Lovely Trigger(53)

Tristan and I were having some kind of a fling. With all of my determined denial, even I couldn’t call it anything else. I was letting it play out, barely resisting anymore. What else could I do? I would let him play with my heart, handle it like a toy, and when we were done, I’d hope that all we left this time were bruises. I didn’t let myself hope for even one moment that it could ever be more. This was more than friendship, sure, but it was temporary.

Even if he was too blind to see it, I couldn’t see anything else.

My limp was more pronounced when we finally rose from the couch and I began to move about, straightening up, keeping busy.

Tristan noticed right away. “Fuck, Danika, did I hurt your knee?”

I waved him off. “It’s just stiff. Stop fussing. Seriously.”

He was impossible, as ever. He literally picked me up and carried me back to the leather sofa, rubbing at my knee like it was the cure.

“I think I’m going to have another surgery on it,” I said quietly while he worked at it. Saying the thought aloud was the first time I’d acknowledged that I was even considering it.

He paused, then continued the rubbing. “Well, that sounds encouraging. They can still do something? To improve it?”

“Bev has been bugging me to try some new thing they’re doing. It’s going to suck. Physical therapy will take over my life again. But yeah, it sounds like they can do something. I’m sure it won’t be a huge difference, but better than this.”

He couldn’t seem to look directly at me. “I’m glad you’re considering it. I promise to help with the physical therapy. I’ll go with you, make it less boring.”

That made me so uncomfortable that I had to stand up and move away from him. “That’s a nice offer, but it’s really not something I want company for.”

“I’ll change your mind about that, sweetheart. You’ll see.”

It was a struggle not to snap at him. I had to compose myself before I could say very calmly, “Stop it, Tristan. I give an inch, and you just keep taking. This isn’t what you’re pretending it is. You’re not my boyfriend, and it’s not your job to—“

“You’re right, I’m your husband.”

He’d done it. He’d gone and flipped the psycho switch in my brain again. Just a few words, and I was reeling, my reason leaving me. Enter hair-pulling rage. “What did you say? Are you deranged? We got divorced, years ago!”

“That wasn’t my choice then, and it isn’t now. You’re absolutely right that I’m not your boyfriend. This is not some trial period in a relationship, where I’m not abso-f*cking-lutely clear on how I feel. I know what I want.”

That did it.

I was done. I walked into the bathroom, bolting myself in. I didn’t trust myself to continue with that conversation.

I straightened my clothing and my hair, wiping the bits of mascara from under my eyes. I waited a very long time, calming myself, before I came back out.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan burst out the moment I stepped out. “I was too pushy.”

“You were out of line.”

“Yes, that too. I’ll drop it, okay? Just don’t shut me out again. Not for this.”

I nodded, too weary to put up a fight, when that fight would involve delving back into a subject that had the power to undo me.

“Show me the rest of those pictures?” he asked, his voice all cajoling charm.

Too late for that, my glaring eyes told him, but I nodded. I waved him back into the viewing room while I grabbed a stack of samples.

My hands were shaking. What he’d said terrified me, but it wasn’t his fault. What had me shaking was the little thrill of joy, of hope that it’d sent through my system. I needed to get a grip.

Tristan was far from done with his private showing, going through dozens of pictures, and finally settling on a particularly stunning photo of a field of sunflowers, some fully bloomed and reaching for the sun, but with a small circle of flowers still stubbornly facing down. What was stunning about the picture, though, was the way the sun was washing over the more closed off blooms, as though giving them special attention, giving them another chance.

I was handling the transaction, him standing silent behind me, when I spoke. “This picture is up to forty grand now, since it’s limited to one hundred editions. You really filthy rich enough to just drop that kind of cash like that?”

“Not drop it, no. I just like it that much. I love the name of it. Makes me feel hopeful. I want it over my mantle.”

I paused in what I was doing, my eyes scanning over the photos title, Second Chances.

He was smiling, I could hear it in his voice, when he added, “And I could tell it was your favorite when you showed it to me. I figure I have a better chance of getting you to come back to my house, if I fill it with the things you love.”

He’d hit his target with the opening salvo. That second part was just overkill.

I finished up and got out of there, fast.





CHAPTER TWENTY





I was working, minding my own business the next day, when he texted me.





Tristan: I’m at Frankie’s parlor. Come see me. Getting my yearly sobriety tat.