsty high school teen voice.
Shauna buries her face in Zeke's back again, this time unsuccessfully hiding her laughter while he stands stoic shaking his head.
"Seriously, what is so God-damned funny, you two?!"
"What about the Jen part?" Tris asks, for some reason enthralled with my cousin's ridiculous name.
For once in her life, Aunt Jasmine doesn't have anything to say, seeing as Prior has stumped her…and me…and the whole room. "I just liked it." She shrugs as everyone laughs at…well, I'm not sure who's expense.
"My parents are weird," Jen remarks walking toward us as the crowd starts to disperse.
"A little different," Tris agrees. "But your mom seems nice. Is your dad here?"
"My dad's dead," Jen says flatly with legit anger as we all freeze.
"Oh," Tris breathes out, resting her hand on her heart. "I'm sorry—"
"Just kidding. He's in the other room," Jen responds as she walks around the corner to join my Uncle Andy.
I've never seen Prior frozen on the spot, hands mid-air. They're usually flopping around and gesturing as if they belong to an Italian grandma. And, holy shit was that freakin' funny! I double over in painful laughter, as Tris smacks me on the back.
"That…was hilarious. Why did you not use the 'my-dad's-for-real-dead' card?!" I ask, in total disappointment.
She's still staring after Jen in shock. "I don't know… I'm losing my touch—"
"Well, that was a little rude, don't you think? I'll make sure Jenniversary apologizes—"
"No need, Mom. It was fuckin' funny," I respond, smiling as she purses her lips at my curse word.
"Well, Tris…" Mom rests her hand on Tris's shoulder. "I apologize for my family." Based on her pitiful smile and tilt of the head, 'family' is code for 'Lynn.'
"Please, don't," Tris assures, sincerely. "It's a welcome change, trust me. So, can I help with anyth—"
"Tris?" Zeke pulls on Tris's arm, yanking her into a bear hug before she can even be surprised.
"Such a teddy bear…" Mom tisks, patting Zeke on the back as she makes her way over to Hana with the bottle of riesling.
"Zeke, what are you doing?" Tris asks, her face muffled in Zeke's oddly-long-lasting hug.
"I miss you, SC!" He holds her back at arms-length to check her out as I try to figure out what the hell 'SC' means. "You look…different. Good different!" he approves. "Happy Thanksgiving."
"She's wearing make-up. This is not her morning look," I comment, not wanting anyone to be deceived.
"Thank you, Lynn," she answers dryly as Zeke pulls her to the side.
Turning away, I take an unnecessarily large drink of my wine and lean back, trying to listen.
"Um…you haven't talked to Four, have you?"
I can hear the nerves trying to jump ship from Zeke's vocal chords, and I feel momentarily bad for him.
"No," Tris answers with shocking calmness.
"Didn't think so. Just drawin' at straws, I guess."
"Is he that hard to contact?" she asks with a hint of annoyance, probably sensing that the only reason Zeke is being nice to her is because he wants information.
"It's not that I can't get a hold of him. It's that he doesn't want…to…see me, or hear from me…" he trails off as I nod my head to a sullen-looking Jen to bring me the bottle of red. "And trust me, he doesn't. And I don't blame him…at all."
A lull in the conversation, gives Jen the perfect moment to fill up my glass to the rim and chug the rest on her own. "Stand here and say stupid shit that I don't care about," I whisper. "But not too loud."
"What kind of stupid shit?"
"High school shit—'Everything sucks. Your private Snappy chatty stuff is depressing. No one ever swipes right on Tinder.' Ya know, the usual—"
"What happened?" Tris mumbles, in her I-want-to-know-but-don't-tell-me voice.
"I'm fifteen. I haven't even had sex, yet. Isn't Tinder—"
"Shh, quieter," I whisper poking Jen in the arm.
"Well," Zeke replies in a lower decibel. "Some of it had to do with you, so…"
"What…?" I say to myself.
"What, what?"
"Shut-up, Jen."
"He was feeling all sorry for himself, Tris. And…he, uh, or me, it was me…'cause I found it, I found the food. The freezer food in the freezer…" He leads Tris even further away, apparently sensing my eavesdropping.
"Damn it, Jenniversary. Why did you stop talking? Now they think I was listening to their conversation."
"You were, stupid."
I see Tris flailing her arms again, exasperated. So, I casually walk out to the formal bullshit area, stopping just after I turn the corner and flattening myself against the wall.
"What would he have to feel guilty about?" Tris asks the very valid question of why food in the freezer would make anyone feel bad.
"Because you did all that for him? Because he found out how much you really loved him? I don't know…" He shrugs as Tris's shoulders tense up and she starts to look all around her, wringing her hands.
"Jen," I grab my cousin blindly by the collar, seeing as she's lazing on the wall next to me. "Bring Tris that glass of wine on the counter."
"Why—"
"Just do it!"
"I was just…sick of him being so mopey and morselful all the time—"
"Here." Jen shoves the wine at Tris and I'm not sure I've ever seen a more grateful look on Prior's face.
"What the hell does he mean 'morselful'?" Jen asks, returning to her post at my side, the bottle of wine in tow.
"'Remorseful,' now shhh."
"… … whole day," Zeke groans. "And, geez, I was just trying to take the focus off…my…shit. So, I pushed him. Ya know, with my words."
I inch my body closer, my attention being captured even more.
"Is everything okay?" Tris asks, switching roles from agonizing participant to worried friend. And I really appreciate it—only because Zeke is my future brother-in-law and all.
"Yeah, I think it will be, just…Shauna's in…uncharted territory and I don't know how to…help her—"
"Something's up with Shauna?" Tris interjects.
Zeke hesitates, and searches the room for Shauna. I look away mouthing nonsensical words to Jen by the time he makes his way to me.
"What…are you doing?" Jen asks, inches away from my face. She's wearing blue mascara. Weird.
"Be quiet," I mutter as I zone in on Shauna, sitting in the corner.
Uncharted territory? Hmmm… She barely came into the kitchen and she's usually a better helper to Mom. Hell, she didn't even say 'Happy Thanksgiving' to me! Or Tris! Ah, well. Whatever's going on, I guess it's between her and Zeke. Uncharted territory—could she be…pregnant? My cheeks start to burn at the thought, and the empty tug comes back. Right then I realize how much I truly suck—I wouldn't be happy for her, I'd resent her.
"I fucked up, Tris," Zeke whines, bringing my attention back to them. "I told him that his mom—"
"Are you going to introduce me, Ezequiel?" asks the melodically deep voice of Hana. It could be quite soothing, were it not riddled with vitriol toward her intended target.
"Sorry, Mom," Zeke apologizes moving aside for Hana's petite form to join the suare. "Tris, this is my mom, Hana."
Tris puts her hand out not-so-confidently-anymore toward Hana. "It's nice to meet you, Han—"
"You can call me 'Mrs. Pedrad,'" Hana responds crossing her arms, unwilling to accept Tris's handshake.
I almost think Tris is going to do the whole bring-your-hand-full-circle-smoothing-hair-down move—trying to make shit look natural. But, she doesn't.
"What?!" Zeke looks at his mom like she's crazy. "You've never made anyone call you 'Mrs. Pedrad,'" he says using air quotes and laughing as if Hana is joking.
"I…know," she agrees still staring Tris down.
I crane my neck to see Tris with a wide-eyed expression, frozen in place. A mix of confusion and bleakness on her face. Yeesh. She looks like she's about to kowtow to Hana. Oh, please don't, Prior.
"Now Tris, can you give me an acceptable reason why Miss Shauna-Thinks-She-Runs-the-Show ejects my third son from my first born's wedding?"
"Mom, I told you," Zeke begins placing a pacifying ridiculous hand on Hana's shoulder. But her are-you-seriously-touching-me-right-now look makes him pull his hand away as if he had burned it. "Ahem…that, uh, Four crossed a line and—"
"I'm talking to…her."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now…Tris," Hana starts slowly, her face full of mock patience, while Tris looks shockingly numb or…blank. "The specifics are unknown to me, seeing as my family doesn't seem to have enough respect to give me anything more than ignorance—"
"Ma, that's' not true—"
"Back away from your mother now," Hana whispers, holding a hand up inches away from Zeke's face, who had gone in for a hug. She somehow still keeps her stare trained on Tris, who is shockingly returning the blaze now. "But I have a damned good feeling you just may know why and that you just may be the cause of it."
"I was the cause of it," Tris retorts not missing a beat. " I shared personal information about an argument that was between Tobias and me. It caused a rift and I'm sorry."
Hana furrows her eyebrows, obviously not expecting Prior to just concede the point. She clears her throat, collecting herself. "Last I remember, he prefers to be called 'Four.'"
Tris's non-response is actually a little surprising—a normal chick would say something cheesy like, "Well, I meant more to him than anyone else!" or "That's what happens when you truly loved someone. You open up your soul…and, tell them your name!" But, Prior just stands there and lets Hana do the math. Wow, not responding to a statement or question because there's no need? That's right out of Four's playbook.
"What…was said?" Hana inquires, moving past Tris's silence.
"If I tell you, I'd be making the same mistake twice."
"Ooooooo…" I say under my breath. "Well done, Prior."
"Hmm. Then you tell me why he up and moved. With no reason, no phone call… That boy hasn't missed a Thanksgiving in six years because he never had a decent one growing up! And he would never…unless hell froze over…miss my sweet potato pie—"
"Ma, stop!" Zeke stands in front of his irrate mother. "That was not Tris's fault. It was mine—"
"I'm talking…to her!"
"Mrs. Pedrad!" Tris shrieks with shaking fists.
"Is she gonna punch her?" Jen whispers all up in my personal space.
"Stop listening! This is none of your business—"
"'Cause you know Hana would punch her back. This could be good."
I nod my head in agreement, Jen and I taking a simultaneous drink of wine.
"Jenniversary! Put that damned wine back! Can't you be a normal kid and, at least, try to sneak it?"
"Sure!" she yells back to Aunt Jasmine. "When you turn into a normal mom and, at least, DON'T steal my pot!"
I grab the bottle of wine and elbow Jenniversary, pushing her toward her mom, where the ethical conversation of the legality of marijuana is about to ensue. Tris's glare making it known that I've been exposed.
"Look," she returns her attention to Zeke. "Tobias didn't tell…anyone…his reasons for permanently moving. He gave…no one…that courtesy. But, I can guarantee you that it's not Zeke's fault. No matter what he tries to tell you." She pulls Zeke's arm off Hana, looking him straight on. "It's not."
"Well, this corn soufflé smells…lovely!" Mom sweeps in grandly, making everyone in the very awkward circle jump. "Let's all sit, shall we? I'm just so glad to have a new guest today!"
"Always the pacifying mother," I say snidely to myself while walking over to my mom. "Never an ounce of drama, right Mom?" I ask smiling in my warmest most sarcastic way, grabbing the bottle of riesling to fill her glass. The quick flash of something behind her hazel eyes makes me want to run from the room—regret. But, I keep my steely look until her glass is full, then I take a drink right out of the bottle for good measure.
"Madelynn, can—"
"It's Lynn," I correct.
"Honey—"
"Well, as it turns out…I'm a dutch," Aunt Renske slurs, tripping her way into the kitchen with uncle Leonard at her heels. "Jazz jus'…told me. Americans have defiled my…heritage…" she trails off doubling-over from laughter.
"Yeah, but, I'd smoke you over any stanky weed any day of the week!" Uncle Leonard adds humping her from behind like a bronco.
I turn to tell Prior to get to the end of the line before Aunt Renske starts flashing people, but she's gone. I walk to the bullshit room to see her yank Zeke into the guest bedroom and shut the door. And because I'm a total busy body and need to know what's going on at all times, I scramble up the stairs, lying flat on my stomach at the first landing. I turn the non-functional heat exchange grate that had been rendered useless after the front addition was put on the house. It's now nothing but an eavesdropping portal—a straight shot of whatever happenings are going on the guest bedroom…much to the delight of my and Shauna's childhood. Shauna and I had no questions for my parents when they gave us the sex talk.
"Zeke, just stop!" she interrupts whatever he's going on about. "Okay, this is the last thing I'm going to say about him, so savor this moment because I'm fucking done after this."
He crosses him arms and kicks at nothing on the floor.
"Tobias leaving had…nothing…to do with anything you did. I can promise you that."
"Tris, you didn't hear what I said to him—"
"Shut up and listen to me." She mirrors his position in seeming preparation for...something. "Remember when you came into the bar to talk to me about him?"
"Yes," he sighs, switching from looking at his toes to looking at her. "And I need to tell you something about—"
"Stop talking! Jesus! You looked at me like I was nuts because I had the audacity to liken him to his father, remember?"
"Lychans?" Zeke asks for clarification.
"What?" she whispers obviously at a loss. And so am I.
"Like…Undwerworld," he answers with his hands out in a how-the-fuck-don't-you-know-this manner.
"No, Zeke. Not like…Underworld," Tris answers slowly. "'Liken'…as in to say one thing is 'like' another."
"Holy hell, Zeke," I mumble. Sometimes I wonder how the Pedrad brothers function in society. They aren't stupid, by any means. Maybe it's just a lack of paying attention to anything that doesn't hold their interest. Eh, maybe I'm giving them too much credit.
"Do you…remember…what I said...about Tobias and Marcus?" Tris continues, talking to Zeke as if he doesn't speak English.
"Yeah."
"That he's a liar, he's calculating, he's two-faced and he's cunning?"
"I've met Marcus, Tris. I know him better than you," he replies in a sarcastic voice.
"I'm not talking about Marcus," she answers with sass.
"Ooooohhhh…shit," I squeak as a look of near rage and defense cross Zeke's face. Is he going to throw her across the room?
"He's NOT...like his father—"
"Yes, he is!" she yells right back in his face, matching his growling. "And why do people keep telling him otherwise?! He's not a damned child who needs soothing. He can handle the truth."
"What's going on?" I jump, looking the left to see Jen lying next to me with a glass of Len's whiskey.
"How long have you been here?"
"Lychans," she informs.
"Go do high school things—pop Ocycodone and make a Musicly video," I whisper watching Zeke pace to regain his composure.
"Oxy's out. It's heroin now."
"Are you…? Is that a fucking joke, Jenniversary?"
"It's not a joke, but relax I don't like to smoke anything. Burns my throat," she shrugs taking a drink of Len's drink.
"Your worried about burning your throat, yet, you drink Texas whiskey? And since when did heroin become smokeable? Gimme that." I pull her drink away from her. "Shape up or ship out. You're fifteen. Now go be depressed and find solace on Tumblr!"
"You're no fun," she huffs, hopping to her feet.
"And I'm telling your mother about this heroin business," I whisper after her. "Kids these days…SMH… Glad I missed the heroin train."
"You can be those things and not be a horrible human," Tris starts again, trying to calm Zeke down. "Tobias lies to protect people—to keep them from knowing a truth that he interprets as hurtful—that makes him a LIAR. He's deliberate in his decisions and usually makes them to further his agenda which is rarely selfish—that makes him CALCULATING. He acts one way, but thinks another, particularly when he's ashamed of something—that makes him TWO-FACED. But there are certain people on a very short list who he would never lie to you. You're on that list. He's holding something back because he doesn't want to lie to you, Uriah, your mom, Shauna—everyone else he loves. He's…CUNNING…like that."
"Wow, Prior," I mumble. Tris wears many hats. Perceptive Prior has reared its head.
"Do you think you're on that list?" Zeke asks sincerely.
"I know I'm not on that list," she answers with a shrug, wandering to the window most likely trying to hold back tears.
I bite my lips to fight back the guilt—the knowledge that Four cares a whole hell of a lot. The knowledge that something's up with him. The knowledge that Tris still cries in her sleep and I'm a terrible friend for not telling her about Gertie's—
"So you think he's holding something back?" Zeke asks warily, as if he's testing her knowledge.
She sighs, shaking her head and laughing lightly. "I know you're testing me. 'How much does Tris know?' Am I right?"
He shrugs his shoulders as if he'd been caught and doesn't want to admit it but needs to acknowledge it.
"Look, don't hide shit from me. I'm a grown woman, fully capable of dealing with…" She rolls her eyes. "… many things. Short version?"
"Each and every time."
"Tobias had tracked me down and wanted to tell me something, but he didn't know how to do it, thus he made a subsequent visit to the bathroom to find his English skills. I saw a text on his phone while he was dealing with his linguistic challenges—some chick named Clare saying she just left her husband and she's ready for round 2."
"Oooooooohhhh," he moans running his hand down his face. "If I ever saw a text like that on Shauna's phone, I would lose my mind. But, may I just say that your 'short versions' are improving."
"Well, at the time it gave me nothing but resolve—I was angry and I kind of fed off that anger. But, then Shauna told me about the girl from the gym, and I put two and two together. That's when it became real."
"Ya know, a part of me didn't really believe he…did that. I mean, I know that was our speculation, but…you just sealed the deal, Tris."
"There is something I'd like to ask you, though. I don't know if it'll clear anything up for me or not, or…maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment, but…"
"What's up?"
"How long was it going on for? Tobias and, um…Clare."
"Well, I didn't know anything was going on even when they started training back in June. I mean, he didn't seem…like he was interested. At all. And, well, not to sound like a dick, but she's…older. Don't get me wrong, she's pretty and a decent bod…ya know, considering, but—"
"I don't need a description."
"Yeah, sorry…'bout that. So, it wasn't until the last few weeks before he left that…ya know, I…noticed…stuff. It still doesn't make sense though." He shakes his head, running his thumb over his jawline—Shauna says that's what he does when he thinks.
"Makes perfect sense to me."
"Tris," Zeke sighs. "When you died…he watched and…I can't even explain his face—"
"Zeke, stop. I know he loved me," she says calmly, with resignation. "I can accept that…now. I think a part of me hoped that this Clare chick—"
"Lady."
"Whatever. I hoped she was just a rebound, and that he used it as an excuse—an excuse to get over me, ya know? Don't worry, I talked myself off that pedestal real fast," she chuckles in self-deprecation as I take a huge gulp of Len's whiskey, hoping the burn in my throat will trump the burning guilt. "Anyway…" She wipes under her eyes and stands up straighter. "He pushes away those he's closest to when he's ashamed. He puts on a good show, but he buries himself in guilt. He's ashamed."
"If you're right, what do you think he might be ashamed of?"
"That's he's taking part in a situation that he had shunned."
"Huh?"
Tris wipes away the tears like they're causing her third-degree burns. "Tobias was training a married women in self-defense for free. So, considering his sensitivities toward women in abusive relationships, my power of deductive reasoning yells 'spousal abuse.'
"Huh, I never really got a good look at her. And he was…um, what's the word?… Discreet."
"I'm sure he was. Anyway, he once told me once that he thinks Carlos took advantage of Evelyn—he knew she was vulnerable and…willing. He felt that if Carlos were more of a man, he would have made sure Evelyn divorced Marcus first. My how the tables have turned."
I exhale a frustrated breath—now I'm torn. Tris just made an excellent point. Now, do I make my conclusion based on concrete evidence? Or just stick with the look on a man's face? I really hope concrete evidence wins…that would be great for me!
Zeke rests his hand on Tris's shoulder, but she shrugs it off and heads for the door.
"Tris, I know I'm a thick-headed son of a bitch," he starts, making her stop with her hand on the door knob. "But…I really did already know those things about him—how he's cunning and a liar and whatever other words you used. But, I never really thought of them as good. You have a knack for putting a different spin on things—bringin' the positive out of the negative. I can see why he changed."
"Well…footprints and all that," she says smiling sarcastically.
"Eghhh…she got that on Pinterest," I whisper in regards to that stupid meme.
"What about footpri—"
"I'm done now," she states flatly and very, very, very intently. "Okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
I roll onto my back as they exit the room, reflecting on everyone's perceptions. And In a shocking turn of events, I find myself feeling bad for almost everyone in this situation.
"Did you hear a damned word I just said?"
"Ummm…no," I answer honestly. "I was reliving the Thanksgiving from hell."
"So, you obviously remember ME being rejected the whole night by Hana—or excuse me 'Mrs. Pedrad,'" she snipes with her best Hana voice. "Side looks all night while I sat there like an uninvited stranger—seeing as I truly was…uninvited—who ruined everyone's holiday. She wouldn't even pass me the mashed potatoes! How can you count my not wanting to relive the horror as a rejection?!"
I think back to how Hana would interrupt almost every conversation one of her "boys" would try to have with Tris until it got to the point where they just stopped trying (Yes, the Pedrad boys stopped trying to talk. Pussies), making Tris into a virtual outsider seeing as the rest of my insane family was otherwise occupied in their own journeys to Looneyville.
"First of all, don't take credit where it's not due. Uncle Leonard mooning the camera and knocking over Mom's Tiffany lamp, ruined the holiday—"
"And why does your mom paint her damned grout? It was setting me on edge! I couldn't stop staring at it!"
"You noticed that?" Huh. My mom's backsplash has always been my perfect analogy. Maybe more people see through her than I thought. "Oh, man! I can't wait to tell her!"
"So what else am I rejecting Lynn? 'Cause so far, your status of rejections are an epic fail."
"Sarita's tostones!" I blurt out. "You won't even try them! And it's rude!"
"They're made of plantains! Are they bananas? Are they potatoes? No one knows! They freak me out!"
"Well…then, Christina. You reject her calls all the time! Not that I blame you."
"I don't have much to talk about with her right now. And you can't possibly tell me that bothers you."
"I actually think it's pretty savage," I respond dryly, as Tris grins at the dumbest word ever.
"Well, so far your rejection thing is total shit."
"Okay, fine. You win." I shrug, this argument making me nauseous just based in the way she's gripping my pictures.
"What?"
"Yeah," I sigh. "I'm conceding this argument. May I please have my pictures back?" I ask in my nicest possible voice.
"So, you're not going to use them?" she confirms.
"I will not be using them."
"Thank you." She hands the pictures back and I cradle them to me as if a piece of my soul has been returned.
"But I can't guarantee that the gallery…won't," I remark, snickering.
"You…are a bitch…from hell—"
"Whoa, uh…" The accent that most straight women swoon over announces itself loud and clear—frankly all I hear are a bunch of marbles and 'y' sounds. "Is this not a good time?" Tre asks with his hands up in the stop position.
What the hell is he doing here? Oh, poor Tre… He's a pretty cool guy. Felt bad that he was just a filler for her—in every way possible. She kicked his can to the curb months ago. Guess the guy can't take a hint. Women are so much better at reading people. Sad.
"Oh, hey. I…hey," Tris responds scrambling up and almost going ass over tea kettle, smoothing her hair down once she composes herself. What…the…heeeeeeelllll?
"You said I could…come by?" he starts as if he's trying to jog her memory. "We could chat? Just…chat, this time," he adds smiling wryly.
"Oh, yeah. Um, sure," she stutters, looking like her face may explode like Mount St. Helens.
He laughs, apparently thinking she's adorable rather than entirely awkward. Why do guys always seem to think her weirdness is endearing? That was one good thing about Four, he never made her out to be something she wasn't. I remember the time she was telling him he just needs to, "Fucking leave if you're going to be a caveman!" He leaned over the bar, lightly grabbed her shoulders and said, "We'll talk later about why you're being awful. But for now, can you pretend you're a pleasant person?" And her follow-up response of a kiss along with, "I don't like pretending," actually made me laugh.
"Wow, Tris. These pictures are…" He looks over all the pictures as I attempt to lay them out in the order I deem appropriate. "…all of you."
"Very good," I deadpan.
"Good evening to you too, Lynn."
"It'll be a good evening when everyone stops touching my pictures—"
"You look…incredibly…gorgeous in this one," he remarks holding up a picture. "When was this taken?"
"Ha, oh, um…Halloween. I was a flapper…" she trails off, not knowing how to take a damned compliment.
"Yep. That was from my Minolta SR—"
"And this one," he continues, ignoring me. "I mean, they're all good, of course, but…"
He keeps rummaging, moving around his favorites and passing over…others. Finally, unable to handle anymore manhandling of my photos, I nudge him to the side, suddenly noticing which pictures are his favorites.
Flashback:
I sit on the counter, kicking the five-gallon bucket that Gertie keeps her rock salt in, both because I like the noise and also because it drives her crazy.
"ARRETEZ, MADELYNN!" she shouts from the front where she's berating a customer.
I laugh to myself in wonder of how she multi-tasks being awful to one person and then awful to another simultaneously. That takes effort. Gotta hand it to her—she's impressive. I've been coming by Gertie's more and more at the insistence of Sofi who says all her aunt really craves is company. To some extent, I think Gertie is my spirit animal. She spews hatred to deflect what's really going on in her head.
I hop off the counter and refill my cup about half-way, pulling a small pod of half-and-half out of my pocket and dumping it in before she catches me and kicks me out. I take a good whiff of the brew and wander over to the TV, turning up the volume on the telenovela to drown out Gertie's "No!" and "Only people I like get my coffee!" I wait for an argumentative voice to pass through to the back, but all I hear is a deep pacifying mumble. So, I wander my way out to the front to observe the abuse.
"It's fine. I'm not here for coffee. I came to say hello to you."
I freeze, the hot beverage I brought up to my mouth burning my lips. Four has that unmistakable voice—deep, even-toned, commanding but not demanding, and intelligent. Untiiiiiiilllll…you piss him off.
"Oh, so now you don't want my coffee?!"
"Ghertrude, I would be insane not to want your coffee. May I have…a cup of coffee?"
"No."
I peek my head around the corner because I just can't help my damned self. Starting from the feet up, I'm pleasantly surprised. He's looking way more casual than normal—sneakers, jeans, a plaid shirt, (untucked, whoa!) and a plain brown jacket. He could definitely use a shave. And he looks pretty damned tired—
"Madelynn, get off your fesses and grind me some beans!"
I look across the room, willing the David Blain in me to come out, summoning the large burlap sack of Colombian goodness toward me so I don't have to make my presence known.
"Now, you little donkey! Or I'll ship Sofi off on the next Air France in a plastic-wrapped suitcase!"
I take a deep breath and decide to buck up, walking out from the small back room. I cross toward the counter behind where Gertie has braced herself, sauntering like I don't give a shit. Four immediately freezes—cryogenic style. I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips in greeting, while plunging the scoop into the sack of beans and unceremoniously tossing them in the grinder, not at all caring that a good amount ends up on the floor. I can feel the shithead's eyes on me while I push down on the grinder.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fais, crétin?!" Gertie yells. I've heard it a thousand times and still have no idea what it means, but it can't be good.
I hum to myself to drown her out, hoping she'll leave me alone and focus her attention on the resident asshole. I stop the grinder and dump out the contents into the press as she pushes me out of the way to take over. No one gets to use her coffee press…because she's ridiculous.
"Get two cups," Gertie says over her shoulder, interrupting my exit to the back room.
Not trying to hide my growl, I crouch down right next to her and take out the two cups that she was more than capable of fetching herself.
"You've evolved from Styrofoam," Four comments. "I've been telling you for years—"
"Yes, well, your opinion mean nothing to me anymore! How does THAT make you feel?!"
I choke back a laugh because I'm pretty sure Gertie wishes she could tie Four up in her basement, dress him in an original Hubert de Givenchy suit, and pump him full of formaldehyde just to keep him preserved so she could worship him like the little French pagan she is.
"Quite sad, in fact," he says sincerely rocking back and forth heels to toes and back again.
"Well," Gertie softens her tone as she pours the coffee. "I have three millennial hippies crawling up my ass who want to save the world. It's easier to get off-cyled cups—"
"Up-cycled," Four and I both correct.
"Egh! Same, same!"
"So, you've got some new company?" he asks casually, leaning on the counter, nodding in my direction. I assume he's trying to connect the dots.
"Oh, that? That's my Sofi's lesbian lover, so she's here by fault."
"Default," I correct.
"No. You're Sofi's fault! And, of course," she purrs, turning her attention back to Four, "Ma Petite visits me…all the time. More than you ever did!"
He clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. "I used to visit almost every day," he mumbles. "Does…she—"
"Well, she wishes she could!" Gertie snarks as I narrow my eyes at Four, not missing for one second his fishing for information. "But she is busy and she lives in the hood! It's worse than a Colombian jungle out there. Her boyz-in-the hood probably have Pablo Escobar's number on speed dial!"
"That would be difficult seeing as Pablo Escobar died 23 years ago," Four remarks with amusement.
"Internet rumor. I know these things!"
"Why are you so damn understanding when it comes to Prior?" I ask, wanting to test a theory. "I come here almost every day. She's only good for every other day! And…Gertie was she here…yesterday?" I glance at Four to test his reaction and…as suspected—shifting weight, scratching of the head, looking toward the door, but then staring desperately waiting for Gertie's answer.
"Yes! You were here, idiot!"
"Do you have to say 'idiot' with a French accent? It's an American word!" I slide Four his cup of coffee.
"No! It is FRENCH! The 'ot' is silent. And that's not for him!" She pulls the cup back spilling on her hands, although it goes completely unnoticed because of the mass amount of nerve damage already done from years of coffee scaldings. "It's for me. And this is for you," she offers it to me with complete fake gratitude and nothing but total spite towards Four. I decide not to take it from her because I don't play games. I back away, making quick eye contact with Four as he laughs under his breath and makes his exit.
"Just…wanted to say hello. Take care, ladies—"
"Wait! Wait! Where are you going?! Don't you leave me again, monsieur!" She scurries after him, pulling him back in by the hem of his jacket. And based on his exhale of breath, I can't tell if he's relieved or frustrated. "What, you were only here to drink my coffee? Not for my company?"
"No." He rests his hands on both of her shoulders, getting down to her level. "I came to check on you…and that's it."
"You don't want my coffee?" she ask with a little French pout.
Oh, good grief…
"I want your coffee," he assures with more patience than I would have expected out of him.
"Well, you can't have your cookies and eat them too!"
"Cake," I add, ripping apart a blueberry scone and popping a piece in my mouth. Lord, these are a gift from the Gods…
"Gertie, tell me what to do," he sighs.
"Sit down. I get you coffee."
She bustles by me, putting more beans in the grinder because God forbid she serve Four a cup of five-minute-old coffee. I munch on my scone as he sits, or slumps, into a folding chair at the table. He keeps flitting his eyes to the door. It's either in expectation or dread of a possible Prior sighting. Suddenly his orbs land on the wall and I crane my neck to see what he's honing in on—Tris's North Beach pic. I'm suddenly pissed off. He doesn't get to be a flip-flopping bastard and then come in here and get all nostalgic!
"You're staring," he comments, annoyed.
"I do that. So," I casually head toward him with my coffee in tow. "So you've been gone for what...like-"
"A month and three days," he responds immediately. Do I detect a hint of redness on his face? The semi-beard doesn't help my watch-dog likes senses.
"Whatcha back in town for?"
"Tying up loose ends," he grumbles.
"With work?" I inquire, hoping to get some sort of information out of him, seeing as his absence has affected my family. But that's the only reason.
"Yes," he laughs lightly, drumming his fingers on the table. "It is…work."
"Does Zeke Know?"
"No."
"Uriah?"
"No."
"Hana—"
"No one…knows." He stares at me as if he's trying to convey a message.
"Lemme guess—I'm supposed to keep it that way."
"I'm not asking anything of anyone," he responds with emphasis on the 'any' words.
"Hmmph. So, how's La La Land?"
"It's what you would expect it to be."
"I have absolutely no expectations of Los Angeles."
"Well, then your standards would be met."
For a guy who was so damned motivated to up and move his entire life across the country at the blink of his blues, he sure is meh about the whole thing. This only makes me want to dig deeper. But not too deep because I don't care that much.
"Ya workin' hard?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Livin' downtown?"
"No."
"Oh, God, don't tell me you live in some weird neighborhood. Lord, not Venice. Nothing worse than a hipster with an over-appreciation for board shorts. That place is, like, where the flip flop goes to die." I shake my head. "Hmmm…you're not the board short type. Wait a minute…or could it be…Malibu? You do hail from Winnetka and the West Loop…so, gotta keep up with those appearances. I can see it now…" I put my hand in the air as if I'm looking into the future. "A quaint two-million-dollar ranch overlooking the Pacif."
He stares at the table drawing circles with the pads of his index finger.
"Or…maybe not. Could it be…Santa Monica? Equally as pricey, super cute, semi-trendy but not too-uppity neighborhood. Yoga studios, vegan cafes galore! I bet there's a lot of Lulu Lemon goin' on. You always did have an appreciation for yoga pants."
He takes the deepest breath ever and runs his hands through his hair, before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. Geez, he's hanging his head like a dog. Now it seems that I've successfully perturbed him, so…
"Okay, I'm just gonna out this shit. Did you leave because of some chick? Some married chick?"
"Well…I'm pretty sure she's not married," he says into his hands. "At least, I hope not. 'Cause that…" He lifts his head and drums his fingers on the table again. "…would be a surprise."
Whereas before I was just trying to rile him up to get information for my own personal arsenal, now I'm straight-up pissed. I guess I hadn't really believed it, that he had actually left with another woman. I was convinced there was something else going on. I was wrong! He made me…wrong!
"Oh…right, right, right, right, right. Heard about that. Yay." I grab my coffee, ready to blow this popsicle stand. "Well, hope Round 2 went real well—real, real, well for ya! Hasta la vista, Ghertrude!" I yell to the backroom, as I sweep my bag off the table hoping to catch Four in the face. But I'm yanked back as my bag gets caught on the edge of the older-than-fuck folding chair, spilling the contents on the floor. "I got it, I got it," I grunt, swatting Four's hands away as he tries to help me. "Dude! Stop being chivalrous—"
"I'm not," he whispers as if he's out of breath.
"Okay, then stop—"
"What are these?" he mumbles in a voice akin to someone on their death bed as I lean over to see my folder of Prior Pics that had slid across the floor, leaving a trail of Tris in its wake.
"Oooohhhh…" I begin, as he pulls the pictures out of the folder looking like he's just seen Jesus. "Those? Those are pictures."
"Why? I mean, what are you…doing with them?"
I don't think I've ever heard his voice softer…along with his face—eyes turned down and a smirk appearing as he moves them around.
"Practicing," I reply quickly, not wanting to explain…not that he seems at all interested in me…at all, at all all. "Uh…yeah…I'm not really into people's dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty fingers all over my pics—"
"I'll be careful," he murmurs, moving his eyes all over them, seemingly lingering on each.
It's like he's taking a mental picture and it's kind of endearing. Exceeeeeeept for the fact that he had just admitted to me that everyone's speculations had been…true!
"Well, in that case…" I smile wryly, deciding to torture him from the beginning. "Let me tell you…ALL…about these." I pull them out easily enough seeing as they are in chronological order and start at the beginning…when Prior was at her worst. "Yeah, as you can see right here, well, she was goin' through a little somethin' somethin,' so she was drunk—like a lot. Ha! I really should have taken better shots, considering all my opportunities. But, then again, as you can see, she was taking all the shots. Get it? Shots and shots—"
"I get it," he states quietly.
"Yeah. Tequila. Whoa."
I must say, I have had better memories of Tris. Her drunken off tequila is not on my top ten. She turns into a hot-headed bitch…who throws things—my things!
Four runs his hands down his face and shakes his head only slightly as I smile, proudly, obviously causing him much grief.
"Well, then she stopped—cold friggin' turkey. And let me tell you, Tris Prior coming off weeks of binge drinking and other extra-curricular chemicals was not pretty…as you can literally see in these pics." I point out the ones where she looks just…tired, almost haggard if it were possible for her to look haggard.
"What do you mean…extra-curricular—"
"None of your business," I interject, unwilling to relinquish that I had to call my insurance company to refill my anti-anxiety meds early because Prior stole them. Or how she talked Rodrigo into swiping Ambien from the clinic, and I'd find her passed out with a wine glass in her hand, red all over her shirt. And then her rock bottom...seeing her in that hospital bed, with her face whiter than her gown.
He nods his head, resigned to the fact that it was indeed none of his damned business.
"Here, at least, she finally learned to grin. Although, I have to say a lot of these were luck of the draw. Okay…they were all luck of the draw. I swear she just…looks good in pictures. She's like proportionate or something—"
"Did she dye her hair?" he asks as if it would be some huge disappointment if she had.
"No. That's my magic right there. Holga Wide Pinhole. The camera uses a super small hole instead of a lens. The hole focuses the light using some crazy quantum physics magic and produces…a…darker…image… And then Sofi walked in naked and threw me down on the bed. We absolutely went downtown like China town on each other. You have absolutely no idea how amazing lesbian sex can be. Care for a three-some—"
"What's with all the make-up?" he interrupts as I give him the most unintentional wide-eyed stare possible. He didn't hear any of that? Wow.
"Who cares?"
"Just…wondering," he mumbles flipping through them as if she were legitimately unattractive with a lot of make-up on. Huh.
"Uh, well, in her defense, she was just…trying something new." I reflect on the reinvention phase she was going through. It was weird. "Anyway, she got over that pretty fast. She's back to normal Prior-wear now. Ya know, minimalist extraordinaire."
"Yeah," he breathes out, pausing and laying three pics out in front of him, lingering on one where the lighting was perfect behind her, and she's laughing her ass off. "She looks…happy. Is this…um…recent?"
"Last weekend. Oh, yeah, she does…definitely does. Super happy." What I should say is that the only reason she's laughing is because a cabbie came into the bar and punched an Uber driver.
Swallowing loudly, he not-at-all-inconspicuously slides one under the folder-the one where some dude has his arms around her. I swear I could hear Four's breath shake. Is it my place to tell him it was a random, overly friendly, Chicago drunkard who called himself the photo-hugger…trying to play off the words photo bomber? Nah.
"So, uh…this has been…real fun, but…" I stop in a tad bit of shock as Four's face turns more serious than I've ever seen it.
He slowly moves the last set of pictures so they are laid out in front of him. Now, being in the bar industry, I see guys in all kinds of states. I mean, name an emotion and I've seen it. The real shit comes out when they're drunk, much to their misfortune. But this—what the hell kind of look is it? Awe? Wonderment? Reverence? He's inspecting them so severely I think he may burn a hole in them. It's almost like if he looks away for one second they'll disappear.
"She…let you take these?" he questions as if that's incredibly unbelievable…and, he's right.
I put those aside because they are her at her most, I can't believe I'm using this word…but, vulnerable. No make-up. Sad. Thoughtful. Wistful. They're all legit because she would never pose. I'd have to catch her when she's staring off or when I'd say something that shocks her and she has no response.
"Well, I wasted a ton of film trying to get these moments right, let me tell you. They're my favorite. And my personal best, I must say. I used my Rangefinder. You're basically just looking through a window. But there's a small patch which shows a ghost image on top of everything. By turning the focusing ring, the ghost image will move left and right—"
"Is she seeing anyone?" he blurts out. "I know it's none of my business and I don't deserve to know, but…I think I…"
"So, let me get this straight. You leave. And come back. See some pics where Prior looks, well, don't ever tell her I said this, but…beautiful, and now you want to know if she's seeing anyone? That's some Dawson's Creek shit right there! She's Joey."
"I know how that…sounded. But, this is…her…and…"
I purse my lips not knowing what the right thing to do is. He doesn't deserve to know a damned thing. But who am I to make that decision? Four has been gone, what, like a month-and-a-half? Tris is actually starting to be in a better place now…ish. And that's a big ish! I don't think I can handle seeing her go downhill again. I don't have time for her downhillness! Is she seeing someone? Tre is long…gone. But…
"Yes." Am I leaving out that the person she's "seeing" is a top-notch therapist? Mmmmm…yes.
"Is it…serious?"
"Oh, yeah. Really…serious. Haven't seen her…like this…ever." I nod my head.
Ya know, I'm not a morbid person, and maybe this is the photographer in me, but I have always kind of wondered what someone's expression is after they were delivered a fatal blow—gunshot, stabbing, drowning—where they just know they're going to die and there's nothing they can do about it. Well, now I have my answer.
He stands and walks to the counter where Gertie has been, apparently, observing which is totally unlike her. He opens his mouth to say something, but Gertie just shakes her head and puts a piece of paper in his hand.
"Hey, Four—"
He exits before I even finish my sentence. Yeah…I feel like a bit of an asshole.
"I know what you were doing, crétin," she comments, leaning her slim moo-mooed hip against the counter. "Did the look on his face tell you nothing? Are you so lacking in compassion that you cannot even see when someone is broken? You don't know very much about him, do you?"
"I know…plenty—"
"Because if you did, you wouldn't have been dangling Tris like bait on a hook."
"I know enough. And I've heard enough. You don't live with Tris. You don't have to see every day what she goes through. How she's finally getting better—"
"Do you give her so little credit, that you think all it took was one…man…to bring out the nasty side of life, to bring out the bottom she needed to hit? You think my Four was it?"
"Well, he was the proverbial straw."
"Straw? What is this straw? Do not use your American bullshit with me!"
"Look, you didn't exactly interfere, Gertie." She doesn't say anything…for once. But by the look on her face, I can see she wishes she did indeed put a stop to my actions. "And I realize he had a shit childhood—his father was an abusive dick…not to him, might I add…and his mother died. It's sad, but he's not a cautionary tale, geez."
"As…I…said, you don't know much about him. And I'd bet my 1912 Coco Chanel that it is because mademoiselle Tris has not told you. She is loyal to default."
"To a fault."
"No, it is her default."
"Whatever," I shake my head at her semi-correct attempt at English. "And what else is there to know?! I've heard enough nonsense pass between Tris and Four to last me through the apocalypse. And yes, I said 'through' because you know I'd be a survivor," I quip.
She laughs condescendingly. "Interesting word choice you use, crétin—'survivor.'"
"Why?" I chuckle. "It's true—"
"Because you were just treating a survivor like a victim—you were exploiting their weakness."
My jaw suddenly throbs because of how much I must have been clenching it.
"A survivor? He wasn't abused! As far as I know, his Dad barely paid him a bit of attention and he was raised by doting nannies living the high-life. I'm not totally lacking in compassion—his mom died of a drug overdose. It happens. It's sad. But, he does not qualify for survivor versus victim status. Trust me; I'm an expert."
Her lack of response and penetrating stare is a little scary.
"What'd you give him, anyway?" I ask, changing the subject.
"Stay out of my business," she grumbles walking over to clear away Four's coffee. "You go, now."
"Oy vey," I sigh crouching down to pick up my pictures, taking my prize…pics…first—"Hey, what the hell?!" I crawl around frantically not being one bit ashamed that I look like a deranged chimpanzee. "Did he...? That son of a bitch stole my picture! My Pure Prior!"
"You let him keep it!" she orders, pointing at me.
"Why?!"
"Because sometimes we need things to hold onto to keep us afloat, idiot!"
"You know, by that logic, Jack shouldn't have died in Titanic," I call her out on her favorite movie of all time.
"I remember a different ending…" she mutters shuffling to the back room.
I scratch the side of my head where my hair is growing in, listening to Tre absolutely guffaw at how hot Tris looks in the I-need-to-reinvent-myself phase she went through. The one's that basically hide everything about her.
"Excuse me, señor!" I move him to the side with my forceful hip check. "Now, which ones do you like the best, if you don't mind my asking. Please, take your time," I nod graciously, attempting to—
"Definitely these," he answers without forethought, pulling aside the one from Halloween along with a side profile shot that I took right after she told an Uber driver that he "doesn't need to talk anymore."
"Huh," I say, pulling out my Pure Priors and laying them in front of him. "Not these?"
"Put those away, I hate those!" Tris seethes, trying to reach at the pictures.
"Why? You look really…nice," Tre comments as if he had to pull that adjective out of the archives. "Ya know, the just-out-of-the-shower look."
"So, your favorites are the ones that look nothing like her?" I confirm.
"Lynn, don't be a whore bag," Tris chastises.
"Oh, shit. Please, don't take it like that—"
"I don't," Tris pacifies, interrupting Tre's backpedaling.
"Because, you know, Tre…there is something to be said about looking natural!" I growl, putting my pictures back in their rightful home in my folder.
"Lynn, why are you tweaking about this?!" Tris asks as if I'm batshit crazy.
"Because he's criticizing my work!"
"Ummmm…no, he's not."
"Lynn, I swear I didn't mean—"
"You asked him…what his favorites were…and he answered," Tris says slowly.
"Well, he's wrong!"
Tris's POV:
I watch after Lynn as she stomps off like a child to Tori's office.
"What…was that about?" Kristen asks, appearing out of nowhere, leaning on the end of the bar.
"I…don't know. Lynn's a little…off, sometimes."
"So…" glance over at Kristen wondering if I forgot to give her her paycheck or something.
"Oh. She's my babysitter," Tre informs as he leads me toward some bars stools away from Kristen.
"Come again?"
"Ah, yes, well, she's here to make sure I'm a decent bloke. No shenanigans allowed." He winks cheekily as I pick up on his insinuation.
"Oh, that's…thoughtful," I respond at the weirdness of the situation.
"Right? Isn't that your middle name? Kriiiiisten Thoughtful Thompson?"
Her middle finger and sarcastic closed-mouth smile at his proper pronunciation of her name…still a joke I just don't get. Her eyes are flitting behind the bar apprehensively.
"You can have a drink," I chuckle wondering why she's always so on edge around me.
"Oh. Okay, yeah, thanks." She lifts the removable counter, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. "Uh… You guys want anything?"
Tre raises his eyebrows, turning his entire body toward me while I stay seated facing forward. "The Knob? I figured we could start from square one."
"Sure," I smile at the nice gesture. Square one. I like that. Starting fresh. Makes sense, right? Right.
Kirsten passes us the whiskey while making herself a Hendricks and tonic. I remember the amount of Hendrick's Tobias had to drink to drown out the sheer possibility of my being pregnant. Wow. How did I not see that as a red flag?
"Don't mind me," Kristen sighs, heading back to her perch at the end of the bar. "I don't have papers to grade, or lessons to plan, or parent emails to return or…anything of importance to do." She pulls out her phone. "Just me and Candy Crush."
"You know, she isn't really necessary," I whisper as we cheers and take a drink. I actually don't love Knob Creek, but…oh, well.
"It's purely symbolic, a gesture of sincerity if you will." He clears his throat and turns his chair to face forward. "Well, I'm just gonna get right down to it. Ah… So…I really do…like you."
I smile, having no idea if it comes across as sincere or not seeing as I don't even know if it's sincere. "I like you too."
"But, now excuse me if I come across as accusatory, but…I feel that when you broke things off…or, I guess we were never really together, but…you didn't exactly give me a chance to…anything."
I open my mouth, ready to go on the defense, but then I reflect on the last time I saw him, my words being—"I don't want a relationship of any kind…at all…with anyone. Don't call. Don't text. Don't come into the bar."
"I know, or I know that now. I was unfair to you. I was in a bad place—"
"No, no…just no." He stops me with his hands up. "I don't want to know anything about you, yet."
"You don't?"
"No. I would like to go the traditional route."
I raise my eyebrows in question. Is it possible to go the traditional route once one has seen the other naked and then other stuff?
"I would like to take you on a date…"
Oh, good Christ…
"…then I would wait two days to call you…and I would call—not text…and then I would ask you out again. But there would be no kissing on the second date. We would save that for the third—but it would only be a kiss on the cheek. But we could hold hands…if you want. And you would not be paying, even though, I have a feeling you would try."
"I would, yes," I agree, pondering the arcane reason behind the man paying.
"Can you change that would to a will?"
"Ah…" I breathe out, not knowing how to explain my distaste for formalities.
"Look, Tris, I know I'm just a bartender and—"
"And you think I give a shit about your career?" I ask semi-offended.
"Most girls are hesitant and consider a man who tends bar for a living to not be a 'go getter.' The fact is, I like it and I'm content with it."
"Tre, seriously, as a fellow bartender, I would never say we are not go getters. We work our asses off. And…I don't have what some would consider high aspirations either. I've been pretty much taking my life one day at a time since…well…whenever."
"One day at a time. I like that. So…can we try to take it one day at a time?" he asks lifting up his glass in cheers. "And…that sounded like it belongs in a romantic comedy. But, cheers anyway."
"It was pretty…corny."
Suddenly, as clear as if it were lying on the bar right in front of my face, the ghost of the physical incarnation of a note with perfectly perpendicular creases on it appears—
YOU ALREADY HAVE THE KEY TO MY HEART…THOUGHT MAYBE YOU'D WANT ONE FOR MY APARTMENT... PLEASE SAY YES! –T
"So…was my corniness a deal breaker or—"
"Sorry. Um…yes. Or…no. It wasn't. And, yes, I would like to take it…one day at a time. One day…at a time."
Tori's POV:
I rub my stinging, dry eyes and decide that I'm unable to take the pain anymore. So, I pull my eyedrops out of my pocket and add a decent cooling amount onto my eyeballs.
"No need to hide the reefer effects, Tor. It's legal," Lynn remarks, walking in and dropping herself like a ragdoll onto the chair across from my desk.
"Dry eyes, sensitivity to light, trouble seeing in darkened environments, redness and distorted eyelids," I explain, blinking back the excess liquid.
"From weed? That must be some...strong shit."
"Or the effects of a nice dose of chemo and targeted therapy," I remark, putting the night's cash in an envelope.
"Oh. Targeted therapy? That's a new one for you."
"Well, it worked. Tumor's are small enough where I qualify for surgery, so…"
"Weren't your lungs shred to shit the last time? Is surgery your best option? I mean, don't they do stem cell vita-injection whatever stuff now—"
"Let's leave it up the oncologists, shall we?" I interrupt, before she starts suggesting alternative therapies in the jungles of Brazil. A genuinely worried look crosses her little demented face. "Lynn…" I lean my elbows on my desk, knowing I have to say at least one iota of bullshit positivity. "I don't have smoker's lungs, so lots to work with. Okay?"
"Fabulous. Please continue with your story," she commands as if I wasn't done with this conversation.
"Meaning?"
"Tumors…plural. What happened to the singular version of that noun? Thought it hadn't spread."
"It hadn't." I shrug, feeling only minutely guilty about keeping this new information from Lynn and Tris.
"And…now…it…has?" she clarifies.
"Now it has."
"Dude, explain! Please?!" she begs. "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"
"It's in my lymph nodes," I state with finality. "Okay?"
"Oh," she remarks like it's no big deal. "Well, that's common with lung cancer. What do they call that? Shit… Comorbid! Comes with the territory, right? They can remove it."
"Right," I agree, not needing to tell her that it's everywhere. "And wow, Lynn. I'm impressed."
"Yeah, yeah. Well, The ACS website is easy to navigate, okay? Don't get all weird about it. When do you go in?"
"Tomorrow."
"What?! Does Tris know?" she asks, just about jumping out of her chair.
"No."
"Well, are you going to tell her?!"
"No, and you won't either," I respond calmly.
"I won't lie," she says matter-of-factly
"Ya know, you toss that phrase around a lot, Lynn. You might not lie, but you definitely squander the truth and frankly I don't know what's more calculating." I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, the blank look on Lynn's face telling me I struck a nerve. "I'm not telling her because I need her here, as in, I need her in work mode, not worry-about-Tori mode."
"No, you don't. The first couple weeks after New Year's are dead. And she's stronger than you think," she says almost angrily that I would underestimate Tris.
"Again. Wow, Lynn. How does it feel to give a shit about someone else?"
"Shut-up. I give a shit about people! The list is just…pretty damned short. And I like it that way! It's less stressful."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you feel better. Now hear me out—this bar; it's mine; I created it; I need it taken care of. And Tris does a shockingly good job."
Lynn seems to be lost in thought as she moves her chair on a diagonal and puts her feet on my desk, crossing her ankles.
"Does she like it? Taking care of the bar?" I ask, hoping for an honest answer.
"No," she immediately responds, chock full of honesty.
I nod my head. "Thanks for not bullshitting me." As much as that was not the answer I was hoping for, having one still relieves a decent amount of stress. "So, you followed me in here like a scared pit bull. What's your problem?"
She sucks in air between her teeth, purposely avoiding my stare. "Ya know that whole squandering the truth thing—"
"Okay my name is Kirsten not Kristen!"
"I knew it!" Lynn shouts pointing at the girl who just burst into my office spouting nonsense in one breath.
"Oh…Tori. Hi. I, uh, didn't know…or I would have…waited or—"
"You cut your hair, holy shit," I comment, now recognizing her and connecting the name with the face while she searches mine picking up on only one thing—cancer.
"Oh, yeah," she runs her fingers through her super short locks. "It's drastic. I'm drastic sometimes. Anyway—"
"Tori introduced you to me as Kiiirsten, but then you went along with it when Tris called you Kriiiisten." Lynn points directly at Kirsten as if she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Holy fuckenheimer. Why would you do that?"
"Because I dated Four!"
"Oh, man," Lynn laughs clapping her hands. "This is amazing."
"It was brief! Like maybe a month of just texting and then do-you-maybe-wanna-hang-out and then sex because…sex, ya know?"
"No," Lynn and I reply together.
"Anyway, I immediately recognized her when she first came behind the bar. And, well, her name is also a dead giveaway. And I had heard her name…many, many times. But I don't know if she knows about me or even cares, ya know?"
"No," we both respond again.
"Well, Four went on and on about her over the summer when I was his server at Riley's Pub, even after I was serving him doubles because I wanted good tips. Then like weeks later, he came into the bar again, seemingly forgetting that she existed. He was lying. Guys are so dumb. They think we don't pick up on anything. But, I figured they broke up and I was a willing rebound, which was really shitty, but he's hot and super charming, ya know?"
"No," we again answer in unison.
"Anyway we went back to his apartment and almost had sex. We had almost-sex. I threw myself at him. It wasn't one of my finer moments. He stopped me. It was humiliating. But he made up a bullshit excuse about not having protection and…seriously…a guy like that…has condoms, ya know?"
"No."
"Wow, you two are…really on the same page, huh? Anyway, I went along with it because I thought it was really sweet and incredibly amazing that a guy would actually stop mid-almost-sex because he couldn't be with the one he really wanted. I mean, he had a naked girl under him, ya know?"
"No."
"And then…oh, this is the bad part… I saw her in front of his apartment. It was Tris. She was really nice! We talked. We actually spoke. And then Four and I made out…right…in front…of her. Well, at least I did. He was not into it. A woman can tell, ya know?"
"Yes," Lynn and I both nod, finally on the same page with Kirsten.
"First of all, Kirsten, take a damned breath," Lynn orders as she immediately complies. "Well done. So, I'm reading between the lines here, but I take it Tris didn't recognize you when she met you? Like, officially?"
"Not as far as I can tell. It makes sense because I didn't have this haircut. And I look very different during the day. All this…" She circles her face with her hands, regarding her smokey-eyed-look make-up and mahogany lipstick. "…isn't really my style."
"And you don't want her to know who you are?" I ask, trying to clarify the reason for her insane revelation.
"Well, I didn't want her to hate me because she's my boss."
"Psh… No, she's not," Lynn comments rolling her eyes and reclining in the chair again.
"She's not?" Kristen looks at me for clarification.
"For all intents and purposes, she is. Get over it Lynn."
"Whatevskis."
"And I knew I'd make a lot more money here than at Riley's and I'm trying to pay for my Master's degree out of pocket. No debt. I…hate…debt—"
"Kristen!" I yell which I rarely do, being in no mood to solve miniscule problems.
"Kirsten," Lynn adds, covering her mouth on the side as if it's a secret between her and I.
"Whatever. Tell me you don't want…us…to do anything about this…"
"I don't know," she sighs. "I just needed to tell someone about it. It felt right. So, uh, are you guys going to tell her?"
"Helllll, no. That's your place, lady," Lynn answers for us. "And don't ask me to be your buffer."
"Yeah, don't," I say. "She'd be the worst."
"Ha, yeah, I know. So, wellllll…there's another reason for my presence…in your office…right now."
"What's that?" I imitate her precise hand gestures.
"Tre is my best friend; my oldest friend. Aaaaand, Tris kind of screwed him over."
"Literally. That should be taken…very…literally," Lynn informs as if this is brand new information.
"He really likes her!" Kirsten points out to Lynn defensively, obviously not loving her aloof attitude. "He gets girls hitting on him…all the time. He could have his pick of the litter, and don't get me wrong, he has had his fair share of ding bats, but my worry is that she's not a ding bat! And I can see him only liking her more and more and they're getting quite cuddly out front. Shoulder to shoulder! Laughing and displaying…cuteness!"
"Ugh… Thank God I'm not the only one who sees this as a problem," Lynn grumbles.
"What the hell am I missing?" I ask just wanting to get this conversation over with so I can go home and have insomnia.
"I ran into Four at a bar, drinking alone…alone—not good for a man because they're irresponsible and stupid—after Tris busted his heart—"
"Uh…two sides to that story, sweetie," Lynn remarks on the defense. "But I totally get the irresponsible and stupid part."
"I only saw what I saw, okay? He was…I feel like this word is used too lightly, but he really was…heartbroken. And just based on his way-too-detailed drunken anecdotes, like—I can pretty much tell you whatever you need to know about Tris's—"
"Already seen it all! No need to relive," Lynn adds.
"Yeah," I concur. "I've seen her do a strip tease and sing the Pledge of Allegiance in her panties. So…I'm good."
"Ooookay," Kirsten adds with a quizzical look, most likely unable to envision Tris doing any of that. Give that girl some booze…s'all it takes. "Moving on, he made it sound like it wasn't a one-sided relationship, so…"
We wait for Kirsten to keep talking, but she seems intent on leaving us hanging.
"It wasn't! Everyone who even took two looks at those shitheads knew that. So, what?! Soooooo what?!" Lynn finally asks frustrated.
"I don't want Tre getting hurt! And he would kill me if he knew I was interfering!"
"You should tell her," Lynn quips with a smirk.
"Tell her…what?"
"That you saw Four, drunk and heartbroken. Tell her everything. Ya know, where he was; how he acted; what he said, well, maybe not everything, but, basically what he said. But, don't skimp on his facial expressions—Prior's a sucker for that," Lynn says, sitting back again looking like all her problems were just solved.
I look at Lynn with a pretty horrified expression on my face, I'm sure. "Don't…you…dare," I tell Kirsten.
"Why?" Lynn asks. "If Sofi and I broke up, I'd want to know—"
"Because Tris is finally back to normal," I interrupt, not understanding why Lynn would want to mess with that, seeing as it would mess with her life as well.
"Ish. She's backish to normal."
"She finally feels good in her own skin again—"
"Ish. Goodish. She still has nightmares, you know."
I stop and look up at Kirsten, realizing she shouldn't have heard any of that.
"Hey, I'm not saying a word," she says putting her hands up. "And Four told me the basics…very, very drunken basics. We all have our shit. I teach on the Southwest side. I've seen it all."
I'm suddenly reminded—as happens so often when I think of Tris and Four—of myself twenty-two years ago. The amount of time it took for me to be okay with myself hits me like a brick to the face—how I changed my life because of someone else's interference, and the weakness and grief I felt because I listened to them.
"If things don't work out with Tre, it needs to be because of her and Tre, not because someone told her that Four was heartbroken," I reply, staring off at nothing—memories of happiness, heartbreak and, in the end, emptiness all right in front of me. "She needs to concentrate on what's in front of her—"
"Meaning Tre?" Lynn asks with disgust, Kirsten scoffing at her attitude.
"Could be," I say shrugging. Although I know better than anyone that someone doesn't have to be a physical presence to be right in front of you.
"And if she's still in love with Four?! Where does that leave Tre?" Kirsten asks desperately and every ounce of me wants to tell her to mind her own fucking business.
"Then she…" I lean forward, communicating to Kirsten that I don't give a shit about Tre. "…can figure that out on her own. She's no dumby."
"Oh, no. She definitely is—"
"Lynn, just…stop, okay? Now, she's perceptive again. She doesn't live in a fog. If Four's the guy for her, she needs to do something about that on her own. And, ya know what, he may be the guy for her. It doesn't mean they'll end up together. And either way, it's on her to make her own decisions…even if she makes a mistake," I mumble, Lynn's penetrating eyes boring into me. "Better to make a mistake on her own recognizance that she can own up to, than feel the weakness knowing that she made a mistake because someone else swayed her decision."
"And what if she uses Tre as her guinea pig?" Kirsten asks as I realize I just gave away more information than I intended. "Her I-just-want-make-sure-I'm-over-Four pig?"
I lean back and sigh, pulling my bandana off my head. "How is this not a conversation you should be having with him? You're a CPS high school teacher! How can you not handle confrontation?"
Kirsten purses her lip and pretty much storms out. I do feel a little twinge of guilt. But now I'm over it.
"Wow, you really don't give a shit about poor Tre. Unless it was your scary cancer head that drove her away."
I shrug, staring after her. "Could go either way. And my loyalties lie with very few. I don't know a damn thing about him. Anyway, my opinion stands. No interfering." I rub my eyes, hating cancer. "You were saying something about…squandering the truth?" I ask, trying to bring this back full circle.
"I…was…saying something…about that." She nods slowly.
"Care to continue?"
"Changed my mind."
Tris's POV:
"Progress…" Tre nods his head, his dimples flashing, as they always do. "…I like it." He nudges my shoulder, and I have to admit, the fact that he wanted to actually date me is flattering. Plus, he's easy to talk to, cute, sweet, just…easy. "Sooo…our first date. This Wednesday? Before you answer, can I just say how great it is that I don't have to apologize to a girl about my bartending hours? Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays being off limits." He chuckles.
I momentarily frown at his words—Does he have to apologize to a lot of girls about his bartending hours? Ha! That doesn't even bother me! It doesn't! I don't even care! This is…a change…
"Very true. And very fortunate for both of us." I raise my glass in celebration of myself, finishing my whiskey in one gulp while he leans over the bar and grabs the bottle raising his eyebrows to refill mine. "None for me, thanks."
"Really?" he confirms most likely reflecting on my heavy drinking during our several night stand.
"Really, really," I sigh wishing I had my drink on ice, so I could have gotten a couple extra sips out of it.
"So, does dinner sound okay? I promise no pub food," he says as if pub food would be unheard of.
"Oh, no. I'm perfectly okay with bar food—"
"No, no, no. You deserve a nice restaurant—one where they have violin music playing in the background, white table clothes with candles, twenty different flatware options and no prices next to the entrée."
"Or we could go watch a train wreck?" I respond to his horrific description of what I 'deserve.' But, his immediate laughter informs me that he thinks I'm being sarcastic. "Look, I don't need all that. We can pick up tequila and hit up Taco Bell and I'd be good."
"I…cannot take you on our first date…to Taco Bell," he chuckles obviously thinking I'm joking again. "But…how about Jimmy Johns and beers?"
"No," I answer flatly before I can even stop myself.
Jimmy John's has been something I have yet to conquer. I haven't had it since the last time Tobias brought it to the bar for dinner—the same day I saw my brother emaciated in the hospital. I broke down when I saw Tobias, smiling sweetly holding up the sandwich as if the only thing he wanted in the world was to brighten my day. Although, all it did was make me cry…an unexplained emotion. He was always good at bringing those out in me.
"Tris, I was kidding, that would be equally as bad. I'd be better off taking you to a diner for greasy omelettes or the arcade to hang out with high-schoolers," he jokes while I clench my jaw, an unexpected bout of defensiveness trying to take over.
I laugh awkwardly not knowing if I want to roll up into a ball and cry from loss of a would-have-been future chock full of Jimmy Johns, games and diner food, or sit back and smile celebrating that I have those memories that hopefully someday I'll learn to cherish.
"So, we're good for Wednesday?"
"Ah, sure. Should I meet you…somewhere?"
"Noooo…" he says slowly as if I don't speak English. "I…pick you up. Have you never been on a date before?"
Mmmm…let's see, always chaperoned ice cream and movie with Robert—doesn't count. Dinner and a smoke-filled bar followed by Eric vomiting in his car and making me pay for the professional cleaning because I did a "shit job cleaning it up"—Does that count? He did pay for dinner. Impromptu arcade and hotdogs? I paid for the hotdogs. Tobias was mad…in a funny way. Accusing me of hi-jacking his date. Tee hee. And then, David… Oh, God. I should feel terrible for him. But it's Tobias that gets me. Sifting through the nearly-vacant memories of that night, one thing rings true—the hurt. It was all over his face—his eyes turned down, red cheeks, running his hands down his face, pursed lips to hide his frown. And he stayed and…he…
"I think the full gamut of human emotions just crossed your gorgeous face. Some good ones and bad ones in there, yeah?"
"Mmm hmm. Just… So, yeah. Pick me up here? So, I can open the bar and stuff."
"Sounds good," he smirks putting his arm around the back of my barstool. "Reservations are at 7:00."
"You had already made them?" I ask, slightly ticked off.
"I was feeling overconfident." He hops out of his stool and walks toward a suddenly reappeared Kristen. "Now, I'm just confident," he laughs over his shoulder. "Okay, Kriiiiisten. I assume you charge per hour. What do I owe you?"
"School supplies."
I get Tre's ever-present dimply smile, accompanied by a wink this time as he exits with Kristen. I don't return the smile until I hear the closing of the back door. Then I allow myself a good five seconds. Wait, am I allowing myself to smile or am I making myself smile?
"I have a date. I have a date with Tre," I say aloud.
This will be good. I like him. He's cute—no, he's hot. And he seems to…like me. He's funny too. And I think he's…smart? I'll have to test that theory. How do I test that? I can ask him how to spell Dubai! Hopefully he won't say Doo-bye. That would suck—
"Bye," Lynn grumbles walking past me and almost slamming into my shoulder.
"You aren't going to wait for me?"
"You're a grown ass woman. You get to make your own poor choices," she remarks heading to the back.
"Well, if you'd just wait five FUCKING seconds—"
"Hey, come in here," orders the groggy voice of Tori. "I want to talk to you."
I drag my feet in, stopping at the door, still unable to look at her—I already know what she looks like, I just don't want my face to betray me.
"Tris, look at me."
I purse my lips, my eyes welling up.
"It's okay to be sad. To be mad. To feel sorry for me. To feel sorry for yourself. If I've learned anything through this journey, it's that every emotion counts—they all have a purpose. So stop being so damned proud and look at me."
I decide to buck up in the bravery department and look at her. She has her bandana off, having finally decided to shave her head she now sports her baldness with pride. Her face is three shades lighter than her normal olive complexion—her Indonesian skin, normally the perfect shade of gorgeous. But, somehow she still looks fierce.
"Renato," she states pointing to the chair across from her desk.
I sit tentatively and with disappointment because…again…there's another Spanish word I don't know. "What's a Renato?"
"Who…is Renato," she corrects.
"Oh," I reply feeling a sense of reprieve, but now like kind of an idiot. "Okay then… Who is Renato?" I prepare myself for another I-hired-an-illegal-immigrant speech. I'm cool with it, I just worry that we may have some douchey president someday who's going to pull a dick move and—
"The love of my life. My soulmate."
I just about choke on absolutely nothing. "Did you just say…soulmate?"
"Yep. I believe in soulmates, even though I used to consistently tell myself otherwise. But, I now have no room in my head for bullshit."
"Um…wow, I—"
"Let me be clear, when I say soulmate, I don't mean some whimsical, melodramatic, threadbare phrase. I mean the real deal—raw, not at all wrapped up in a pretty little bow, ugly, passionate, angry, fighting for dominance, sometimes oppressive, perfection. We loved each other fiercely and there wasn't a time in my life that I'd been happier. From the outside some would say we couldn't have been more of a mismatched pair. I knew better. He knew better. He picked up what I put down. I finished what he started. But it wasn't always in the good way. Sometimes people put things down for a reason and start things that shouldn't be finished…" she trails off.
"You're being cryptic," I inform her, my head still spinning at the joining of the words soul and mate.
"Well, it's impossible to put some things into words." She smiles to herself almost shyly. "Alright, I'll start from the beginning. My dad was the President of Northwestern."
"Really?" I ask incredulously, wondering how the daughter of the president of one the top universities in the country ends up a bar owner.
"Yep. I have a bachelors in business thanks to him and Georgie has a PHD in Religious Studies.
"Whoa. George? Seriously?"
"Yeah," she laughs. "We thought dad would die of a heart attack when George converted to Buddhism. It was the running joke in our family—'At least, it was lung cancer and not George that killed Dad.'"
I freeze not knowing how to respond. I knew her family won a big lawsuit from years of asbestos exposure in her childhood home. And that's most-likely the source of Tori's cancer, but I hadn't put two and two together about her dad.
"I bought this building with my inheritance and started the bar from the ground up," she states proudly. "Anyway, my father, being the President of a rather prestigious university, was given the opportunity to host a very prestigious international graduate student for a year—Renato Josué Salvador Almodóvar IV."
"That's…quite a name," I respond, realizing the unimportance of that detail.
"Yes. Renato was…you're not going to believe this, but he was Spanish royalty."
I swallow my laugh at the unbelievable notion.
"You can laugh. I'm well-calloused to the crazy nature of this tale. But, it's not as bullshit as it sounds. Royalty is a very broad term in Spain. He was a fourth cousin of the King—meaning his great great grandfather and the King's great great grandmother were siblings. So he wasn't even slightly close to the throne. But it was royal enough to have an arranged marriage. Well, at least a very, very, very strongly implied marriage—the kind that says the-family-will-cut-you-off-if-you-don't-marry-this-chick.
"Oh." Why am I at such a loss for words?
"Yeah, 'oh.' So, my dad found it to be this big honor and he was thrilled. Come to find out Renato was not the behaved male child that royalty implies. There was a reason he was sent abroad." She laughs staring at the nothingness that's in front of her. "He showed up at my parents' door step all Antonio Banderas charming and handed my mom this gorgeous bouquet of flowers. They were so perfect they almost looked like they weren't real."
"Sounds nice." I shrug.
"That's because they were fake. He gave my mother fake flowers as a joke. And he laughed as if no one was watching. It was so weird."
"So, did you guys have...an immediate connection? Or—"
"No, not at all. I had expected a snooty, uppity, rich, entitled Spaniard. But as it turns out, he expected a snooty, uppity, rich, entitled American, who would open her legs up to anyone." She says with an angry shake of the head which I share. "Don't worry I set him straight—just because I'm American and a woman, doesn't make me easy, but if I wanted to be, it's my own damned prerogative. That was the thing about us—we learned a lot from each other." She pauses and collects her thoughts. "We started spending time together and found out we were the opposite of what we expected. He was smart, quick-witted, ingenuous and rebellious. He had this whole I-want-to-change-the-world attitude. But it came from a place of privilege so it wasn't particularly authentic—he lacked drive in that area. But I didn't, and that's where we differed. But he taught me to take more risks and be more carefree while I taught him that things are worth more when you have to work for them. We were both opinionated and we fought just as much as we got along."
I laugh lightly out of surprise and just…shock at how forthcoming she's being. I don't know this version of Tori. "Okay, back-up." That is also something I've never said to her. "You said he was supposed to take a year's-worth of classes…"
"Yeah. He didn't. Well, he dropped out mid-semester."
"Why?"
"Because we got married and I got pregnant."
"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" I ask as if my world was thrown off its axis.
"Originally, we got married so he'd have to break off his strongly suggested marriage. Catholics don't get divorced and all that. But we had…um, assumed…permanence, so why wait anyway."
An impending sense of a very unhappy story hits me as I take note of the sadness in her voice each time she speaks in the past tense along with her struggle with the word 'assumed.'
"But it was real and we both wanted it…forever and all that mess. Yeah. Let's move right along now. So, I lost the baby."
"You…" I trail off, not knowing how literally to take that.
"Not like that. I miscarried."
"Oh, Tori…" I breathe out.
"For the record, I had always regretted not telling you about that. Especially when you told me about your experience. Frankly, I fucking hate talking about it. Plus, I was only twelve weeks—"
"It's still a loss," I say sincerely. "And it helps to talk about it."
"I see Dr. Ramos too, you know."
I nod my head, glad she had told someone.
"So," she sighs with a shaky voice "I found out I couldn't have kids—that they'd never make it to term. The funny thing...or not funny at all...but, I don't even remember why. I blanked after the doctor said 'never' and left his office."
I should say something. Say something!
"And...as it turns out, there is nothing nobility likes less than a non-Catholic, American who can't produce offspring," she chuckles.
My defense-of-Tori comes out, just picturing some assfuck 'soulmate' arrogant Spaniard uttering those cruel words to her! "He said that to you?!"
"No. Never."
Oops.
"I made that call for him. It was my excuse." When Tori averts her eyes, it's usually out of shame. And boy is she not making eye contact with me.
"You broke it off? What happened to him being your soulmate?" I ask in a semi-accusatory manner. Why am I so caught up in this?!
"Hmm." She sits back, laughing under breath with furrowed eyebrows as if she can't believe my reaction. She's looking at me like the hypocrite I am NOT! "I was really caught up in the grief of losing a child. The call from his mother about two weeks after I got home from the hospital didn't help. She had some choice words and made me feel like a bottom-feeder. I bought into it. I broke his heart. Told him I didn't love him and that I only stayed with him because I was pregnant. So, he left, and I went into a deep depression. It took me two years and four therapists to come out of it."
"Why do I feel that that is the most vague cliff-notes version I've ever heard?"
"Because it is. I'm already on the verge of losing it and I physically can't handle stress right now," she states simply.
"Okay. Do you want to be…done—"
"But as far as I knew, we were still married," she scoffs. "And I think a part of me held onto that."
I pull on my fingers, knowing all about holding onto things irrationally.
"I reached out to him, when I was more myself, ready to pour my therapied heart out, willing to hop on a plane that day just to see him. But his mother answered. And that conversation was..." She pauses while I think of a million ways to avoid that situation.
"You didn't hang up?"
"Do you know how much money that call costed?"
"Well, your dad was the President of Northwestern. No international phone plan? Or, maybe a warning text through Wi-fi?"
She stops and shakes her head. "Do I give you too much credit?"
Then I do the math. Tori is 42. "Sorry, not...an option in...the 90s?"
"I was in high school when I bought my first CD, Tris."
"Oh. Yikes."
"So…his mother informed me that, during my two-year hiatus, he had gotten married and his wife was pregnant."
The devastation she must have felt trumps that of how I felt when I found out Tobias had moved. But, this whole scenario is nothing like mine! "But, you two were married!"
"According to her, our marriage was nothing but an irrelevant piece of paper. Especially since a priest didn't perform the ceremony. Oh, and we didn't have children, so it really wasn't Catholic."
"Oh, God, Tori. Are you sure all this really happened? I feel like you were living in a soap opera—"
"You should talk," she points out, rightfully so. "About a year later, I got a package in the mail from the law office of 'Santiago y Navarro.'" She clears her throat, looking like she might die...and that's saying something. "Renato had…died," she chokes out. "In a sailing accident. He had never married and had no children to speak of. His wedding ring, the one I gave him, was in the package."
"Oh, shit," I breathe out. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I want to hug you right now but—"
"Don't fuckin' hug me," she answers letting the tears fall. "I know this looks bad…" She points to her eyes. "But it feels amazing, so I'm not going to wipe the tears. So you just have to deal with them."
"Kay."
"There was also a letter from Renato…saying…well, everything the love of your life should say—the good, the great, the awful," she says hurriedly, obviously not wanting to dwell on the contents of the letter. "His last sentence, plagued me for years. 'We were a puzzle.' I took it to mean we were too complicated, too hard to figure out, and that's that. It took Dr. Ramos, much to my shame, to dissect it. She made me write down all the aspects of a puzzle. In the end I came up with the following: Imperfect pieces that make up perfection…only when they're together."
I notice how intently she's looking at me. "Why are you telling me this?" I ask trying to put the my own pieces together. "You can't possibly think this pertains to me?"
"Tris, I lost Renato when I wasn't myself. At that point, I couldn't have been with anyone. But in the end, it was someone else's words that made me stagnant."
I clench my fists and swallow as her meaning—the true point of this conversation, comes through.
Flashback:
Tori leans on the bar, sipping on her soda water as I walk by tossing a lime in it.
"You know I don't like lime."
I reach over and toss a lemon in her drink for good measure.
"Is it entertaining to make people miserable?"
"Lynn rubs off on me." I sigh because it's so damned true. I go back to wiping down the bar in front of her for the tenth time, waiting for her to notice me—
"Spit it out, Tris," she orders, double checking my inventory.
"Turns out my first therapist was an unqualified thingamafucker."
"Yes, anytime someone says first therapist, that usually means they're a thingamafucker."
"It's actually the unqualified part that scares me," I mumble, thinking back to how confused I felt after almost all of our sessions.
"Well, if he has a Doctoral in Psychology; he's qualified. The rest is subject to opinion."
I clear my throat a little too roughly, turning around and grabbing the bottle of Gentlemans…but then immediately putting it back. "Well, I got a letter from the Sociology Department at Columbia."
"Why?"
"That's where he worked," I mutter.
"Speak, Tris."
"That's where he worked!" I exalt, looking at the bottle in longing.
Tori's raised eyebrows in the reflection of the mirror speaks volumes.
"Don't judge me, please," I moan, turning toward her. "Someone in one of Christina's classes was handing out cards for a doctor to do free therapy as long as they could publish their findings. It was anonymous, and I didn't need any more medical debt!"
"Fine, fine, whatever. Just glad you upgraded." She shakes her head with wide eyes.
"Anyway…" I pull out the envelope to read the letter, even though I had every word memorized.
"To Miss Beatrice Prior,
We regretfully inform you that Columbia University will not endorse any further studies performed by Dr. William DuBois. It had come to our attention that his intentions toward his subjects had been poorly communicated and the services he claimed to be providing were without merit and lacking in the quality one would expect from a Professor of Sociology at our university.
Our deepest apologies for this inconvenience,
Dr. Stanley Crimson, Chairperson of Department of Sociology"
The silence and blank stare she gives me leaves me both confused and knowing exactly what she means at the same time. "You were getting…therapy…from a Sociology professor?"
"I didn't… I know I should have… Can we stay on point?!"
"Which is?"
"Well, some of the things he said…were…weird. He was entirely too interested in my…relationships." I purposely stop, trying to avoid the still troubling and unresolved feelings about Tobias that this letter has stirred up. "But, some of the other things he said…resonated. Do I just totally classify everything he said as bullshit?"
"I don't know because I don't know what he said. Are you going to share?"
"I mean, he said…a lot. And I always left feeling…just, not great. And, at that point, I was grasping on to anything that felt like a solution!"
"Talk to Dr. Ramos."
"Thanks for nothing."
"I was never able to own up to my decision to stay away. For me, the truth…I never heard those words come out of his mouth. I never heard him say he didn't love me, or that he got married. But, I couldn't see that at the time. I couldn't see anything."
"Tori…" I turn to her shaking my head. "You don't think I can smell your analogy from a mile away? Is this your way of giving me direction without giving me direction? So fucking typical. Is Renato even real? Or are you using your fake cancer tears to your advantage?!" I regret saying it immediately after I say it. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I just don't understand why you're suddenly deciding to tell me this…now."
She shrugs. "I just wanted someone to know my story. You think this has anything to do with you?" she asks as if I'm reading too far into this.
"Yes."
"Hmm," she hums. "I wonder why..." Her crappy straightening of papers and pretending to be suddenly busy is annoying as fuck.
"So that's all you've got for me?"
"Yep."
Have a good night," I say sarcastically, exiting the office.
"Oh, hey, Tris?"
"Good Lord," I mumble walking backward and leaning my head in.
"Don't think for one second that I don't love Bud. Because I do. He's a good man. He makes me smile which is hard to do, and he makes me happy. I may have met him after Renato, but my life still turned out…great."
"Can I go now?"
"Please do."
Bethany Joy Lenz is my Tris inspiration BTW. I'll be posting some of the pics on the Facebook page that inspired parts in this chapter. Search Kris Daniels and 'like' the fanpage. Then send me a message if you want to join the private page.
Thanks for reading!
