She pushed hard against the couch, forcing herself to stand, then walked over to the entertainment center to check her reflection in the television screen. “Oh God,” she whispered, taking in the long strands of hair stuck to her face and smoothing them behind her ears. This was the first time she’d seen Tristan in six years, and a red imprint of her couch cushion was etched into her cheek. No. She shook her head at her reflection. It wasn’t the first time. She’d seen him a handful of other times as well. In passing, when he came home for visits from college…but he never seemed to notice her. Never again after that night.
When she finally opened the door a minute later, unsure if he’d left because he was so quiet, she found him resting in the stairwell, his back against the wall, laughing into the receiver of his cell phone. He stood there so casually, it seemed as though he did this every day, as though he hadn’t just been beating down her front door with his bare fists.
“Yeah, I got it.” He smiled. But not to Samantha—he was speaking to whomever was on the phone. “Talk to you later.”
When he finally turned around, he placed his cell phone in his back pocket. “I thought I was going to have to break the door down.” He lifted his shoulders. “Either that or you changed your mind.”
He brushed past her, not waiting for an invitation before stepping into her apartment. “I have to piss. Where’s your bathroom?”
She made a face at his choice of words, but decided quickly against making a comment, and turned swiftly toward the hall. For the next three days, she was stuck with him. Three thousand miles, and she was determined not set off on the wrong foot. “It’s down the hall.”
She wrapped her arms around her belly and walked in the opposite direction toward the window. This was a bad idea, she could feel it in her bones. Renee had said he’d changed, but she thought in a good way. If anything, he was worse! Gruff, callous, entitled. Though maybe a bit rougher. His jeans were a weathered blue, roughed up in the way that was fashionable these days, and his shirt was gray, form fitting, and indicated that he still had the body he was known for in high school. But now he had a scruffy shadow of a beard that matched his messy surfer-boy style.
Though it wasn’t his looks that made Samantha uncomfortable. It was the way he acted—as though he owned the place. As though it was his world, and she just existed in it.
He walked out of the bathroom some time later, wiping his hands on his back pockets, even though she knew she’d hung up a towel that morning.
“Is this your luggage?” he asked, gesturing to her suitcase in the corner of the room.
She nodded, but before she could add that it was only the beginning, he lifted the bag up to his shoulder and headed for the front door.
“Wait!” she shouted, maybe a tad more frantically than she’d intended.
He turned on his heels, his eyes wide open with a “what the hell is wrong with you?” expression.
“The sculpture,” she finally managed to spit out. “I need help getting it downstairs.”
“The sculpture?” he repeated slowly, as though he didn’t quite understand what she was telling him.
She turned on her heels, not bothering to explain, and headed for her studio. “It’s this way.”
A minute later, they stood in the middle of the room, Tristan’s eyes wide, taking in the three foot tall, two foot wide, bubble-wrapped creation. It was the best she could manage given its shape, but she had to admit, wrapped up like this, it did look rather crazy.
“And we’re bringing that with us?” he managed to ask.
“Yes.” She nodded.
He bit his lip, as though trying to make his mind up about something, and shrugged. “Well, okay.” He set her suitcase to the ground, stepped toward and lifted the sculpture a few inches. He quickly set it back down and stepped backward. “Shit. What’s in there? Steel?”
She scrunched up her nose, knowing it was heavy. But seeing that it was too heavy for Tristan made her nervous. How the hell would they get it downstairs? “Here, let’s lean it on its side. I’ll grab one end, you grab the other.”
Six years earlier
“Why on earth would I trust you, Tristan? I know who you are; I’ve seen what you do!”
His eyes narrowed, but he wouldn’t budge from his spot blocking her on the branch. “For someone who doesn’t know me, you sure know a lot.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to know you. I know all the people you’ve hurt, and that’s enough.”
“Like who?”
“Veronica Ward. Jenny Chavez. Sophie Miller. Need I go on?”
“Do you always believe what people tell you, or only when it involves me? I’m curious.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, check your sources, sweetheart.” He pushed back off the branch, causing the whole thing to rock backward and cover her in water.
She held on for dear life, watching him swim away toward the center of the lake, damning herself for coming out here at all. “Are you just going to leave me here?” she screamed.
“I haven’t decided,” he said, stopping ten feet away. “What did they tell you?”
“You’re holding me hostage now?”
He shrugged.
She clenched her jaw. “Fine. If you must know, I’ll tell you. But it’s the same thing every time: you stringing them along, making them think they have a chance with you, then turning around to be a complete dick! And for your information, Tristan, I don’t need to check my sources. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s not like it’s a big secret; you display your dirty laundry out for everyone to see!”
He swam toward her, taking only two strokes to cross the distance. His bare chest pressed against her legs, his eyes wide as though he needed her to see him. “You’re wrong. You think just because someone gets hurt that’s my fault? It may sound arrogant, but I can’t prevent a girl from falling in love with me.” He shook his head. “I can’t prevent her from climbing in my bed, loving me. But they only think they love me, Sam. They don’t. Just like you, they hardly know me… They love the idea of me. The fairy tale version that’ll never exist. They convince themselves they love me, and that’s not my fault.”
His arms relaxed a little, but he stayed right there, looking into her eyes, never faltering. “If I’m nice, if I smile the wrong way, or God forbid give them my phone number, I’m suddenly leading them on, and it’s bullshit.”
He pushed off her legs, turning to lean his back on the fallen branch. “Jenny and I kissed one time at a party. We were both drunk and I kissed her.” He looked over. “Does that mean I owe her my future?”
She swallowed. She’d never been spoken to this way before. Yet she’d never thought of it from his perspective either. She didn’t even know any of these girls, but she’d believed everything they’d said without question. She’d believed everything passed around the gossip circles she normally tried to stay out of. But now, hearing his side of things, all he had told her that she’d never considered, she couldn’t even blame him for being angry.
She thought about Steven, about him declaring his love four years ago, after knowing her for two weeks. How he wanted more, even though she’d only been a friend to him. That wasn’t her fault. Yes, you can’t help the people you fall in love with, but you also can’t help the people who fall in love with you. She looked down at her fingers, shaking her head both at the fact she’d judged him unfairly, but also because she agreed with him. “No,” she finally whispered. “You don’t owe her anything.”
His brow lifted as though her admission surprised him, and he turned to face her, studying her, as though wondering if what she said was what she really believed. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough, almost a whisper. “Do you forgive me?”
She tilted her head to the side, the corner of her mouth lifting involuntarily because after all that, he’d brought it back full circle. After all that, he wasn’t asking her for the apology he probably deserved. He was asking for her forgiveness. Because he didn’t dwell on who wronged him. He worried more about how he’d wronged her.