Broken Promises (9 page)

As I pass through the doorway, I see Mari standing toward the middle of the room with her jaw dropped, caught between tears and a panic attack. Her eyes stare at a frame, glowing slightly in the dimly lit room. I didn’t even think of that. Shit. There are Mari relics all over the place in here. It’s the only thing that made this mausoleum feel like home.

I rush to stand between her and the frame, pushing the bottle into her hands. “Here you go. Water. In a bottle.”

“Ah, the fancy kind.”

“Exactly.”

She doesn’t step away from the frame and her eyes keep drifting over my shoulder to look at it. I twist off the cap and chug half the bottle, before placing it on a glass end table and flopping backward onto the couch. My intention had been to sit up, but today has sucked so hard that I lie back and cover my face with my arm instead.

I hear her voice from across the room. “You kept this?”

“Obviously.” Dick answer, Scott.

“Why?”

“Why do I have half the shit that’s in this room? Do you think I like all this stuff? The decorator found it and threw it up. That’s it. There’s not much of a story. Your paper was the right color, and she liked your handwriting.” It’s total bullshit, but I can’t let her know anything. We’ll end up back where we started, and I’m not doing that to her again. I already fucked up her life once.

Mari is quiet too long. When I slide my arm off my face, I prop myself up on one elbow. She has her phone pressed to her ear. She must have dialed Katie. “Who are you calling?”

The apartment is so still I can hear her breathe. Mari doesn’t reply. Instead, she swallows hard and waits. That’s when I hear it. A cell phone rings back in my bedroom. With each ring, Mari steps toward me. On the third ring, she turns her iPhone toward me so I can see the screen: MARI’S OLD BAT PHONE

Shit. How do I explain why I still have that?

Mari ends the call, and the ringing stops. Her dark brow lifts high on her face, and she sits next to me, her dark eyes cutting to the side to study me. “So, you either kept a throwaway phone from years ago, or you upgraded it and kept the number. That’s an interesting thing to do.”

“I'm an interesting guy.” I laugh it off as if it has no significance, but it does. I kept that number because it was hers. She gave it to me when I had nothing, and I couldn’t get rid of it.

“No one would say otherwise. I mean, you’d have to be pretty interesting to be THE Trystan Scott. I hear he’s something else, you know?” She grins at me and almost rolls her eyes. Then that gaze drifts to the stitches on my face and her smile falters. “Why didn’t you call me tonight?”

Sucker punch. Straight to the gut. I didn’t see it coming. I drape my arm over my face and groan. “Not now, Mari. Tonight was bad enough without hashing out all our crap, too.”

“No,” she reaches over and pulls my wrist, jerking my arm upright. Mari pulls hard, but I don’t help her, so I remain slumped on the couch. “I mean it. You were supposed to call me if things got bad, but I haven’t heard from you once in all this time.”

“Mari,” I warn her, and my voice drops to that place where it nearly rumbles. She has no idea what she’s poking, what demons could escape. I do. “I can't invite the past into the present. Not tonight. Not now. Leave it alone for another day, that’s all I ask. The past few days have been overwhelming enough—what if Seth is dead? He's only over there because of me, Mari. If he’s dead, it’s my fault. This whole vat of shit is my fault!”

Her face pinches then softens. “No, it’s not. Trystan, Seth is a grown man. He didn’t follow you to a cliff and let you toss him off.”

“Just because it's metaphorical doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“That’s exactly what it means, Trystan!” She laughs and smiles at me. My wrist is still in her hand. The next thing she does is so far beyond fathomable, I nearly jump out of my skin. Mari takes that hand and pulls it away from my body enough to lie down on the couch next to me. When she’s in the crook of my arm, we both stare at the ceiling like this isn’t freaking us out.

The last time I was this close to Mari, I was with her. It was the only time we were together before I walked away. I press my eyes closed and suck in a jagged breath. She’s going to notice the shiver that keeps drifting up my spine, but I don’t ask her to move. I can’t ask her that.

“Do you remember this?” Her voice is wistful, lost in the past. She’s looking at the ceiling, a serene look on her face.

Her scent fills my head, and I swear I catch the scent of the strawberry lip gloss she wore in high school. “Yeah, I do.” At first I think she’s talking about the night we had sex, but she’s not.

“I found you in the school basement, sleeping on the couch and you were freezing.” She pauses a moment, and I feel her eyes on the side of my face. “Life hasn’t been fair to you, Trystan. You’ve had to deal with more bad luck—no, it’s more than that. You’ve had suffering dumped on you since we met. No one should be able to survive what you’ve been through, and somehow you’ve managed.”

I open my mouth to tell her I didn’t manage too well tonight, but she places a finger over my lips, stopping me.

“Everyone needs help sometimes, even you.” She lays a hand on my chest and leans in, kissing my cheek before pushing herself up. She stops on the edge of the couch, opens her water, and downs the entire thing.

She starts talking about Katie and the dinner party she was hosting when Seth's call came in, but I'm lost in the memory of her hand on my chest and her kiss on my cheek.

I thought it would never happen again, but it did.

Mari kissed me.

CHAPTER 14

MARI

H
is New York City apartment is massive. It’s the kind of place they film for television shows about how the one percent lives. At one time, Trystan was poor, and I don’t mean can’t-afford-brand-names poor. I mean he didn’t have anything. His father didn’t clothe him or feed him. Everything Trystan had, he earned himself.

Back then he wore a battered leather jacket, jeans, and a flannel or dark-colored t-shirt. Now I wonder how he managed to get through that time without anyone else noticing he had nothing. His friends certainly didn’t know. His teachers didn’t even see it—well, all but Tucker. That man saw everything. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he put us together in the first place. I didn’t hang around Trystan by choice back then, not at first.

The heartthrob thing never sat well with me, and Trystan could have a gaggle of girls at his feet using nothing but that flirty smirk. People have always loved Trystan. It’s a combination of his voice and demeanor. When he comes to life on a stage, it’s impossible to look away. He pulls you into his story, into his world. It feels like he’s speaking only to you, so how could anyone not love him?

My mind races through the past, leaping to predict what might happen in the future, but I shy away from those thoughts. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how great he is, or how well we get along, there’s one glaring problem I can’t forgive—he failed me when I needed him most.

I thought about bailing on him now. Being here is stupid, and I’m already blurring the lines between us. For a second, things felt like old times, and my lips found his cheek. It was meant to be friendly and caring, but something flashed across his eyes a moment later. I know that look. I shocked him.

I don’t know what to say, so I’m not talking. I’ve been wandering the room since that kiss, studying the knickknacks on the tables. My gaze leaps between the light fixtures, ceiling, and carpet. I smile and laugh, looking anywhere except at Trystan’s eyes.

This isn’t like old times. It’s so much more. There’s a river running between us with deadly rapids, and I still want to jump in and cross to the other side. What’s wrong with me? I already know what’s over there—a guy who’s all charm and falsetto. Maybe we get along so well because we’re two fake people trying to survive any way we can.

I should never have become a doctor. When my mother died, I tossed my personal dreams aside and didn’t look back. I took help from the only person offering—my father. I emerged with a medical license, after completing medical school in record time. When you have no social life, it’s easy to plow through school.

I reach for a glass object resembling a knot. It’s not heavy. I lift the sculpture to my eyes and see a slender thread of silver. It runs the length of the knot, from one end to the other. It’s an odd piece. I turn and ask about it. “Is this your selection or the decorator's?”

Trystan is in the kitchen fixing us something to eat. It’s probably stuffed truffles or something weird. I wonder how much of the boy I knew is still in that body. He steps out, wiping his hands on a white dishtowel. He steps closer to me and lifts it from my hands. “Stylistically, it’s not my thing. It’s very post-modern, but the symbolic nature of the piece is interesting. So, yeah, I picked out that one. It was the least garish thing in a big store of ugly.” When he hands it back to me, his fingers brush mine, sending an electric charge through my hand and up my arm. It steals my breath and causes me to jerk away.

How could that still be there? After all those years and everything he did to me? I don’t want to consider how screwed up I must be to feel attracted to him.

It’s not attraction, Mari, the little voice in the back of my head says confidently. I brush the thought away quickly, locking it up in the back of my mind.

“Yeah, I love shopping in Uggo Depot. You never know when you’ll need a glass knot.” I tease, following him back to the kitchen. I stop in the doorway and sniff the air. It smells good.

Trystan has that white towel tucked into the back of his jeans pocket. The contrast makes my gaze fixate on his butt. When he turns abruptly, he notices where my eyes have been. “Nope, you never know what the day will bring. I mean look at this—I’m slaving away in the kitchen, making us something to eat, and you’re ogling my backside like a fangirl.”

My jaw drops, and I straighten. “I am not! I was looking at the towel!”

“Sure.” He winks at me, and continues, “I mean, of course you are. It’s a beautiful towel. I’m sure there’s not another like it, which explains its hypnotic powers.” He turns his back to me, looks over his shoulder, and wiggles his hips, making the towel sway.

I grin and roll my eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe, but I have a great ass.” He takes the frying pan off the stove and points to a cupboard. “Grab a couple of plates from there and follow me. I’ve made a dish of culinary amazingness.”

I grab two plates and follow him into the dining room. It has a single long wood table surrounded by silver chairs. It’s reminiscent of dining on a log while it goes through the saw at the old mill. His decorator must have been on something because this place isn’t him. Not even a little bit.

Trystan sees my face when I enter the room. “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s nice.” I try not to laugh, because I’m so totally lying, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “No, really. It’s got a style that’s really unique, and—”

“And it came from the other side of Uggo Depot.”

“It really did. What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted the designer out of my house. I needed to be alone, and that was the fastest way to get rid of her.” He puts the frying pan on the table and points to a chair opposite him. “Sit. Mangia, Mangia, and all that.”

I pull out the chair and slip into my seat. Trystan makes a show of the grand reveal of his dish. He presses his hand to the lid and says, “I’ve been taking cooking lessons—don’t laugh—and this is my best dish.” He pulls back the lid theatrically and smiles.

A rush of steam comes out, along with the sweet scent of herbs and onion. When the little cloud clears, I can see what he made.

It’s Hamburger Helper.

I laugh and sit back in my seat. “Thank God! I was starting to think you went all nuts on me.”

Trystan’s lips twist in a boyish expression he rarely wears. His eyes dip to the side and then he grins. He lets out a rush of air and reaches for my plate while lifting the frying pan. He tilts the pan on its side and the noodles and meat slide onto my plate. It’s very Trystan. Hamburger Helper was his go-to meal when he was in high school. He made it for me a few times when we were dating. It means something because I know the stories that go with it—to him, this was the crème de la crème of what he could afford to eat. And it was never the brand name version, and he usually couldn’t afford the meat. This dish was a highlight in dark times. I’m surprised he still makes it.

As if he can read my thoughts, he explains, “It’s comfort food and always has been. Some people like Kraft Mac & Cheese, while others like—”

“Hamburger Helper, now with real meat!” I finish with a laugh, smiling broadly at him. “You don’t have to explain, seriously. I’m relieved you’re not trying to feed me something your decorator made.”

Trystan is dishing up his food and laughs so hard he drops the plate. The noodles and meat slosh off the side. He uses his hand to shove them back on his plate, then grabs the towel from his pocket, and wipes his hands off. “Well, after spending ten grand on cooking classes, I discovered the most important thing I’ll ever learn about the culinary arts.”

“What’s that?”

“I suck at it,” he blurts out, then stuffs a forkful of food into his mouth.

I didn’t expect him to say that. I already have food in my mouth and nearly choke as I start laughing. I put my fork down and chug some water. When I look up, Trystan is watching me. Those dark blue eyes seem pensive, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

There was a time when he told me anything and everything. Now, I have no right to wonder what’s going on behind those sapphire eyes. He’s not mine anymore.

I look away and the moment breaks.

Our meal continues with a comfortable chatter. Trystan must be running on adrenaline. He doesn’t complain about his sore body, even though I know he must be hurting by now. We’re in the middle of cleaning up when my phone rings.

Time suddenly slows, and seconds take minutes. I reach for the phone and press it to my ear, watching Trystan and noting the desperate hope in his eyes. It’s not until that moment that I realize I’m the one who will have to tell him if Seth is dead. I'll be the bearer of bad news. I’m the one who will break him—he can’t handle this, too.