Forgive Don't Forget (Part Two)

by Dayreadernitewriter

(AU) My eyes flit from her wringing hands up to her eyes and back down again, several times. All that had built up between us—the secrets, the lies, the half-truths, unrevealed feelings…everything I had to keep from her. She knows. Now she knows. And she's…still here… She's still here…

36. Showmanship

Chapter 36 - Showmanship

---

Zeke's POV:

I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like a fool for 'needing some air' when the air is -1000 degrees. Getting off two bus stops early—big mistake. And it is absolutely not helping to take my mind off the bullshit all-precinct meeting about the soon-to-be-required body cams. Captain Matthews literally just sat there while two white cops who are well past the age of retirement decided to use my skin color as off-the-cuff, bullshit, random commentary. 'What we wouldn't give to be about ten shades darker! Eh, Pedrad?' I stared at them, not understanding what the hell my blackness had to do with body cams when the DA stepped in, 'Gentleman, contrary to your ignorance, one's race has nothing to do with one's ability or requirement to wear a body camera.' She's crooked as shit, but kind of a badass. I appreciated her straight-up answer but was pissed she even had to give it—even more pissed at the follow-up conversation I overheard from the break-out room on my way out about all the 'Matters'—'What, people don't care about Blue Lives? Cops are dying in the street too! Since when does one race matter more? All lives matter!' Talkin' about it like it's some secret behind my back. I…am…Black. This conversation is…le-gi-ti-mat-e-ly about…me! TALK…TO…ME! I sigh, knowing they never will…

"Jesus, some people just don't fuckin' get it. No one said cops' lives don't matter. No one said all lives…don't…matter!" I growl, kicking at a pile of salt on the sidewalk. "I mean, I like pepperoni pizza. It doesn't mean I don't like sausage, it just means right now I'm bringin' my attention to this piece of pepperoni pizza right in front of me. It takes not a damned thing away from delicious Italian sausage! It just so happens that brothers are getting shot at point blank FUCKING range for having their tail lights out—"

"That's a heavy conversation to be having one-sided."

I stop in my tracks at the very very recognizable voice of my supposedly MIA thought-to-be best friend who is actually no longer MIA. Should I bitch slap him or punch him in the face? "Well, it's a lot fucking easier that way," I say over my shoulder, not giving this asshole the ultimate satisfaction of turning around.

"Nice day packed full of non-racist people making racist remarks?"

"Well, it is a Tuesday."

"It's Thursday."

"It was an expression!" I grit with a clenched jaw, turning around ready to sock him.

He puts his hands up defensively like a little bitch. "And that was sarcasm!"

I look him over…ya know, in a way that men do—in a manly way. Dude has the same small smirk of a guy who knows he's smart, but would never say it; still looks older than his age, still ruggedly handsome in his dark jeans and grey coat with a scarf tucked into the neck in the perfect way that says, 'I'm wearing this because it's cold, not because I'm gay or European.'

Crossing my arms, I tilt my chin up. "So, you're back," I state, realizing it's the obvious and not at all brand new information.

"Which…I'm assuming you knew..."

"Uri has a big mouth. And for once, I'm good with that." The feeling of a punch to the gut returns—the one I felt when Uriah let it slip that Four was back in town.

"In his defense, I didn't tell him to keep it a secret."

"Good thing because he didn't hold back. In fact, lemme summarize his rant—'You're back. You're an ass. You're lady-hopping again. Oh, and you're an ass.'"

His mouth turns down in a too large for his face grin. "Lady-hopping?"

"Yes. As in going from one woman to the next. And, frankly, I'm not happy about it." It's only a partial truth—Shauna is the one who isn't happy, and I have to live with Shauna. I mean, I GET to…I GET to live with Shauna.

Four looks like he has a million thoughts in his head that add up to a big old zero. "Okay, that's a gross exaggeration, and…I know I'm walking on thin ice here…but it's none of your business how many ladies I'm…hopping." Now he crosses his arms trying to man up to my stance.

"But it's Uriah's business?" I ask, trying with all my Pedrad might to mask my injured pride.

Suddenly, he drops the tough-guy attitude and shrugs his shoulders. "No. He was just a poor man's Zeke."

I feel my forehead scrunch up in confusion, even though I try to relax it. What the fuck? A poor man's… "Is that a black joke?!" I yell.

"What?!" he yells back, stunned…totally stunned. "It was an expression!"

Okay, maybe we should stop speaking in 'expressions.'

"He was my back-up—my substitute Zeke, you fuckin' fool!"

I sigh, feeling like I need to hide my head in my jacket like a turtle—Four wouldn't care if I was a left-handed, albino, transgender midget. "Sorry. Complexion sensitive today."

He nods his head. "So, I, uh…I wanted to talk to you in person and I…chickened out…a few times. I…I… Shit. I…fucked up our friendship."

I pretty much give him the ultimate frowny face because even though I'm mad that he came back and didn't call me, I was the one who fucked up. "Geez, man. No. You didn't. I shouldn't have said any of that about your mom. I didn't even mean it. I was freaking out about Shauna and—"

"Stop," he orders in the tone of voice that I will not argue with.

I don't think I've ever seen Four nervous around me…or should I say about me—he was plenty nervous on many occasions when it had to do with a certain ex-lady. But—

"I didn't leave because of you."

I feel like the rock of guilt that made itself a home in my gut finally disappear. But, then a question appears like a bubble in the comics section. "Why…didn't…you…tell…me…that?" I growl, taking a step closer to him. "You let me believe…for months…that—"

"Short version?"

I cross my arms at his stupid question. "What the fuck do you think?"

"I left because my father's an invasive piece of shit."

"Pretty sure you left out a good 15% there," I scoff.

"That's the idea of the short version—"

"Fuck the short version. Why didn't you just tell me that, you asshole?! I thought for…days, weeks, months that it was my fault! What the hell kind of friend does that?!"

"A really bad one. I used you as an excuse. And it worked. But, fuck, now I wish it hadn't…"

My extreme guilt is now replaced by extreme anger, and the flicker of fear in his eyes tells me he knows it. I want to hit him. But the problem is…he'd let me…and then it wouldn't count.

"I'm gonna ask one more time. Why would you do that?" I whisper, taming my anger.

"Because Marcus is…everywhere—infiltrated in parts of my life that I hadn't even realized, in parts of other people's lives I hadn't realized." He stares at me hard, and it hits me that he could be talking about me.

Flashes of the hack job of the security cameras at Dauntless that Shauna and I saw on Four's laptop come back to me loud and clear.

"I needed Marcus to think I didn't give a shit about…" He stops talking and runs his hands through his hair. "…my life here anymore. So, I left with no explanation to anyone but Amar. The fact that you and I weren't speaking when I left was…a bonus."

"A bonus," I repeat with a dry mouth. I'm about to give you a bonus to the nut-sack!

"Yeah," he answers in his stupid quiet voice. "Everyone got to think I left out of anger and betrayal, particularly convincing anger and betrayal considering you threw my mother's name in there. It was a win-win."

"And you couldn't have trusted me enough to clue me in on any of this? Your dad's always been up in your shit. How is this any different—"

"How's the new desk clerk at Dauntless working out?" he interrupts in the most bullshit subject-changer ever.

"You're really asking me this right now?"

"Is she incredibly helpful? Always around? Bringing coffee? Water? I'll bet she's really attentive. College kid, right?"

"Yeah? Maybe? I don't know. And I don't care—"

"She's actually in an MA program at UIC. She has student loans up to her ears," Mr. Way-too-Full-of-Facts tell me.

I put my hands out, waiting for him to continue…which he obviously isn't. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to go and give a shit?!"

"No. This is where you make two and two equal Four."

I stop for a minute because this is where he usually loses me—when he speaks in his weird code. "Dude, just be straight with me!"

"She was hired on purpose—so she could eavesdrop."

"Bullshit. Shauna hired her. And I believe the correct way to say that is eathesdrop." I smile in my smuggest smug smile loving the fact that I just corrected him. I watch with satisfaction as his face tenses up tighter than my biceps, and even more so when his adam's apple bobs, proving the mother fucker has swallowed his damned pride for once.

"Her name is Amelia Adams. Any mention of my name at Dauntless ends up on a nice post-grad version of a weekly dossier sent directly to Marcus. Usually on Fridays…around 8:00 PM."

I freeze…mostly because I have no clue what a dossi-whatever is, and I can't give up my grammerical upper hand, but also because whatever it is…it's sent to Marcus. "And how the hell do you know this?"

"Doesn't matter. He's gone over the edge, Zeke. He's more obsessed now than ever. I don't know why. But, I needed him to think I gave zero fucks about anyone."

"Shit," I breathe out walking a couple steps in the opposite direction. "So, now…what…you're back and just…gonna deal with him?"

He shrugs and looks at me like I said something funny. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Hmmph. Very un-Four like."

"Yeah," he sighs. "Wanna grab a beer?"

"Not quite there yet, man. Gonna take me a bit." I look over his shoulder down the street at the bus heading our way which may just contain my not-very-loving-lately fiancée.

He nods his head while I try my best to ignore the straight-up man hurt on his face. "Okay. It's good to see you. Tell Shauna I said hi."

"Better not." The second hurt-flash on his face makes me feel like an insta-shit. I suppose I could have left that comment out.

He turns back toward wherever the hell he came from, and I do the same. We look like some bullshit scene in a movie—two dudes lookin' over each others' shoulders…so much left unsaid…such sadness—

"Hey! By the way…I love your complexion! It's what drew me to you!"

I turn and walk backward, the memory of our first encounter coming back to me in living color. There were only two seats left on that bus… "Psh! Drew you to me?! I saved your ass from having to sit on the bus with Stanky Steve!"

He shrugs. "Maybe after all these years…that's what I've let you believe!"

I think back to the look on his face when he hopped on the bus..more like slumped onto the bus. He looked right, then left, then right again…and left and…then another right. Did he…did he choose me?

"Hey! Wait up!" I jog after him. "You wanted to sit by me?! And…what the hell do you mean 'Let me'?!"

---

Tobias's POV:

I stare at the screen of my phone just because it happens to be in front of me, not because anything on the screen is registering. I'm still kicking myself for deleting nearly all pictures of Tris and I, taking special care to select with particular gusto the These files will be deleted from all devices warning. I remember thinking "Fucking A-right they'll be deleted from all my devices! Haha! Take that to the bank and cash it!"

"Yeah… Right along with her rent check," I say aloud.

I rest my head on my phone with an unintentional smack, remembering that I just about skipped into the bank eagerly ready to deposit Tris's cashier's check that she had rush-delivered. The memory also hits me of being disappointed that it was a cashier's check because then it wouldn't show up like a reminder knife to her chest as cleared on her bank statement. I wanted her to know so badly how little of a shit I gave about her—no matter how much of a load of shit that was.

Truthfully, years of practice of compartmentalizing made it easy to trick my brain into believing she no longer meant anything to me. But, then the slightest thing—a crack on the sidewalk because she'd never step on them; a fake smile from a female bartender which most people wouldn't pick up on; crisp cotton sheets in the window of a furniture store because Tris always made the bed better than me; strong coffee; greasy spoon diners; arcades; any girl with dirty blond semi-messy hair made to look sexy rather than unkempt—and a seemingly endless amount of other things would send me off on a binging flood of memories seeming to last hours.

I loosen my tie, setting my phone down on the counter, feeling only slightly grateful that I had the wherewithal to keep a couple pictures. They're buried on a flash drive somewhere in an unmarked folder—compartmentalized, just like my head. I don't know why I did it—apparently, letting go of her entirely was out of my realm of abilities. Truthfully, there's only one that I know the exact location of—the picture Lynn took of her, my favorite picture…ever.

---

Flashback:

I've always actually liked Lynn. She's forthcoming and unapologetic and doesn't snark just to snark—an attribute I hated about Christina along with the overexaggerated dramatic flair she added to it. However, right now based on the sarcastic barrage I'm receiving, I can honestly say I dislike her more than Christina. The only reason I'm sticking around is based on my sheer curiosity of the circumstances. I had just made the last decision, signed the last contract, taken the last drive, wrapped up the last unrequited and logically ridiculed detail…and then here—based solely on a haphazard and spur-of-the-moment decision to bid good-bye to Gertie—appears…Lynn. And I'm currently unable to decipher if this is based on some joke of Divine Providence, which I've reconciled that I don't believe in, or just the coincidences of the common circle of relationships. Either way, I look at Lynn and see…Tris.

"Okay, I'm just gonna out this shit. Did you leave because of some chick? Some married chick?"

I shake my head in wonder at how the rumor train starts—how many games of Telephone our common correspondences had to have played before that asshat conclusion came out. I bury my face to avoid laughing at the complete bullshitness of that, but decide on a vague response just enough to counter a 'rumor' but not enough to give away an ounce of information. "Well…I'm pretty sure she's not married. At least, I hope not. 'Cause that…would be a surprise." I lift my head thinking about my luck and how karmically sensical it would be if Tris were indeed married during my efforts in the past month.

"Oh…right, right, right, right, right. Heard about that. Yay. Well, hope Round 2 went real well—real, real, well for ya!" she spits, my mind trying its damndest to follow her nonsense.

A part of me wants to scream that between my guessing game at packing boxes, too many run-ins with non-evolved individuals, a massively unhealthy diet, and a total and entire lack of good whiskey my Round 2 at life so far sucks ass!

"Hasta la vista, Ghertrude!" With a swift slide across the table, Lynn's bag attempts to follow her nearly whipping me in the face before the contents end up on the floor.

I try to hold back a 'nah-nah-nee-boo-boo' in a that's-what-you-get-for-being-a-jerk way. But, my mind plays catch-up, and I end up on my knees scanning the magical appearance of photographs as if my physical responses have taken over the job of my emotional ones, filing each image away as if by nature's request—each image of Tris.

"Dude! Stop being chivalrous—"

"I'm not," I mutter at the whip of Lynn's fingers. I briefly wonder if she can even hear my voice because I seem unable to, a million more questions waiting in the queue. Specifically— "What are these?"

"Oooohhhh… Those? Those are pictures."

"Why? I mean, what are you…doing with them?" I wonder, trying to understand why the girl who hates to be photographed is displayed in exactly that manner, dozens of times. The chameleon-like photos play tricks on my mind, each one able to exist on its own without explanation—they speak for themselves.

"Practicing."

I glance at her sideways a brief passing thought to prompt her further, but my eyes and curiosity are instantly drawn back in as I run my finger across them.

"Uh…yeah… I'm not really into people's dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty fingers all over my pics—"

"I'll be careful," I interrupt, making my way through each picture, putting them in the order that I deem appropriate—an order I can't quite explain.

"Well, in that case…" She swats my hands away, beginning to reorganize in her ridiculous way. "Let me tell you…ALL…about these."

I sit back on my heels, suddenly wary of Lynn's conniving tone, but unwilling to let her stalwart my ocular obsession.

"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," I interject, again wondering if she can hear my voice. I'd much rather pass right through the idea of how much alcohol-induced fun Tris is having.

"Yeah. Tequila. Whoa."

I snap my head to the right to meet Lynn's eyes at the mention of tequila, but I notice a frown as she stares at the pictures. An unexplained hint of annoyance crosses my mind, however—Tris broke it off…with me. She doesn't get to drink herself into a stupor using her liquor-to-forget of choice! I run my hands down my face, putting myself in check—I'm taking credit for her grief? Seriously, it probably has nothing to do with me.

"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 don't even bother to look at the ones she's pointing at, being too hung up on the word chemicals. "What do you mean…extra-curricular—"

"None of your business."

I nod my head, pathetically. One could deduce that if I were honestly disturbed by Tris's behavior, I would coerce Lynn into telling me more… They'd be wrong. The truth is, I don't want to know.

"Here, at least, she finally learned to grin."

I gaze at the picture trying to hide my fondness for that particular look on Tris's face—the one that begs the question 'What's on your mind, Tris?', even though her response would, most likely, be unpleasant.

"Although, I have to say a lot of these were luck of the draw. Okay,…they were all luck of the draw."

I furrow my eyebrows now developing a new appreciation for Lynn's efforts. These are candids taken at the perfect moment. Hmm. Wow, Lynn.

" I swear she just…looks good in pictures. She's like proportionate or something—"

"Did she dye her hair?" I ask in unexplainable disgust as pictures of her with seemingly dark brown hair peek out from under the piles. I always loved her natural dirty blond hair—how sometimes I couldn't tell if it was brown or blond.

"No. That's my magic right there. Holga Wide Pinhole. The camera uses a super small….. instead of a lens. The hole focuses… light….. ….. ….. quantum physics ….. ….. ….. ….. ….."

"What's with all the make-up?" I interrupt Lynn's details which I don't give a shit about as my attention is drawn to the more unnerving pictures reminiscent of one of the few nights I wish had never happened—Tris's date with David, the expert in necrophilia.

"Who cares?"

The tone of Lynn's voice makes her seem as if she really wanted to know why I would care. Am I that much of a wall of blocked-off emotional fuckery?! I often wonder how it is that nobody can hear what goes on in my head. It's as if I'm a stroke victim—a volunteer stroke victim.

"Just…wondering."

"Uh, well, in her defense, she was just…trying something new."

I scoff at Lynn's 'defense'…aloud—I literally scoffed aloud. Tris wasn't trying anything new; she was covering something up.

"Anyway, she got over that pretty fast. She's back to normal Prior-wear now. Ya know, minimalist extraordinaire."

"Yeah," I sigh in agreement of her description of Tris's style—I love it.

I notice that Lynn doesn't seem to be in such a hurry anymore. I can tell she's admiring her own work right along with me…for entirely different reasons, however. I watch as Lynn continues to shift the pictures, lingering on one where, if I were to venture a guess, I would say Tris was at Hangars, standing under a bar light. I smirk at her face that was caught mid-laugh-her ass-off. God, that smile… A picture perfect memory comes forth of her doubling over after we watched some guy tank down the bleachers at Wrigley—the joy that woman experiences at other people's expense shouldn't be as endearing to me as it is.

"She looks…happy. Is this…um…recent?" I realize how odd a question that is after I've already asked it, and I have no idea what my desired response would be.

"Last weekend. Oh, yeah, she does…definitely does. Super happy," Lynn responds with particular superlative emphasis.

Super happy. The elementary description decides to play on repeat in my head as I take in the picture of Tris with some guy's arms wrapped around her mid-section. I bite my lips between my teeth until I realize I've almost ceased breathing altogether at the sight. I push it aside when I really just want to rip it up and stomp on it over and over and over—

"So, uh…this has been…real fun, but…" Lynn trails off as if she doesn't know what to say next.

And neither do I…because my mind is on lockdown upon what the last disgusting picture exposed underneath it. If I could put a time stamp on the moment that I knew I will never be able to move on from this girl, it's right now. Pictures—no, I can't call them pictures…these are portraits. In black and white, sepia, and dulled tones. They expose, embody, and put on display with perfect accuracy…who Tris is. They're simultaneously haunting and alluring. She's devoid of make-up in all of them, allowing her subtle beauty to shine through with perfect clarity. She's like the God-damned Mona Lisa…

"She…let you take these?" I ask in entire disbelief.

Now it's Lynn's turn to scoff. "Well, I wasted a ton of film …. …. ….. … …. ….. let me tell you. They're my favorite. …. …. …. …., I must say. …. used my Rangefinder. You're basically ….. looking through a window….. ….. ….. ….."

I now know I can't shut Tris out. I could accept the fact that I can't have her and possibly in the very, very distant, most likely non-existent future I may in some way, shape, or form decide to slightly move on in a very, very, relative way with someone else; but, it'll never work because now I have these...etched in my memory forever.

"Is she seeing anyone?" I breathe out, taking myself aback at my question. But it's real, and it came from somewhere deep. "I know it's none of my business, and I don't deserve to know, but…I think I…" I trail off not knowing how to explain.

"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 purse my lips at the perfectly warranted albeit confusing reaction from Lynn. "I don't know what you're talking about, and…I know how that…sounded. But, this is…her…and…" I leave off the end of my sentence with a silent eye-plead to Lynn…and not understanding why she called Tris a boy's name—a little boy's name—

"Yes," she states resolutely and matter-of-factly.

For a moment I had forgotten what my question was, having also been caught up in the geography of wherever the hell Dawson's Creek is. But then my eyes burn as the image of Tris in another fucker's arms glares at me from where I tossed it.

"Is it…serious?" I stare at Lynn, dying for a response that negates my always worst-case-scenario mind.

"Oh, yeah. Really…serious. Haven't seen her…like this…ever."

Lynn just perfectly described the connection that I thought was only reserved for Tris and I—having heard those words from so many regarding her and I and the effect we had on each other. Those words, those last six words—'Haven't seen her…like this…ever'—that is my undoing.

I look down at my fingers as they press into the floor so hard the tips turn white. I need to escape. Redirecting my gaze toward Gertie, I push off the floor. Trying to control my gait, the look of complete understanding on Gertie's face makes me almost lose it right there. Slides a piece of paper in my head and nods to the door—her gift to me being not having to say good-bye.

"Hey, Four—"

I close the door before Lynn could torture me anymore, taking a right instead of the would-make-the-most-sense left onto Lake Street. I round the corner when the building comes to an end and lean my back against it, breathing in and out to calm my racing heart. Or more so I don't punch the brick wall behind me. I fist my hands, feeling an unknown occupant crinkle in one of them. I look down at a picture that I had inconspicuously even to myself swiped. Suddenly, I'm voluntarily crushing it in my hand. But, I stop before I go too far. This is my Tris. Whoever she's with now can have the new one. But this one was mine.

I take a look at the smaller piece of paper from Ghertrude. In fancy scrawl— TU ME MANQUES. I shake my head and shrug. At least, Gertie misses me. God, she's weird.

---

Although I'm not sure what happened to Ghertrude's creepy note, I had slid Lynn's photograph behind that stupid orchid picture that somehow made its way to California in a box of random shit that the movers packed. I never displayed it. In fact, it still resides in the back of a closet, the glass cracked. Not putting it on a shelf was immaturity on my behalf. I was mad. Mad because I felt like a martyr—Tris would never know the lengths I went through to make up for my father's interference. Mad because I couldn't figure out why I did it. But, now I'm just sad. Sad because they were things we may have done together. An entire month's worth of long drives, hard decisions, the perfect script, and many other things she may just hate me for.

But after this week, I hope to God I'm wrong. I had forgotten what it's like to just…be…with her. And now I want it more than ever. And I want it forever—

I hear a thunk that seemed to come from the back mudroom of the house. I would chalk it up to a bird flying into the large windows—Seriously, could there be a dumber animal? —but, it was too loud. I push off the edge of the counter and walk toward the back. Rounding the corner, I stop in my tracks at the sight—Tris's eyes, or at least, the upper half of her face is peering in through the window. I instantly smile—par for the course—and shake my head, still in disbelief that she won't accept the garage code, and walk toward the very back of the house to let her in. But, I stop as soon as I notice that she doesn't seem like she's trying to get in—she's just…staring into the mudroom. I crane my neck to see what the hell she's looking at. All I spy is the built-in floor to ceiling shelving. I've gotta admit—it's badass.

The small room was initially a lean-to that the original farm owners used for hogs. But, five owners later, it was dilapidated and being used as a store-whatever-shit-from-the-backyard room—bags of salt, snow shovels, worn tennis balls, empty dog food bags, years and years worth of yellowed mucky newspapers that had congealed to the floor among a lot of other refuse I'd rather not discuss: a nice mix of raccoon shit, dead mice, a syringe, and a few used condoms. Unfortunately, it was in utter disrepair and entirely in the way of where my builder needed access to restore the plumbing. So, down it went—the shelves are all that's left from whatever wood I could salvage. I look down at my hands, the stinging remembrance of a late 19th-century splinter being driven up under my fingernail a stark reminder of—

Suddenly, what I can only describe as a sack of potatoes being dropped along with a cross between a grunt and a squeak brings me out of my semi-trance—Tris is no longer at the window. I shake my head at myself at how quickly I get lost in reverie at the labor of love that is this house—Labor…of…love? I'm an embarrassment to my own mind…

I shift along the wall, stopping just short of the backdoor as she she peers her head in through the mullions, her eyes raking over the intricate cubby system—the one she designed. I watch the edge of her mouth twitch as if her face is begging her to allow it one smile, but she doesn't acquiesce. I chuckle at her—she won't even let herself be proud of herself.

Not being able to guess her next move, and still not quite sure what the hell she's doing, I back slowly into the half-bathroom and grab my phone out of my pocket. I frown, again, at the fact that I don't have an assigned picture next to her name on my favorites list.

Tobias: What are you doing?

I watch as she grabs her phone, a beautiful smile crossing her face, then a look of panic as she turns to see if my car is in the driveway—the same driveway she's standing on. Idiot. Little does she know my car is safely stowed in the detached garage. Well, semi-detached thanks to prohibition. There is still so much about this house that Tris doesn't know—nor does she seem like she wants to.

Tris: Nothin.

Tris: Just chillin.

She literally smacks her head with her phone mouthing her answer as if only an idiot would have responded with 'Just chillin.' She's right. Even more pathetic is that she probably had to go back and override the autocorrect for her outdated use of slang.

Tobias: Yeah. It…is…pretty cold outside.

I observe her as she shivers, my more literal text physically reminding her that it's 22 degrees out. She bites her bottom lip and again looks back at the spot that my car had been parked in as if she's not entirely convinced I'm not home and not observing exactly how bonkers she is. She really needs to go with her gut more. Although, it definitely looks as though I'm not home seeing as the last time Tris was here was the only time she was here…and she didn't exactly ask for a tour of the garage…which is fucking awesome by the way.

I stand up straighter, trying not to let the Eyeore in me come forth at her seeming disinterest in this place. I don't blame her if she is. It's not like I told her the house was initially renovated for her…or us…whatever...because what kind of foolish dip shit does that!? Married dip shits…they do this kind of stuff. Not dip shits for emotional closure and delusions of a subconscious sliver of hope for a minutely possible future whose likelihood of happenstance is a .0000000001! Good Christ, what was I thinking?! I have a severe psychosis.

Tris: Totes.

I hold in a laugh as she looks up to the sky shaking her phone at the gods in shame at her vague response number two. Yet, she seems to gain an ounce of recovery before texting again.

Tris: How is your day going?

Tobias: Interesting. One of my former hires is acting inappropriately.

Tris: Oh. That sucks. What are they doing?

Tobias: Pretty sure they're stalking me.

She squints her eyes as if she isn't sure she read the text correctly.

Tris: Guy or girl?

I can't help but stifle another laugh as she rolls her eyes at herself and continues to text furiously.

Tris: Not that it matters.

Tris: It's weird either way.

Tris: Totally irrelevant.

Tobias: Girl. She showed up when she thought no one was here.

I watch with entirely too much amusement as Tris purses her lips, her face turning a slight shade of red. But then she takes a breath to calm herself, adding a shoulder shrug of indifference meant for only her benefit.

Tris: That makes her stalker material?

Tobias: Caught her trying to break in. And she's been known to show up at ALG unannounced. And was eavesdropping during one of my meetings.

I cringe, hoping I didn't take that too far. The initial meeting with Conrad Grayden, Inc., and her misinterpretation of my disturbing conversation with Carl Avery made Tris question…everything.

Tris: No…way…

Tobias: Way.

Tobias: She was also in my apartment when I wasn't home. And one time she was even up on the roof.

The look of incredulity and near horror on her face is way too priceless for me to stop this.

Tris: That is so fucked up! What a freak!

Tobias: Indeed.

Tris: What the hell are you going to do?

Tobias: I should probably call the cops.

Tris: Definitely! Holy fuck!

I move out into the small mudroom as she meanders down the driveway, seeming to be lost in thought. She always seems to sway a little when she walks without a purpose. Since I've been back, I haven't had the chance to just…observe her—seeing as I made the wine-induced promise to not show up unannounced at the bar because "people who are just dating don't do that." Tris's words. As if she were an expert…

She stops in her tracks and whips around, startling me into smacking my head on a shelf. Ow, fuck! She is texting at mach speed.

Tris: Was this before we were dating? And why am I just hearing about this?!

Tobias: Shrug emoji.

"What the…?" she mouths to her phone.

Tris: You know you don't have to write the words. You can actually SELECT the emoji.

Tobias: Another shrug emoji.

I anticipate an eye roll, but she's wandering down the driveway again.

Tris: Srsly. How long has this been going on?

Tobias: Since forever. I've never used an emoji and I never will. And what the hell is 'srsly?'

Tris: I'm not kidding, asshole!

Tobias: Me neither. Emojis suck, and I still don't know what 'srsly' means.

Tris: HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD A STALKER?!

Tobias: Suspected stalker.

"Agggggggghhhhhh!"

I pretty much bark out a laugh at her dramatic frustration as I walk through the great room, still following her as she passes by the windows.

Tris: WHATEVER!

Tobias: Several months. But, she stopped for a while. Sad emoji.

Tris: SAD

Tris: EMOJI!

Tobias: You know you don't have to write the words. You can actually SELECT the emoji.

Tris: Are you fucking serious?

Tobias: Yes. There are about 5000 emojis now. Did you know there's a poop emoji now?

Tris: EVERYONE KNOWS THAT!

I look up to see Tris practically panting on the driveway, but she turns away from me again. A neighbor waves to her, but based on the look on the lady's face, Tris's response was expectedly shitty.

My phone vibrates in my hand. It's Tris. So, I select the automated message option "Call you later" and reject the call. She looks stunned—fucking stunned. I slink to the nearest window and crack it open to see if she'll leave me a message of pure hellfire.

"Tobias…James…Eaton, let me get this straight, some dumb bitch had been stalking you for months, and YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?! You had a stage 5 creeper on your hands, and YOU COULDN'T INFORM ME OF THIS?! Did it not bother you enough?! That is shitty! Fucking shitty!"

"She does not disappoint," I mumble to myself.

"You keep secrets! That's why you suck! You and your secrets! And ya know what else…YOU TOLD ME OVER A TEXT! This not text-worthy information! This supersedes texting! Maybe it's a good thing that people who are just dating don't say "I love you!" she screeches.

"Now that's just plain mean," I whisper to myself, watching her bolt to the front of this house.

I figure now is the time to end the charade, so I stalk to the front door, preparing myself for my punishment. I'm half-way down the front porch stairs when a distinct huffing and grunting noise halts me in my tracks. Then, backing up the stairs, I see, plain as day, Tris actually climbing the large fieldstone rocks that jut out to make the house look like it has a stone foundation. I shove my hands in my pockets and stroll across the front porch as she makes her way around the corner of the house, leaning my forearms on the banister once I reach it.

I tilt my head, admiring her upper body strength as she pulls herself up to the next rock like a pro until she reaches the exterior limestone window sill and leans her weight on her forearms. I pick up on how expertly she just did that—too expertly. I glance down to the ground, noticing that she has a good six feet between her and the iced-over mulch, yet she seems somehow unaffected.

She roughly makes forehead contact with the exterior window pane, a sound again reminiscent of the thwack of a bird hitting the window. It is at this moment that I wish I had positioned myself in one of the two wing back chairs the stagers had brought in to be used for the small front room—They're right in her line of sight, and it would scare the shit out of her. But then she'd fall and possibly break an ankle. Howwwwwever…then I'd have to take care of her! I'll put it on my list of future-possible-maybes.

I shift my hip, so I'm closer to the window. Tris still hasn't spotted me, unbelievable as it is. I tilt my head, trying to study her face as she gazes through the window. She sighs with a relaxing hum as if whatever she's looking at had suddenly calmed her.

Frankly, it's an odd-shaped room that she insisted upon in her beyond-beginner drawings. I fondly remember a bright red asterisk with the words "front room for two." It was once a sizeable elongated closet that was part of the second addition to the house. I can understand why they did it, seeing as the place had no storage. But to achieve it, they had to add on to the front of the barn, so they put drywall on either side of a pre-existing original barn window and extended the front of the house. In Tris's plans, she had the drywall removed from both sides of the now-non-functional interior windows. So, if you're standing in the kitchen, you can see into the small 'front room for two' through the restored original barn windows. I also kept the shelving for 'books and knick-knacks and tchotchkes' according to Tris's plans. Yes, knick-knacks and tchotchkes are, shockingly, part of my vocabulary now.

I hear an awkward squeaky noise, and I glance up to see Tris rubbing a circle on the windowpane where it had frozen over from the condensation of her breath. Okay, that's just crossing a line… "So, I decided not to call the cops," I say lazily, ignoring her yelp while casually drumming my fingers on the banister. "…but I may bill you for the exterior window cleaning." I look up to see that she has lost her footing, and is now supporting her weight fully on her forearms, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks a burning force to be reckoned with. "Whatcha doin', Tris?"

"Not…stalking…you!" she grits out loudly, having come to the apparent conclusion that she was the antagonist of our texting battle.

"Really."

"Yes, really!"

"Then what pray tell…are you doing?"

She purses her lips and adjusts her weight again. "Quit the praying and telling and help me, please!"

I look down to see her feet are hanging and she is no longer anywhere near a boulder in which she could leverage herself. "First, tell me what you're doing."

"No," she answers petulantly as if her keeping her secret from me will get her anywhere.

"No?"

"No."

"Why?" I question wryly.

"'Cause now I'm mad!"

"You're mad. Hopefully at yourself." I gesture to her current predicament.

"No. At you!"

"Tris Prior, you are casing my house like a sub-par member in training for one of Ocean's 11…and you're the one who gets to be mad?" I ask with absolute incredulity.

"I'm mad because you're making me feel like an idiot!"

"Oh. I'm doing that, huh?" I scan up and down her hanging-from-a-window form and then nod at a passing car slowly driving by, the kids pushing their noses up against the glass in curiosity.

"Yep. I was fine before you showed up!"

"I don't think so," I deadpan.

"Well, you think wrong. I was fine. You made me feel stupid. And I slipped."

"Just tell me what you're doing," I chuckle, watching her feet sway. "And don't bother lying."

She huffs. "I just wanted to look, okay? I'm just…looking. I've just been…looking!"

I furrow my eyebrows in utter confusion. "You could have just…asked to come over?" I offer as a would-have-been-perfectly-reasonable solution.

"Well, you could have just invited me to come over!"

I raise my eyebrows at her response which was so cup-runneth-over full of bullshit—I've suggested her to come over numerous times in the past week.

"And, yes, I know how stupid that sounded!"

"Good."

"Please, don't make me explain further," she whines. "I don't even understand right now."

I push off the banister and trot down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the jutting-out stone foundation from the second addition of the house. "18,62," I state, finding myself standing in the front yard just to see what she looks like from the sidewalk. As expected—imbecilic.

"What?!"

"18,62," I repeat with measured patience. "Say it."

"Why?!"

"Just do it."

"Fine. 18…62!"

"Say it again."

"Oh, my God. 1862! 1862! Jesus…pleeeeaaassee…" she begs over her shoulder, the small movement in her upper body causes a chain reaction in her lower body—her flexing ass muscles as she rights her equilibrium. Yum… "Oh, my… Are you…? Tobias!" she screams, loud enough to make me cringe. "If you don't stop staring at my ass, I will shove a fucking pole so far up yours that it will come out of your face!"

"Does she always swear that much?" questions an annoying voice directly to my left. Apparently, a person of short stature had decided that standing ungodly close to me is a social norm. Kids these days.

"My guess would be yes," a man's voice responds as I jerk forward, a muzzle of some sort thrusting itself into my groin…from behind nonetheless.

"My mom wouldn't like that."

Regaining my balance, I look right and left not knowing who to address first—the tiny human or the adult whom I now recognize as the man who caught Tris and me in a suburban-style street brawl akin to a WWE championship. I decide on the guy if only to segregate the dog from my testicles. "Uh, yes. Well, she has problems."

"Uggghhhh," Tris growls, thwacking her head on my window again.

"Names Royce." He reaches his hand across his body to shake mine without taking his eyes off of Tris, shaking his head slowly at the sight.

"I'm…uh…" I take a deep breath. "Tobias." I have yet to accustom myself with using my given name in the Chicagoland area. It came surprisingly easy in California…particularly after my odd introduction to Maya.

"Hey, that's my name! But, don't call me that 'cause my mom hates it."

"Noted," I grumble to the kid.

"Yeah, soooo…" Royce rocks back and forth from his heels to his toes while I awkwardly try to impede his dogs progress of burrowing a hole in my balls. "…I don't suppose I should step in…again…this time."

"Nah, she's fine," I grunt.

"I'm…fine!" Tris agrees, trying to swing her legs toward the nearest stone.

"Mmm hmm." Royce lingers for a few more moments before moseying his way down the sidewalk, his dog still making a home in my groin. "S'go, Sniffs!" he yells over his shoulder.

I trip forward yet again as the appropriately named dog runs toward its owner. "Jesus," I mutter, wiping down the front of my pants, the nice damp mark of dog snot making it look like I pissed myself.

"Whatcha doin' up there, Tris?!" the little squirt yells as he tromps over to her.

"Yeah, Tris," I repeat, grunting my way over to them both. "Whatcha doin' up there?" I lean my shoulder on the house, right behind the kid. "Friend of yours?" I ask, nodding to him.

Her eyes suddenly move furiously between the two of us, and she seems at a loss for words. "Why you lookin' at us funny?" Tobias whose mom hates the name Tobias asks like the uneducated butthead he is.

"I…"

It's right then that I notice her fingers are purple from lack of circulation. It may be going to her head. "Come on, you creepy little voyeur." I wrap my arms around her legs and back up, grunting as she clamps her arms around my head and sits roughly on my right shoulder—it never seems to feel quite right. I hoist her off my shoulders and unceremoniously dump her on the ground, grabbing the back of her jacket, so she doesn't go ass over tea kettle.

"Ya know, my grandma's neighbor says this place was a cracked house." The kid tilts his head, looking up at the façade of my masterpiece. "But, looks fine to me."

"Crackhouse," I correct his ignorance…again. "But, I'm pretty sure it was meth."

"What's that?"

"Crystal methamphetamine. It's a strong and highly addictive drug that affects the central nervous system. Don't use it."

"What do you mean…use it?"

"Well, there are several ways—"

The grinding of the heel of Tris's cross-trainer into my toes halts all conversation. "Mgh! What was that for—"

"Toby, what are you doing here?" Tris asks in some only-use-when-communicating-with-small-people voice while I stand back in horror that anyone would willingly nickname their kid Toby.

"I'm thirsty. Hey, Mr. Tobias. Didja know you have a barn in your house?"

"Don't call me that. And, I had an inkling."

"An ink-ing? Ya know, you talk funny."

"Says the kid who abuses familiar contractions ad nauseam."

He stands back looking at me with a more severe expression than any four-year-old should be capable of—like he's filing away my soul…and it's freaking me out. "Kinda hungry too…" he adds warily.

"Do you have a home that serves food?"

"Yeah. My mom makes good grilled cheeses sammiches."

"Sand-wiches. You should go there. Right now—"

"Toby, your grandma wouldn't be thrilled with you coming into a random stranger's house," Tris interrupts, looking at me as if I'm the one being rude as I stare back wondering who the hell this scruffy kid's grandma is.

"But, you're not a stranger." The kid crosses his arms, looking at her as if he's plotting his next damned move; but it's not going to be a smart one, I'll tell you that.

"You ever read Hansel and Gretel, kid?" I ask poignantly.

He backs up a step as that one sinks in, now looking at Tris warily.

"Ignore him, Toby." Tris steps in front of me and gets down to his level like a pro. "You see, I don't live here. This really grouchy guy does."

He looks over her shoulder and glares at me. Thanks, Tris. 'Cause you're always such a damned peach!

"And, you don't know me very well either," she says softly.

"She could be a murderer," I state flatly, hopefully deterring this stray from any future poor choices. "What if she chained you to a wall in the basement? Didn't feed you for weeks. Let the rats nibble on your toes—"

"Tobias Eaton!"

"What?! He can't just be going into people's houses!"

"Still, you don't have to scare him!"

"Hey, the kid needs a reality check—"

"Now I get it," interrupts the little shit with the poor man's version of Tobias for a nickname. He crosses his arms and appraises us…and it's weirding me out. "It's okay. My friend Cori's parents don't live together no more. You guys gettin' a divorce?"

Speechless doesn't even explain Tris and me. We both look at each other in a panic at this odd moment. I don't even know what's being said as we both deliver a mix of stutters and fumbles and wells and ums and maybes and ya knows…and just all around confusion…the worst part being that it's directed at each other.

"We aren't married," she splutters.

He gives her the disbelieving side-eye. "You sure?"

What the hell kind of question is that?

"Very," we both respond, giving sheepish looks to each other.

"Hmmph." He turns suddenly distracted and kicks a rock, making it skip impressively across the street. "You act like you're married."

An awkward look passes between Tris and I—a knowing look.

Toby lifts his chin toward the house, addressing me. "S'your house then?"

"Yes."

"Why you gotta fireplace on your front porch?"

"'Cause it's awesome."

"You got kids?" He looks around the side of the house as if waiting for our lovechild to jump out of the bushes.

"No," I state flatly, not just out of the absolutely-notness in my head, but at his questioning altogether. Who does this kid think he is?

"Why?"

Seriously, he needs to be medicated. "Because I…" I trail off, not believing I have to explain this to this little fool. "I have…not…impregnated her."

"What does that mean?!"

"It's when a man's sperm—"

"Jesus, Tobias!" Tris interjects, smacking my arm.

"What? How am I supposed to answer that?!"

"He's not asking for logistics," she growls. "Toby, like we said, we aren't married. So, we don't have babies."

I squint my eyes at her logic.

"But…my mom's not married. And she had me when I was a baby."

If I were in a better mood, I would offer to pick up Tris's jaw off the lawn. "Well put," I murmur to her.

"You know, you already look like a dad," he points out while I speechlessly guffaw at him. "Your shirt is all wrinkled, and your tie is all funny. And you have dad shoes on. My friend Zachary's dad looks like you."

"Wh… I… I don't look like a DAD!" I look to Tris for back-up, but she seems to be sizing me up with skepticism, her eyes landing on my footwear. "What?! I don't! These shoes…are…very stylish! And…I had a long day!" I'm appalled that I'm rationalizing my attire to a four-year-old…or however old he is.

"Toby. Why don't you head back to your grandma's?" Tris suggests, her face still the epitome of a ripe tomato.

He sighs, looking longingly into my house as if he's expecting the Hostess delivery man to descend the stairs. "Okay." He points directly at me. "Don't tell my grandma I was here."

"I don't know your damned grandma."

I hear an exaggerated sigh come out of Tris. "Do you have to sound like such an asshole?" she whispers.

"I heard that!" Toby shouts over his shoulder. "And she's right. You are kind of a grouch!"

That little son of a bitch! "I'm not a—!"

"Hey, why did you want her to say numbers anyway?"

I swallow glancing down at Tris.

"Ya know…1862? 1862! 18…62!" he screeches, mimicking Tris…and nailing it.

"Uh… That's the year the barn was erected."

"Er-what?!"

"Built! It means…built!" I shout back to him, not knowing why I'm bothering. "Kid needs a serious vocabulary lesson," I murmur to Tris, taking note of her eye roll.

"Oh. I thought it was your garage code. Bye!"

I'm gonna kill that kid…

---

Tris's POV:

I wander around the loft, doing what I was dying to do the last time I was here—exploring every crack and crevice. There is cabinetry all along the back wall, with laminate countertops—odd to have in a high-end custom home. But apart from that, and Tobias's mattress on the left by the window, it's empty. Seeing as it's highly unlikely for Tobias to have included a playroom in a house, what the hell is it for? Seems almost like a waste. Could have expanded the bedrooms, in my totally humble opinion.

I gaze up at the ceiling which is still entirely exposed and take small slow steps toward the look-out door, a mixed emotion coming over me. In it, I envision an easel, my wooden table, and the picture I was working on of my dad's church.

I sigh, knowing it was probably destroyed and severely damaged by wind, seeing as I had left it where it lay the day I got the call from Campbell about Mom and Dad. I hadn't even bothered to close the door. After coming home from IDing the bodies—a formality that to this day I can't believe they made me do—(My parents' accident was the closest thing to CSI that Kittridge had ever seen.) I had looked up to the barn window and saw nothing but a waste of effort and time. They were dead—no need for the ridiculous gift anymore.

I turn at Tobias's grumbling as he walks up the stairs, returning from changing the house code. The exchange with Toby was one of the funniest things I had ever experienced. Tobias may be right—fatherhood just may not suit him. I stifle a laugh and then frown at the thought. He sighs showing up at the door, donning his running pants and a perfectly fitting t-shirt which I drag my eyes from with incredible reluctance.

"What?" he snaps. "Dad's don't wear this!"

I roll my eyes. "Not even close to what I was thinking. Man, you are sensitive. And, did you really need to immediately change the keypad code? Toby can't even reach it."

"Are you kidding? That kid's resourceful. I could see it all over his face. He'd rob us of snacks in a hot minute."

I smirk at the word us, but then regain my composure. "Well, you don't keep anything here except protein bars anyway. Pretty sure a seven-year-old isn't into whey protein."

"Seven?!" Tobias asks as if he was slapped in the face by the number.

"Yeah…" I chuckle. "Could even be eight. Why? How old did you think he was?"

"Well, uh…hadn't really thought about it…"

I bite my tongue—Tobias is the worst age predictor I've ever met. He probably thought Toby was four. No. Even he's not that daft.

"Anyway, how do you know him?"

"That's Evey's son."

"Oh." He furrows his eyebrows, leaning against the door frame. "What was he doing in front of my house?"

"His grandma lives a few block over."

"Ah." He nods in understanding. "So, uh, have you and Evey become…close? Ya know, since…we…?"

Tobias and I have yet to discuss what we refer to as 'the interim' which is basically the time from when he walked out of my apartment to the time I walked into his house. I don't really want to open up the Evey can of worms—my stint in the hospital a secret I plan to keep well past my time of death.

"No. I, uh, actually just met Toby a couple days ago. His grandma, Evey's mom, is my…therapist."

I try to get a read on his face—therapy being barely made mention by the two of us. Although, with me, I feel like it's blatantly obvious I've had couch time.

"Evey's mom? Was that on purpose?"

I shrug, looking down at my toes. "Not on my end. Evey referred her, but didn't explain their familial connection."

"That's odd."

I can see the wheels turning in his head as all the HIPPA policies he poured over come forth like microfiche film. "I suppose. But, Dr. Ramos is an amazing therapist and…person…and…" I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes at the idea of not seeing her anymore. I look up to meet Tobias's searching eyes, willing me to continue. "…well, she's just…been a big help," I laugh lightly.

"I'm glad," he says kindly, tentatively reaching forward and grabbing my fingers in his, tangling them together loosely. We've kept a sort of hands-off distance between the two of us this past week or so which has been aaaaaagony on my end, but it also augments every small touch, look, and gesture—everything feels more intimate and significant.

"Hey, do you remember the actual date we met?" He swings our entwined fingers back and forth.

"Mmmmm…June something or other?" I offer, wondering where this is coming from.

"June 13th."

I don't even bother to hide the smile and horrendous giggle that comes out of me at him knowing the exact date, along with the deep-seated stirrings it conjures up. "Okay?"

"Which is now the house code." He quirks an eyebrow in triumph while I deflate. "Now, no more attempted breaking and entering—"

"I wasn't trying to get in! And…just because I know the code doesn't mean I'll use it."

He narrows his eyes at me and drops my fingers. "What's going on, Tris?"

"Noth—"

"Don't say 'Nothing.'"

"Ugh. What? I was just look—"

"Don't say you were 'just looking.'"

I put my hands out in exasperation. "Well, then what can I say?!"

He sighs. "I want to know the reason…you were hanging…from my front room window…among other things, but let's just start there. I want to know…why."

I walk toward the middle of the large room, marveling at how warm it is, considering its original function of being a hayloft. He must have insulated the shit out of the roof. "Tobias, you did such an…amazing job on this house. Amazing doesn't do it justice." I shake my head slowly, turning to face him. "And the thing is…If I only look in from the outside, then I can be detached." I shrug in defeat.

He takes a quick shallow breath as if preparing to say something, but nothing comes out…except a very confused look on his face.

"Tobias, I'm in love…with this house."

He stands up straighter, seeming to gather himself, yet still maintaining a look of incredulity. "You are?"

"Yes. You couldn't see that?" I laugh lightly, remembering how I was fawning all over this place when I first saw it.

"Apart from your total lack of questions, not wanting a tour, and declining my invitations to come over…no, I didn't see that."

"Oh." Now it's my turn to stand up straighter. "Little bit of self-preservation goes a long way."

"Indeed, it did. I thought you were…entirely uninterested." He grins and adorably scratches the back of his head.

"I know you're going to end up selling it," I admit resignedly. "I mean, that was your plan all along, right?"

He looks at me intently and possibly even a little amused. "I thought we had decided I wasn't...remember?"

I glance directly to the right of him, my libido honing in on the countertop spot where I was spread knees and bound ankles with Tobias's over-powering grip on my hips, his cock just inches away—

"Ahem." Tobias with a purposely exaggerated cartoonish throat-clear slides right over to the countertop and stands in my way, smirking like the cocky—yep, cocky—bastard that he is.

"I like this spot," he comments pushing himself up to sit on the counter, his triceps flexing not going at all fucking unnoticed. He moves his rear back and forth as if to get more comfortable. "I can see why you did too."

My cheeks light on fire. "There's nothing binding about an off-the-cuff, heat-of-the-moment, out-of-nowhere comment."

"So, you think I'll change my mind?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because…" I throw my hands in the air. "This makes no sense! And deep down you know it. What, you're just going to…live here? In this built-for-a-nuclear-family house? In Oak Park—a suburb?! Become an expert in lawn maintenance and holiday exterior lighting? Jesus, you just threw a twenty-something version of a hissy-fit panic-attack because a seven-year-old thought you looked like a dad!"

He stares at the floor and nods along slowly. "Still can't believe that kid's seven—"

"And anyway, when did you become so financially idiotic?! I can't imagine what this cost…and then you were just going to sell it? You were going to dump money down the drain like that? It's ridiculous!"

He crosses his arms, making his biceps just about double in size.

Swoon…

"In my defense—not that I need to defend myself—I pretty much bought this place for what the land is worth. I would have earned back every penny I put into this house."

I scoff at his pipe dreams. "Yeah…if it sold…which…it wouldn't." I cross my arms to make me look taller and more informed than I am. "I mean, you saw the plans!"

"Yes. I became quite familiar," he grumbles, clenching his jaw.

"The only thing original about this dinosaur is the bones." I gesture to the whatever the hell the wood is called that supports a roof—I'll just go with beams and board. "This house was a dinosaur carcass. You had to rebuild…everything. You Jurassic-Parked this place. Talk about re-inventing the wheel!" I laugh sarcastically, although it sounds more maniacal. "This house cost two times more than a new build because of labor costs alone! It would never have sold for 1.8. Oh, and by the way, your realtor belongs in the nuthouse for even advising you to put such an outrageous price tag on this place."

He nods his head with a serious expression on his face—too serious. Is he humoring me?

"Why aren't you arguing with me about this?"

"Oh, sorry. Um… It's a desirable neighborhood, for God's sake!"

I roll my eyes. "Says the guy who lived in The West Loop," My voice oozes sarcasm at his very poor argument. "And anyway, It's still an 1864—"

"62."

"1862 converted barn. They would literally be buying a barn! Seriously, what the hell was your realtor thinking? You need to report those dipshits to the Better Business Bureau. Or maybe Amar knows Warren Buffet? Put a call in because they need to get their Berkshire and their Hathaways outta the real estate business." Wow. My protective armor is in full mode.

He clears his throat, his previously borderline amused face now turning hard and… Angry?

"What?" I ask softly, realizing I may have possibly gotten a little too emotional.

I just don't like not being able to wrap my head around things! I mean, why would he get my hopes up…only to dash them?! Jesus, Tris, listen to yourself. He was not trying to get your hopes—

"I thought they were…shockingly accommodating," he murmurs with tight lips.

I scrutinize his face, trying not to look at his luscious lips any longer, wondering why he's upset about the realtors. "Sorry. I didn't realize you had such a soft spot for...them."

"I don't."

"I was only thinking about your possible buyers," I defend. "I'm sure, Mr.-thorough-in-all-areas-of-life, you read that torturous questionnaire. Which, by the way, was in no way, shape, or form merely a questionnaire. Unless it was the St. James version." I laugh thinking about how detailed, insane, over-reaching and all around… …. ….. My mouth drops open.

I've never seen Tobias look like a kicked puppy…until now. The very stern realtor's voice rings true—" See if the horse's mouth will grace you with his presence!"

"Oh, my God. You're the horse's mouth." Don't laugh, Tris. Don't laugh, Tris. Don't laugh, Tris.

"I don't know what that means," he replies glumly and absentmindedly as he zones out, staring at nothing on the floor. "But upon reflection, it turned out that I wrote an overly extensive questionnaire with the subconscious goal of never finding a buyer for this place."

"Overly extensive? You wanted to know if their children would be cohabitating," I point out, kicking his toe to get him to look at me.

"I couldn't have this place riddled with promiscuity! Look, I almost asked for possible occupants' blood type, so…at least I reined it in slightly."

"Blood type?" I bite my bottom lip to keep from cracking up.

"Well, yeah. Because if they're O+, that's universal—more chance to save a life in case of a spontaneous blood donation."

He shrugs as if that were an entirely evident response. "So, you would weigh a buyer's worth on whether or not they could save a life in an alternate reality where there was such a thing as a spontaneous blood donation."

"Hey, the apocalypse could come tomorrow! Desperate times may call for desperate… measures…" He drops his head into his hands dramatically, as if he suddenly realized how crazy he sounds.

"So, am I hearing you say you don't want to sell it?" I prod, pulling his hands down off his face, hoping I'm right and trying desperately to keep the glee out of my voice.

The side of his mouth twitches in the way that signals he's holding something back. It's like his body trying to say what's on his mind, but his brain shuts that shit down. "I don't know. I may sell it at some point."

"Well. Hmmph." I march to the window to hide my emotions. "It's not going to sell, so you really shouldn't even try. Look at this place! It's beyond custom! It's retro-fitted! Pigeon-holed to a singular taste!" I spin around to show him exactly what I'm talking about. Ugh… Take it down a couple, Prior.

"Your fault. You designed it like this. Could you turn around like that again—"

"But, you went through with it! You're in deep on this place, buddy. Irresponsibly deep!

Yeah, maybe you'll break even in, say, 50 years taking into account interest payments on your mortgage…uh…ya know, if you have one… And what if the housing market decides to crash again…which you yourself predict! So then, you'll have to wait another 50 years, and you'll be dead at that point!" I take a deep breath to center myself. "So, I have a plan. Don't sell it. You'll never get a return. There. Your money problems are over."

"I disagree. I think it'll be a great payout."

---

Tobias's POV:

I give a cross between a grunt and a grumble as Tris plows through the door into the coffee shop without letting me hold it open for her. But, then I grin as I realize I can add that to my list of things that haven't changed about her.

Doubling over, she rests her hands on her thighs from over-exertion. She actually thought she would beat me? So, of course, I hip check her, making her do a drunken cross-over to the right, and I swear her deep-seated authentic laugh just about makes me melt on the spot.

"Don't be so smug," she breathes out, trying to catch her breath. "Your legs are…two miles…longer than mine. Of course...you…beat me."

"Wrong. That wasn't smugness. That was a smidgeon of happiness," I quip, walking toward the counter, the torn feeling of hot versus iced coffee presenting itself—I'm on fire, but my skin is suffering from permafrost.

"Happy? Wow. How does this new emotion feel to you? Are you suffering from confusion? Hysteria? Breaking out into a cold sweat?" She reaches up feeling the back of my forehead as I flinch away. "Yep. There it is!"

"Enough out of you." I grab her from behind and pull her to me. "I'm perfectly capable of extreme bouts of happiness. You know that better than anyone." I kiss the top of her head which basically just gives me a lip full of salty frosted-over sweat.

"I wouldn't do that. That's my running hat."

"Rookie mistake," I murmur, wiping my mouth as she stifles a laugh and untangles my arms from around her waist.

We both browse the menu which is pointless because we always end up ordering the same thing. At least…we used to.

"Soooo…why the happiness?"

I see her bite her lips between her teeth, trying to hide her smile—she knows it has to do with her. "You didn't give me the chance to hold the door open for you. Made me happy that some things don't change," I answer, my gaze going back to the words 'Sumatra blend.'

"Do you really think I've changed that much?"

I shrug my shoulders, holding back my answer of "Yes, but only in good ways, and I hate that I missed it!"

"Tell me—"

"Two twelve ounce Sumatras, please," I request, grabbing the barista's attention while deterring Tris at the same time.

"For here or to go?" he asks, glancing between the two of us.

I look to Tris, not wanting to assume that she wants to stay and have coffee with me. We were only supposed to be going for a run, and I don't want to push—

"For here?" she suggests in a tone that almost sounds meek.

I nod my head in agreement, not even trying to hide my grin as I turn to the barista. "What she said."

"You got it," he says with a genuine smile. God, I missed real smiles.

"I'm gonna grab that table," Tris whispers, resting her hand on my bicep while I resist the arrogant urge to flex, knowing how much of an asshole that would make me.

I watch her scoot between tables and plop herself down at a four-top right next to the window. She pulls her hat off, haphazardly smoothing down her static-cling infested tendrils, and then pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her knuckles. I've always thought that was cute, and I wonder if she even knows she does it. She gazes out the window, biting her bottom lip as if she were trying to hold back a smile. What I wouldn't give to know what is going through her mind—

"Here ya go, man."

I turn as the barista—whose name I see is John—pushes two large steaming mugs of coffee toward me. It smells mouthwatering, and I'm glad I chose the hot coffee. "Thanks—"

"Amaretto gelato," he says nodding his head knowingly.

"Huh?"

"It's like sex in a cup." He nods toward Tris and then back to me, holding up a large scooping spoon.

"Then I will take two scoops of sex in a cup," I respond, appreciating his sage advice. "'Cause that is the closest I will get," I mutter under my breath.

"Comin' right up, my friend."

I watch in slight awe as John quickly takes thin layers off the top of the frozen cream and forms it into what looks like two flower buds in a pre-chilled ceramic cup. Then he spins it in his hand, landing it effortlessly on a cork tray quickly accompanying it with two bamboo spoons stuck in the top of each bud.

"One cup, two spoons," he says with a wink while putting the coffee mugs on the tray. "Enjoy."

I furrow my brow at the corny gesture and hand him a twenty, all the while he mouths a "Trust me. She'll love it" with two thumbs up. "Thanks. Keep the change."

Based on the slow nod he gives me, I would say he hears "Keep the change" fairly often. Rightfully so.

I make my way over to Tris, hoping and praying I don't spill the contents of the tray. The split-second decision of setting it down on the table next to us, was a wise choice seeing as the coffee splashes over the side of each cup. I clear my throat and grab a napkin, wiping around Tris's mug. Can I not be…AT ALL…smooth?

"Thank you," she says kindly, accepting the mug with two hands.

"Well, one thing has definitely changed," I begin, hoping she'll ignore my faux pas.

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

I finish wiping my mug and sit opposite her. "You let me pay for something without a bitch fest." I smile contentedly and reach for the gelato, placing the frosted cup between us.

"I'm learning to pick my battles."

Something about the way she says "I'm learning" rather than "I've learned" puts me at ease—as if she's learning with me, rather than a lesson from someone else. I am…profoundly ridiculous.

"Two spoons, one cup?" she asks with her eyebrow quirked, wrapping her hands around her mug of coffee. "Some things never change. Still a sucker for the cheese-factor."

I smirk, planning to take full credit for John's suggestion, and exhale a breath, leaning back into my chair. I watch intently as Tris does precisely what I knew she would—leans down to smell the coffee first, her closed-mouth satisfied smile making it know that she approves.

"Together?" she suggests, holding her mug up.

I grin and do the same. "Together."

We both take a small drink of the brew. It's full-bodied and earthy, with a smooth aftertaste. Perfect—if Gertie's coffee hadn't existed. I make eye-contact with Tris, knowing we're thinking the same thing.

"Eh," we both say, laughing congenially.

"It's actually good," she comments. "I just feel like I'm cheating on Gertie. She can smell the coffee on me like a French Blood Hound."

"That's why I don't do Colombian blends. In her book that's a double cheat—a physical and emotional affair. Thank you for…still visiting her, by the way," I mumble, through an extra quick sip of my coffee.

Tris narrows her eyes at me in summation. "We've become…close."

I'm actually grateful for this because Gertie could be the loneliest person I know, and Tris has isolationist tendencies herself. "I'm glad you spent time with her…ya know, while I was…gone."

"She missed you," she responds, taking a slow sip then rubbing her lips together. "So, you were saying…you think I've changed?"

I sigh and nod my head.

"What? I'm just curious because I feel like I have…" She chews on her bottom lip and runs her index finger over my knuckles that are clutching my coffee mug. "But I'd like to hear some observations from you."

"Well, you don't second guess yourself as much. You seem happier…emotionally…" I cringe at the therapy-esque word. "…ya know, more at ease. I don't know… It's all good…stuff." I shrug, touching my index finger to hers. I don't want to get into specifics because it hurts…and I'm a pussy.

Tris ducks her head, trying to get my attention. "There are things about you too."

"Such as…?" I drone, knowing she's full of shit. I don't feel like I've changed one bit.

"Words don't seem to fail you as much. You're more…open…about your feelings. Ugh. I hate the word 'open,' but I don't know a better one."

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. I sure spilled my guts to Maya…maybe that was a turning point. Huh.

"Were you seeing someone?" Tris asks, surprising the shit out of me because I thought this was territory yet to remain unchartered. How do I answer if I don't even know the ans—"

"A therapist?! A therapist. I mean, just…a therapist," she sputters, dousing me in relief.

"Yes!" I say with more excitement than needed. "A therapist. Yes, I was…seeing one. Uh, I was a shit patient," I sigh. "I just went through the motions. Just about got fired, even though, looking back, I think it was a tactical move on his part to get me motivated."

"Did it work?"

"Apparently?" I point out, referring to her observations.

Maya's over-eager face as she drank in the blabbery I was feeding her. Her asking all the right questions and seeming engaged was great at the time, but now I think I would find it annoying. I must have some sort of innate thirst for someone who challenges my bullshit, instead of pacifying me.

"Did you…uh…do that on your own?" she asks softly with a hint of guilt.

"Do what?"

"Get a therapist."

I unintentionally clench my jaw, immediately trying to hide it upon the memory of Tris basically telling me therapy is worthless unless I sought help on my own. That was a tough pill to swallow—part of me thinks she was right.

"You don't have to answer that," she says quickly, grabbing my hand. "Just know, whether you found someone on your own or because of…any other reason, it would have counted. I was wrong when said that to you…that night."

That…night—the night she ended us. I'm done with the blame game, but eventually, we're going to have to talk about that night because some things you just can't unhear…on both of our ends.

"Turns out," she continues. "I'm a bit of a hypocrite because the therapist I found on my own was a total quack."

My chest tightens at the expression on her face, she looks so fucking sorry. Damn it.

"He was a behavioral sociologist…he was studying me." She drums her fingers on the table, and I can just see in her eyes the shame at being duped. "And I…I feel like he had an…agenda…"

---

Flashback:

I knock lightly on the worn wooden door with the backs of my knuckles without having any intention of waiting for a response from this fuckin' asshole. Dr. DuBois's dumbfuck face turns a shocking red as I roughly push the mountain of papers off the left side of his desk, making room for myself as I perch my right leg on the edge. "Well, hi there," I say, laying on the thick fake congeniality in the most viscous way possible.

"Are you going to beat me up?" he asks, meekly covering his face with his hands.

I chuckle condescendingly. "No one says 'beat up' unless they're a total pussy or have been living under a boulder since the 40s which…from the looks of this place…" I look over my shoulder at the hoarder's paradise shit-hole that, somehow, he pulls off as an office. "…you have."

He slumps his shoulders and looks at me as if I'm supposed to have an ounce of pity for his chosen profession and the social isolation that accompanies it. "So…you're not going to…hurt me?"

I shrug my shoulders noncommittally—making him believe I haven't made that decision yet. "Here's the thing." I lean my forearm on my right leg and lower my head toward him. "It would only take one strategic punch right to the throat to briefly incapacitate your esophagus, a follow-up box to the ear to send you reeling into a bout of forced vertigo, one swift kick to the ribs once your writhing on the ground to cause a nice snapping sound similar to a chicken bone, and then, well, because I have been known to have sociopathic tendencies, I would punch you in the face for no other reason than to feel a sense of completion." I sit up straighter enjoying the way his pupils dilate out of fear. "But…I'm also a fairly calculating guy, and leaving you bloody on the floor would do me no good, and honestly you deserve worse than a beating—people heal from a straight-forward ass-kicking, you deserve no such reprieve."

"So, what are you…or…what do you want?"

"Start from the beginning."

"Beginning of what?"

"Of mankind."

"Really?!" he asks sitting up straight. What a stupid shithead.

I kick his chair into the wall, making perfect contact with the worn avocado and metal exposed area near his groin. If it didn't defy all man-code, I would have gladly kicked him in the testicles—had he any.

"How did you meet Marcus Eaton?!" I growl.

"He showed up! He just showed up! I don't know how he even knew who the hell I was!"

I take a semi-calming breath—not too much because I still want him to fear me. "Continue…"

Dr. Ass Mug must sense my attempt at collecting myself because he seems to relax, a semi-smug look appearing on his face. "Is he dangerous?"

"Yes."

"So, am I in danger?"

"Most likely, yes," I lie because I genuinely think Dr. Du-assface is so inconsequential to my father that he may as well not even exist. The doctor's sole purpose being to get under my skin which as far as my father knows…he has achieved.

"Will you protect me if I tell you?"

"No," I respond not even trying to mask the ridiculousness of that idea.

"Then, I won't tell you anything."

I sigh at this social-no one who's trying to bargain with me. "Fine," I state curtly, righting myself off his desk. "Good day, Dr. DuBrumphett." I exit the room, closing the door behind me politely, and make my way down the singular flight of stairs—

"Wait."

I try to hide my smirk at the sound of his voice, looking over my shoulder at him standing just outside his door.

"That was too easy. What are you planning to do?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You didn't just stop by my office to say 'Hi.' I'm sure you had some sort of goal…which you gave up far too easily. I'm not an imbecile—you're obviously going to do something if I don't help you—in fact, probably something to me."

I stare at him impassively. "The President of Columbia College has an open-door policy. I thought about making sure you never get another job in higher education again."

"How do you plan to do that? I'm a tenured professor."

"A tenured professor who brainwashed a victim of severe sexual assault to sever ties with the only stable relationship she had… And, wait…did I mention you took money for it? $50,000, I believe."

"Accepting a cash gift for personal reasons won't get me fired."

I cross my arms, knowing how it makes my jacket stretch across my biceps. I'm not trying to be vain, but a little intimidation goes a long way.

He swallows. "I thought it was harmless. The good I could have done with Mrs. Grayden would have been worth the small price of nudging someone in a different direction."

"Nudging…"

"Yes. That's all it was. How was I to know that she would react the way she did?"

"Maybe…years of sociological experimentation on human subjects. You appear to be quite the expert—seemed to know exactly the right things to say."

"They were all willing. They all signed a release."

"Even Tris?"

"Yes. She filled out all the paperwork…will…ing…ly."

"I'll bet even desperately," I add, ignoring his patronizing tone. "Bet she wrote so fast you could barely read her writing."

He clears his throat nervously, most likely conjuring the image of Tris's Aramaic script. "I didn't know she had been through trauma."

"Trauma doesn't even begin to cover it," I add lightly while pulling out my phone from my open front suit pocket. I select end to stop the recording. "That should do it."

Doctor DuDingleberry turns four shades of paler than he already is. "What? What did you just do?"

"You're a tenured professor!" I exalt, quoting him. "Does it matter? You didn't do anything wrong, remember?"

"What are you going to do with that?" he growls, staring at my phone.

"Like I said…President Clearie has an open door policy—"

"What do you want?" he chokes, still keeping his eyes on my phone.

"Two things—Tris's files, and your letter of resignation from Columbia College."

He groans, backing into the wall to brace himself.

"Oh! Changed my mind—three things. Your student-professor experimentation will never be seen in the world of academia…ever."

He closes his eyes, smacking his head on the wall.

"Now. Let's start that letter. Shall we?"

---

Tris leans in with her eyes down-turned in guilt as I sit back, my first reaction being to get as far away from her probable apology as possible. But, I end up squeezing her fingers instead, wishing I could communicate through touch that none of that was her fault—that my father is deranged and for some God forsaken reason has gotten it into his head that she is a threat…forever a threat. A threat to whom...or to what? Who the fuck knows?! So far it has taken everything in me to not march up to his office and give him the satisfaction of that exact question—What exactly is he afraid of?

"He just kept…asking about you and…" She purses her lip. "Tobias, I don't think any apology could ever cover…" she trails off as I avert my eyes. I wait a couple beats, feeling her eyes on me, trying to read my mind.

"Ya know…" I begin, looking at her seriously. "You were always a fast runner, but you got really fast."

She looks caught off guard at my subject change, but I detect instant relief as well.

"Seriously." I nod my head to the sidewalk that she nearly beat me on—only by a few yards and only because she didn't give me a fair warning, otherwise, of course, I would have smoked her.

"Well, I don't belong to a gym anymore, so the cold streets of Chicago are my sanctuary." I watch her fingers as she folds them into her palms, warming the tops of them on her coffee mug.

"Where do you run?" I grumble, hoping it's in any other location aside from her neighborhood—and several others which I would deem even more dangerous. In fact, she should stick to Near North, Old Town, the River Walk, Grant Park, the Lincoln Park Zoo and Logan Square—although, she may get injured from tripping over baby strollers—

"I have several…routes." She looks at me challengingly in a what-the-fuck-are-you-going-to-do-about-it way.

"Well, maybe I'll join you on your…routes." I squeeze her fingertips tightly on the word 'routes.' "It can be our thing."

"Our thing, huh? Ya know, if you wanted to make sure I'm safe, I could just share my location with you on my phone. Then you'd know where I am 24-hours a day."

My eyes widen. "Really?!"

"No."

I slump my shoulders and glare at her and her rude get-my-hopes-up suggestion.

"Aw." She pats my hand. "Don't pout. But…I think a running buddy would be fun. I agree that it could be our 'thing.' We need a 'thing.' People who date have…'things,' don't they—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I interrupt, choking on my coffee. "We are not buddies."

"Uh…someone you run with on a consistent basis is a running…buddy."

I wipe under my eyes to prevent them from watering at the hot coffee that poured itself down my throat. "Not if the person she's running with purposefully lets his partner run in front of him so he can admire her gorgeous butt." I sniff, as she looks at with me with amusement. "Plus, I already have a buddy. And…let me tell you, he's the jealous type."

"Aw, you and Will are so damned adorable together. Tell me, what is the secret to your very successful relationship? I think I could use some pointers," she jokes.

"You definitely could," I agree, giving her a moment to shoot me a nasty look before moving to the other side of the table, giving her no choice except to scoot over. "Anyway, buddies don't do this," I whisper softly in her ear.

"I'm pretty sure you and Will do." She nods in a non-sarcastic way, making me take note of my position—arm around the back of her chair, leaning in to say something in her ear.

And in some weird version of coveted déjà vu, I see Will and I…in a loud bar…doing precisely the same—"No, we don't," I retort, interrupting my own disturbing thoughts while I grab her right hand, enclosing her fingers and running my thumbs over her knuckles.

"Apparently, we have reached hand-holding stage? It's happened a few times today, but this…" She spreads her fingers, forcing mine to fall into the space between. "…feels legit."

"Tris, if we can cuddle on the couch, we can hold hands." I smile, remembering how Mid-Iron Man 2 she huffed out a breath, scooted close to me, and crashed her head onto my shoulder causing us both pain. But, it ended on a happy note with me reclining back, pulling her to me to rest her head on my chest, her leg slung over mine. "We can even do this." I tilt my head and place my lips lightly on her post-frigid-run burning cheek, taking a moment to ghost my mouth—

Suddenly, my lips meet something far plusher than her cheek. I pull back only enough to smile at her sneaky gesture before going back in and moving my lips against hers. I close my eyes as if it's our first time, and honestly, it feels like it is. It's just a kiss over coffee, with nowhere to rush off to, nowhere to be…apart from with her. I tuck her hair behind her ear and run my thumb along her jaw, not missing for a second the way she inhales and leans into me further, closing her lips and then opening them in a fluid motion. We pull apart at the same time and appraise each other.

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow," I agree, still breathing her in.

"Hand-holding and a first kiss?"

"Did I cross a line?" I murmur, kissing her cheek. "I wouldn't want to…pressure you…" I move my hand down to her waist and pull her closer. "…into doing anything you're not ready for." I feel the muscles in her cheeks flex into a grin against my lips.

"I don't think not being ready is the issue."

I exhale a long breath and nod my head, resignedly. How I got roped into the no-sex thing is still a mystery to me. But, I don't suppose it's all bad—every touch and moment seem more charged and, I hate to say it, meaningful.

"Yeah, yeah—your whole hamster-sex-wheel analogy."

"I believe I called it a hamster wheel of sex which takes on a very different meaning."

I furrow my eyebrows at my semantical error, envisioning hamsters mating on a wheel.

"And you agreed," she adds as if that seals some deal.

"Yep." I add extra emphasis on the P, making my point of HATING THIS IDEA!

"So, tell me about your day yesterday."

I roll my eyes. "Horrendous Segway…and…not…much…to tell." Because I sat at the office thinking about you. "What about you?"

"Well, I will tell you that I woke up in a very good mood."

"Yeah?" I grin thinking about our nightly chat sessions—they last about twenty minutes and usually end up being a lot of poorly hidden sexual innuendos and Freudian not at all slips.

"Mmm hmm. I've been having good dreams." She leans into my ear, running her nose up my earlobe. "Really...vividly...good dreams."

I move my left leg to adjust the position of my growing erection. "Continue…"

"Then I went for a run. Then went to dance. Then came home. The went to work. No downtime."

Not what I meant by 'continue.'

"I have to keep myself very busy," she murmurs before taking a tentative sip of coffee.

"Oh, really? Now, why…is that?" I ask laying the sarcasm on thick in regards to her insistence that we keep our time together at "appropriate dating level." Whatever the fuck that is. Made up shit. That's what it is.

She rolls her eyes. "Actually, I'm quite used to keeping busy."

I look at her questioningly because this is nothing new.

"Not to tread whatever line we've drawn, but I had to keep certain things at bay, and staying consistently occupied was the only way to do that," she admits.

So many questions run through my mind along with the comment 'I'm pretty sure you kept yourself plenty busy while I was away.' But along with that thought of immaturity comes a moment of clarity—I'm not ready to cross the very ambiguous line we've drawn.

"This is getting harder…isn't it?" Tris mutters, looking away from me out the window.

I fight the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear, so I tuck her hair behind her ear, resigning myself to failure. "So, tell me about dance. How is that going?"

"Horrendous segway. But, dance is good. Rita lets me teach." She smirks, her face turning just a shade redder. "And she pays me for it."

"As she should. I miss watching you dance. When do I get to see it again?" When I was in California, I had two—count them two—wet dreams involving Tris, me, and a chair.

She shrugs. "You know…I never had plans to tell you this… But, I choreographed a number for you a while back. You actually saw it…that night that I didn't know you were there…at the bar…" she trails off lowering her chin but keeping her eyes on mine.

I try with all my might to hide my grin, knowing exactly which dance she's talking about. The backstage conversation I overheard between her and Kevin both warmed and broke my heart. "Which one?"

"Doesn't matter. I don't think I ever really intended to show you. But, it was for you, and now you know," she quips.

I unintentionally frown in amusement.

"You think I'm crazy."

"No. Well, maybe a little. But, only because you went out of your way to tell me without really telling me. You are nothing if not confusing, Tris Prior." I smile and kiss her cheek softly at her scowl. "But, what I do understand is doing something, but not wanting recognition for it."

She sighs. "My therapist said something very similar." She smiles faintly, seeming momentarily lost in thought.

"Um… So, how is…therapy going—"

"So, this gelato looks like someone shoved bamboo up two buttholes." She grabs the butthole bamboo and shoves a bite in my mouth before I can react to either her comment or her action.

"Mmmm! Don't feed me," I mumble with a mouthful of gelato, John's glowering at her words from behind the cash register not going undetected. "And…horrendous segueway."

"Oh, that wasn't a segueway. That was a straight up distraction."

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about my therapy. Here…" She holds up another spoonful of the bamboo butthole sex in a cup—it is pretty friggin' good. Is Amaretto an aphrodisiac—"Mmmmgh! Don't…feed…me," I growl with my second mouthful of gelato as she snorts out a laugh.

"What? I'm dating. We're dating. People who date do cute things. I'm trying it out."

"You do know you just called our barista's masterpiece two buttholes in a cup, and then you shoved said butthole in my mouth…twice. Not…cute!" I reciprocate and lithely push a portion of the heavenly substance into her mouth.

She chokes at my over-eagerness. "Geez…watch the gag reflex."

I groan sooooo loudly in my head at the words gag reflex—the masculating feeling of the tip of my dick against the back of her throat, but it only lasts for a moment before the guilt kicks in that that could not possibly be a pleasant feeling for her. "How long does cute last for?" I ask hastily, trying to reign in the tension in my balls. "I don't like cute. Let's move past cute."

"Okay. Mr. Two-scoops-in-one-cup-sit-on-the-same-side-of-the-table blah, blah, blah—"

My lips are on hers before she can be any more annoying, although her annoying is never really that annoying. And because I just can't help it, I deepen the kiss with the gentle probing of my tongue. She sighs, reciprocating the action. I feel her left thumb graze my earlobe as she rests her palm on my face, causing a shocking reaction straight to my groin. She must know it because she does it again and I can sense the smirk going through her mind. I find myself reaching for one of the spoons, slipping it much gracelessly than anticipated between our joined lips, making a mess of an already messy moment. But, the errant giggle that comes out of her mouth and the way I get to watch her tongue skim her bottom lip to collect part of the dessert makes it worth it.

"Was that cute?" I ask, trying to be cheeky instead of embarrassed.

"I don't know what that was—"

"Never change," croaks a small New Jersey-accented voice to our right. "Always canoodle in public."

I turn to see an old woman, possibly 80s or 90s, with a severe bout of Scoliosis hobble past our table.

"Frankie, for the love of Mike! These kids don't know canoodle from cannoli. You can't talk to them like that!" A gentleman, her husband I assume, scoots toward her, his gait just as awkward.

"No one asked you! Now go pay the poor kid before he loses his marbles!"

"I wanted the coffee first, and I will not apologize!" The man points his finger in the air in a very Frank Costanza way. "We get great coffee at Jerry's and don't pay until we leave! That is satisfaction guaranteed!"

"Does this place look like Jerry's? Where do you think we are?! This is a pay to play establishment. This ain't Jerry's Café! Now go pay the man, ya cheap Jew!" She smacks him hard on the arm, but the only effect it has on him is a reddened face.

But soon enough, he looks at her adoringly before pointing to me…literally pointing right in my face. "Make sure you find a broad with chutzpah."

"I'm on it," I respond, watching the guy teeter toward the register.

"Son!" He yells at the impassive face of John the barista. "You guys need to rethink your policy if you want to keep your business going!"

I can feel Tris's shoulders shake from contained laughter, so I instantly put my arm around her and pull her closely.

"Bah! I'm Italian, and I married a Jew!" She waves her hand in the air. "But, that's Jersey for ya. But, like I said before Old. Mr. Tightwad interrupted—"

"Francesca, I heard that! I have two hearing aids, you know!"

"Oy," she says in the cutest old lady way possible. "My fault for listening to the doctor on that one. Anyway, you two reminded me of Saul and me when we first met. We used to neck in the park! Plain as day! Never be afraid to…show…someone you love them, you understand?" Her attention is directed right at Tris.

"Well, we're just dating." She nudges me with her elbow. "Right, Tobias?"

"Right," I grunt, knowing I started the whole 'dating' ordeal. I sigh and look toward Saul who is counting out several coins to give to John as a tip.

"Oh, my, my, my…" Frankie or Francesca—whatever her name is—cups my chin forcing my head from side to side. "Honey, you hold oooooonto him."

Tris lets out a ridiculous laugh as I pinch her shoulder in retribution.

"Come on, old lady. Let's go get your back pills!"

"We get 'em shipped here from Mexico," Frankie whispers conspiratorially while hobbling toward the door. I notice Saul give her a nice ripe butt squeeze as he lets her pass through the door.

We watch them through the window. They seem to have mastered the art of animated conversation where you can't tell if they're arguing or laughing—or both.

Tris turns to me. "It's so sad that when people are just dating, they don't say 'I love you.'"

"Mmmm. I agree. So very sad… But, they can always…show…it," I remark, channeling the wise words of Frankie. I smirk and cradle the side of Tris's face, leaning in slowly. Her delicious lips part just enough for me to shove a giant spoonful of gelato into her mouth.

---

AN: Thank you to the guest reviewer who pointed out that I was writing "El' instead of "L" referring to the Chicago mode of inter-city transportation. Funny thing is, I was on the Blue Line when I read your comment! I laughed aloud and asked for a show of hands on who thought it was "El' and who thought it was "L." It was a good 60-40, favoring the 'L." So, thank you very much. It made for a great conversation. But, because I am a notorious over-correcter, it's named the "L," not because of the shape, but as a shortened version of "El-evated" train.