Lovely Trigger(22)

CHAPTER EIGHT





SIX YEARS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

DANIKA

I was beyond flattered to be asked by Bianca to be a bridesmaid. I agreed instantly. I hugged her when she told me, and embarrassingly, even teared up.

Her friendship had been very good for me. We’d particularly bonded after the shooting. I’d visited her whenever I could as she was healing.

She managed in that quiet way of hers to talk me into posing for a series of paintings for her while she recovered.

I was terribly flattered, and excited, because she’d promised me a painting for my time.

She was extremely generous with her art, offering several times to give me pieces I was taken with in the past, but I’d always put her off, insisting on paying for the two small paintings that I did end up buying from her collection. This though, the exchange of inspiration for art, didn’t feel like taking advantage, and so I accepted her offer of taking my pick from her next collection after we’d finished with the sessions.

One painting turned into another, until I became her favorite subject, second only to James.

The hours turned to days, hell, to weeks, and her next show, which premiered a mere of eight months after her first, had so many paintings of me in it that I couldn’t keep track. I became a bonafide part of the show. It was a strange experience, to say the least, but a good one.

We’d opened up to each other as I’d sat and she’d painted, even talking to some extent about our rough childhoods. As far as nightmares went, I thought hers took the cake, but it was good to have a friend that could relate to having and surviving a troubled past. To climbing out of a pile of rubble and leaving it behind.





It was hard, but I made a promise to myself, for the sake of two people I adored who were getting the dream wedding they deserved, to just be nice to Tristan for the whole affair.

Not just civil. Not just less hostile. But nice.

I could do this, I told myself, many times.

And when push came to shove, it was frightening just how easy it was to fall back into the old rapport.

Not just easy. Natural.

I had this moment every time I went to visit Bev and Jerry at their house. I’d walk in the door, and everyone in the place would just stop what they were doing and rush at me. The kids, no matter how big they got, would wrap themselves around me. The dogs, sans Mango now, but with an extra puppy in the mix, would come and crowd me until I sat down somewhere and let them all converge on me. Bev would come and kiss me on the forehead, even while Jerry did a drive by all the chaos to pat me on the head affectionately.

I was squeezed so tight that the air left my lungs, licked on every part of skin that wasn’t covered, and it usually lasted for several minutes. That many kids, and people, and dogs should not have existed comfortably into one space, but it didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right. Like I was coming home.

Every single time.

That’s how this felt.

Tristan and I were entering a new and unfamiliar chapter, only it didn’t feel that way. It felt like no time had passed at all.

It was terrifying. And comforting, because it hadn’t all just been some dream, there’d been a reason I’d gone through hell with this man, for this man, some true good to precede the bad. Over the years, I’d half-convinced myself that I’d imagined most of the good. It was just easier that way.

We were partnered up in the wedding party, which meant that we walked together, and at all of the parties, we sat together.

I usually took care with my appearance, but I went to great lengths that weekend, spending extra time on my hair and makeup and shopping for days to put my best foot forward.

I don’t care how things stand, every girl wants to feel beautiful when they see ‘that ex’ again. You know the one I’m talking about. The one you never quite got over. The one that had claimed enough of you that some of it had been lost in the parting.

I wore a gold lace sleeveless mod sheath to the rehearsal dinner, going heavy with gold shadow and big hoop earrings. I wore my hair straight and parted down the middle. I kept it down, since I’d have a complicated up-do the next day.

I was in dress to impress mode. I’d already seen Tristan several times since the festivities began, and each time I’d decked myself out with special care.

Vanity at its most perverse.

On the up side, we’d been getting along well, both of us cautious enough to go out of our way to give no offense.

“By the way, where’s that guy?” Tristan asked, sometime during the third course at dinner, his mouth making a mockery out of the words with just a hint of an unhappy smile.

His hair was longer. It looked good on him. Grippable. I gave myself a mental slap for even thinking it.

“Andrew,” I clarified, something in his voice troubling me, and unwillingly, intriguing me.

We’d kept things light thus far, and it had seemed to be working. This was a new turn, or the potential for one.

“You think I don’t remember his name? How likely do you think that is?”

“Where’s that girl?” I asked, immediately wanting to take it back. We did not need to do this to each other.

I looked down, up, shifted uncomfortably, but his eyes stayed glued to my face, his intense regard strong enough that it felt like a physical touch.