Broken Promises (6 page)

I force one foot in front of the other and don't look back. A guard stands in front of the room, but he doesn't say anything. He saw my father shove me in this direction as did everyone else. It's obvious amongst the staff that I am the emergency room director's least favorite employee. Nepotism has no place here, and not a single person on this floor envies me. If anything, it's the opposite—they pity me for having such an asshole for a father.

I tell them it's not that bad. I tell them his apathy toward me is only here at work. I make them think he's a nice man at home, and his demeanor here is necessary for keeping the ER calm and running smoothly. I don't think they believe me. A few coworkers stop what they're doing and watch as I disappear behind the door. If they knew everything Trystan and I had been through they'd revolt. They'd attack my father with everything they could to prevent this. Rose senses something as she watches me. She knows my anxiety is higher than usual, but she doesn't know why. Her gaze meets mine briefly. I can't stand the look she gives me, so I push the door shut, creating a barrier between the rest of the world and myself.

My eyes scan the small room, studying the evidence of the fury of effort made to save his life. There are plastic wrappers, tape, and gauze scattered on the floor. On a rolling cart, in front of a pale, green curtain, I see a silver suture tray covered with the bloodied tools. I press my back to the door and breathe deeply. I never wanted this experience, but it provides the chance to say goodbye to my first and only love in private.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the glint of metal amongst the discarded supplies on the floor. I lean over to pick it up and feel like I took a sucker-punch in the gut—it's the silver ring I gave Trystan back in high school. I run my finger across the bloodied Greek inscription, η ψυχή μου είναι η ψυχή σου, my soul is your soul. I blink back tears, and a sob escapes my lips.

I wrap my arms around my middle and take a deep breath. I'm suddenly very aware of my mouth and try to swallow, but the lump in my throat won't move. I slip the ring into the pocket of my scrubs and take a trembling step forward. My eyes stay fixed on that green curtain as I pull it open, pass through, and slide it closed again behind me. I want a moment with the rest of the world shut out to remember how it was once upon a time when we were a fairytale. Trystan saved me. I found myself when I was with him. He gave me a strength I didn't know I had, and he showed me what my life could be if I were brave enough to try. I hold the fabric curtain with my hand, clinging to it as if it were life itself, too afraid to turn around. I thought if given the chance I'd be angry. I thought I'd yell at him. That's not how I feel now.

My heart is racing in my chest, and I can't manage to get enough air in my lungs. My head droops, my eyes stare at my rainbow-colored Crocs, my lips part, and my heart pours out. "There are so many things I wish I could say to you, things about us, things about life. I didn't think it would be like this. I never thought..." Tears are stinging my eyes, threatening to fall down my cheeks, and my throat tightens, cutting off my speech. I can't find the right words to say, anyway. I hear ringing over and over in my head.

I never thought things would end like this.

I never thought I would lose you.

I never thought I would still love you.

I inhale and exhale slowly, feeling my body shake. I stand like that for a moment before I hear his voice, weak and soft, "You never thought what?"

CHAPTER 10

MARI

S
tartled, I swallow a scream and whirl around. I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere. I don't understand why I hear it. Part of me thinks I must be crazy, but my eyes tell me my ears are correct. I'm staring at a shirtless Trystan lying on a gurney with a towel draped across his hips. There's a gash on his forehead that still needs stitches. He's holding gauze to the wound to prevent the blood from dripping down his face. His pants and shirt, cut off him earlier by ER staff, lay discarded in a heap on the floor. One of his legs is in an Aircast walking boot, and the other one has a gash from his ankle up to his knee. His beautiful body is black and blue with bruises. In another lifetime, he was abused and battered. Those memories collide with this moment, and I want to scream, but can't force out sound around my shock.

Finally, I ask the obvious question because I don't know what else to say, "You're alive?"

Trystan blinks sleepily at me. "I didn't think you'd come."

I stare at him as if he’d said something absurd. "I thought you were dead!"

Trystan smiles but seems to regret it immediately. His face contorts with pain and his eyes close tight. "I'm afraid the rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated."

My jaw hangs open and scrapes against the floor. I can barely blink, breathe, or think. Suddenly I'm speaking, no, yelling, and my arms flail wildly as my emotions get the better of me. "Don't you dare start bullshitting me! How could you do this? How could you do this to yourself and me? What other promises have you broken, Trystan? How far are you willing to fall?"

He winces before he opens his eyes. His gaze is intense, consuming, and I'm ensnared, unable to move. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I think I do. I was there, remember? I saw your father beat the shit out of you. I saw what he did with your stuff. I saw that you had no home, no food, no bed, no clothes—all because that crazy bastard drowned himself in alcohol every night. You said that wouldn't be you. You promised you would never drink anything, that you wouldn't turn into him, yet here you are."

"We can't stray from the paths on which fate places us. I can't be someone I'm not, Mari, no matter how highly you think of me—no matter what ghosts you think you see." He still speaks in poems. His voice is just as hypnotic as it was all those years ago, but I can hear the strain in his voice. Trystan is a survivor—he always has been—but tonight something sent him speeding into a tree. I want to know what it was. I want to know what spooked him badly enough to make the most stupid decision of his life.

"You have no right to talk to me like that. Don't spew fancy words at me and expect I'll drop my panties for you again. Fool me twice, shame on me."

"You were never the fool. I was." Trystan looks up at the ceiling, barely blinking, as he speaks. He keeps the bandage pressed against his forehead with one hand while the other rests on his side. His dark hair is crusted over with blood near the hairline. I'm surprised my father didn't shave it.

"I can't argue with you there." My voice grows colder by the moment. I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to be in this room with him. Suddenly, things I wished for when I thought he was dead rush away with the tide of my emotions. I finally understand why my father sent me in here. I've grown especially skilled at suturing wounds. I've been studying methods of stitching skin back together in a way that diminishes scarring. There's no one here better at it than I am. That's why he asked for me. That's why my father called me here. He's not the bastard I thought he was. It's practical.

I grab the things I need and fall silent as I ready them on a tray next to Trystan's bed. As I move to examine the wound, Trystan releases the gauze, brushing his hand against mine.

"I still see your face when I close my eyes." He sounds tired and beaten.

Steel yourself Mari. Just fix him and walk away. Let his words roll off like the meaningless drivel they've always been.

I refuse to feel anything for him. I've been down this road before, and it ends with Trystan running the other way. I won't relive the past. We have different lives now. We’re different people. Trystan stills as I work on him. I try to keep my mind on work, on the practical nature of this job. I try not to think about how nice his skin feels, to ignore the relentless charge between us. Every time I brush against his skin my stomach flutters. I ignore it and focus harder on my work.

Trystan can't seem to stay still or be quiet. He squirms again even though I know the anesthetic keeps him from feeling anything. "Stop wiggling."

"Sorry. Your touch is—"

I cut him off, "Don't."

But he doesn’t listen. "It's the same. It's everything—darkness and light, stars and moonlight spilling down from the heavens into your hands. It’s perfect." His gaze is fixated on my face, his eyes burning with intensity, willing me to look at him.

Resisting the urge, I continue to close the wound. "That's nice."

Trystan continues speaking in verse, saying things I don't quite understand. "Smooth, supple grace hides the turmoil brewing within, but it's there —it's still there—dusk after dusk, dawn after dawn. Doesn't that make you wonder?"

I refuse to catch his gaze. It's bad enough that I have to touch him, but if I look him in the eye, I have no idea what I'll say. In the past, when our eyes met and our skin touched, it felt like he could read every thought, every feeling moving within me. I still feel that connection sparking between us.

"There's nothing to wonder about," I say, finishing the sutures.

Trystan smiles and laughs. It's a familiar sound, one that makes me remember better times with him. I can't help it. My gaze lifts and aligns with those beautiful blue eyes. For a moment, I'm taken back to when I first realized he liked me. It took him so long to convince me he was sincere. I thought he was. I wish I knew why he left me when I needed him most. Minutes pass, but it feels like hours lost in each other's gaze, swimming in a sea of things that never were.

"Are you going to ask me?" Trystan's voice is soft and remorseful. I know exactly what he's referring to because I'm considering whether to ask or not.

My lips part and I want to speak, I want to ask him—but I can't. I already know the answer. He left me for someone else, which meant he was never sincere, he never cared about me, and—worst of all—he never loved me. Trystan can’t help who he is. Women flock to his radiating confidence, to the poetic way he speaks. He's different than anyone else I've ever met. He always has been.

I shake my head and lower my eyes to his chest thinking that will break the spell, but it doesn't. It makes the sensation inside me grow larger. There's something at the core of my being that pulls me toward him. It has always been there and won't go away no matter what happens between us. Our souls are anchored together, and we are too close to deny it.

My eyes scan the toned muscles of his chest remembering the last night we were together. I touched every inch of his body, learned every curve of muscle. The pads of my fingers felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His strength, his passion, everything was mine that night. I shake my head to clear the thought from my mind. Walking down that path will be too painful, but that doesn't stop him from calling me back.

"It's not what you think." Trystan's lashes lower and then raise. He fights to remain focused on me, but I know the drugs are pulling him under. He won't be awake much longer.

I grab the rest of what I need and start to clean up some of his wounds. Trystan continues to speak, saying things I don't think of during daylight.

"Everyone thinks they know me, Mari. The truth is very few people know me in a way that matters. Even fewer people truly like me. It's been lonely since Tucker died. There are personalities in this world existing purely to do good, steering us onto paths too steep and narrow to climb alone. Tucker helped me take my life in a different direction, but I walked up the mountain alone. There are very few things that truly frighten me and being alone is one of them. I'm alone, Mari. Morning after morning, there's no one around me except people who want something from me. I'm at the top of this precipice alone. I don't even belong here and, since Tucker died, I've tried to stay on this path, but I can't. I'm not cut out for this."

I can't help it. There's no way for me to listen to him speak like that and say nothing. "You're not alone Trystan."

He lifts his dark lashes, his sapphire gaze meeting mine. He watches me for a moment, sensing my sincerity, before speaking. Taking a deep breath, he breathes, "I'm not?"

Inwardly I'm still battling my inner bitch who wants to castrate him for all the pain he put me through, but the kind girl living inside my brain kicks her ass and replies. "No, you're never alone."

I shift positions to examine his other wounds and check for a second gash on his hairline. Lifting a piece of sterile gauze dipped in cleaning solution, I go to wash the dried blood from his hair, but Trystan reaches for my wrists and stops me. My heart beats faster, and my breath catches in my throat. I've been touching him all this time, and feeling the pull between us, but when he touches me, it's a million times worse. I'm about to start shaking, desperate to pull away. The intense feeling of his touch has amplified over the years. It courses through my body, lighting me on fire and sending a spark across every inch of my skin.

Before I can move Trystan speaks. "I thought I'd never talk to you again. I thought I'd never see you again."

"Same here." My heart thumps one beat at a time. Why is it so hot in here? I can't think. His hands are on me. The memory of skin on skin, of our sweat-covered bodies moving together fills my mind. It's too much. It's like he's channeling the thought in me. Gasping, I pull my hands away and stare at him with my lips parted and my hands shaking.

"Mari, there's something I've been dying to tell you. For the longest time, I've wanted to say it, to explain—" he presses his lips together and swallows hard.

I want to know so badly. I want to know why he walked away from me. I want to know why he slammed his car into a tree. I want to know all the things I missed. Something within me is crying out for him, still craving his touch, still wishing the sound of his voice filled my ears. A shiver crawls up my spine, attacks my shoulders, and travels down my arms. My jaw hangs open with words ready to roll off my tongue. I notice the clock in the room ticking louder as my pulse roars in my ears. My chest rises and falls faster and faster.