Bad Things(52)

“The backyard hose,” he suggested.

That turned out to be a bad idea, even if it was our only option. Someone who you badly want to sleep with, but have decided that you won’t, is not the person you want to hose down with water in a hot, hot rainstorm.

I was in a black mood after that, but tried hard not to show it. As I went through my daily chores, played with the boys, and put them to bed, I just felt…down and…sad. And as I realized how depressed I was feeling, that’s when it occurred to me just how happy I’d been since Tristan had come along, hangovers and all. I’d been…giddy lately, the days flying by, as though in a dream, and it suddenly felt as though it was all crashing down on me.

What were we doing? Hanging out constantly and playing house? What did it mean? Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, except for one thing. I was a stupid girl, and I had feelings for a guy who was basically a walking hormone where women were concerned.

Tristan seemed to sense my mood, and he turned extra affectionate. Nothing blatant. No come-ons. Just a shoulder rub, a random kiss on the forehead, or a careless hand stroked over my hair, with lots of questions like, “Is everything okay? Are we cool?”

I gave answers like, “I’m just tired,” and, ”I need to catch up on sleep.”

I never slipped up once, never told him that I hated that he was going out without me, and especially that I hated why he was doing it. I kept my pride, if nothing else.

Tristan was beyond sweet, helping me put the boys to bed, and even playfully insisting on tucking me in before he went out.

He wasn’t going any place with a dress code, I noted, by his black T-shirt and jeans. Still, he looked too gorgeous to be real, and I hated how easy I knew it would be for him to find some random girl to f*ck.

“Don’t wait up for me,” he told me with a wink.

I made sure he saw me roll my eyes. “I’ll be asleep before Kenny even picks you up.”

I didn’t cry after he’d gone, but it was just as troubling to me that I had to make an effort not to. Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep.

The sound of the bathroom door closing, and then the shower turning on, woke me.

My tired eyes found the clock. It was four a.m. Tristan was just getting home. I was suddenly wide awake.

I waited in silence when he finally finished his shower, walking quietly to his side of the bed.

“Did you get lucky?” I whispered as he settled in.

He froze, and then he was hugging me from behind, his voice a rasp in my ear. “You waiting up for me, boo?”

“No. I just woke up when you opened the door. So did you? Get lucky?” I held my breath as I waited for his answer.

He sighed. “I did. Hopefully I can control myself now. Our friendship is safe.” He patted my hip comfortingly as he said it, like he’d done it for me.

He’d washed the other woman off him. Or at least, I didn’t smell anything like that on him. But I still smelled the alcohol on his breath, and there was something about his voice, not a slur, but something more subtle, some sense of disconnect in his tone that made me think he was high, or at least very drunk.

I shut my eyes tightly, cursing the tears that bled down my cheeks.

It took me forever to get to sleep. I just lay there for a long time, calling myself every kind of fool.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





I woke up in black mood. I put on a good show for the boys, but I all wanted to do was curl up in a ball, and be alone for days. The fact that Tristan stayed in bed for most of the morning didn’t help.

I was feeling…self-destructive was the best way to put it. I was finding it nearly impossible not to do something that would distract me from the fact that I was feeling tender, and wounded. I wanted to do something phenomenally stupid, like call my ex.

Which was why it was such horrible timing that Jared chose that morning to call me. I’d given him my number, in a friendly sort of way, days before. I’d saved his into my cell at the time, so I knew right away who was calling me.

We were outside, and the boys were playing in their tree house. They were playing the usual tree house game, where Ivan attacked the tree house with an invisible army, and Mat and I had to defend. This usually involved me sitting in the cramped little wooden structure, pointing out of the opening, and firing my finger at a worked up Ivan about every three minutes, while Mat did all of the ground work; basically spazzing out in a circle around the tree. Often, I found this highly entertaining, since the boys seemed to have a ridiculous amount of knowledge about warfare, courtesy of cable. Today, though, I was just phoning it in, pointing my finger, and shooting on cue with little enthusiasm. Luckily, it seemed to make no difference to a six and an eight year old.