It isn’t until I can hardly see the canvas that I realize the apartment has darkened with the impending night. I stretch my throbbing back so my spine pops and the tension releases, then I move across the room to flip the switch. The overhead lights burst into life, and I blink a few times to adjust to the brightness. With a slow exhale, I start putting away tubes of paint and cleaning the brushes.
The face on the canvas hurts to look at. A twinge stabs through my heart, a pang of longing pulsing with cold. The painting isn’t done—there isn’t enough sparkle in the gray of his eyes. The skin doesn’t have the golden-peach undertone. It’s nowhere near the level of skill I had when I regularly painted. But there is no doubt it’s a portrait of Holden grinning back at me. I miss him more than words can say.
While the single-serve pack of cheesy pasta cooks in the microwave, I perch on the countertop and type out a message. I hesitate. The wordsHey, babe, hope you’re doing well, I miss you xxsit in the composition box, mocking me as I stare down at them. Is it too much? Will he find it clingy that I’ve texted twice in as many days? I press Send before I can think further on it.
Holden hasn’t replied by the time I crawl into bed three hours later. I try not to take it personally; his life isn’t like mine. He has responsibilities he can’t ignore, whereas I can put off homework for a night or two. He’s busy. I do nothing but take care of my nephew or go to class. But it takes more effort than I care to admit to assure myself there’s nothing to extrapolate from the lack of contact.
After making sure my alarms are set, I place my phone on the nightstand and curl into a ball in the middle of the bed. The pit in my gut opens and vows to swallow me whole. The cold sheets remind me I’m completely alone.
Morning comes too soon. There is only one notification waiting for me, an alert that someone commented on a photo I’d posted of the botanical gardens. My fingers tighten around the case of my phone, and I swallow down the ice creeping up my spine. Letting the phone clatter to the nightstand, I shove out of bed and all but stomp to my closet. I dress with jerky motions then tuck my phone into my back pocket. I palm my keys and stride out into the corridor.
The clerk asks for my ID in a bored voice, barely glances at the date of birth printed on the plastic, then shuffles off to grab the cigarettes I asked for. I pay with a forced smile. He doesn’t smile back; he just calls for the next person in line. I hurry out of the way of the grumpy grandmother with two toddlers.
Somehow, I’m not surprised to see Tristan leaning against my car when I step out into the portico. He gives the box in my hand a pointed look, one that asks why I’ve bought cigarettes after not smoking for two years. I don’t answer; I just make my way to my car.
“Dealla.”
“It’s just one pack, Tristan,” I grumble. “It’s really not a big deal.”
“You quit smoking the instant you found out Katie was pregnant because you didn’t want secondhand smoke affecting the baby.” He grips my chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What’s going on?”
I yank back and scowl. “Can we not talk about this in the fucking gas station parking lot?”
“Fine.” He sighs heavily and stuffs his hands in his pockets, staring at me as if he can see right through me. Maybe he can. “I have an errand to run. O’Reilly’s?”
I dip my chin in agreement—anything to get him off my back for the moment—and watch him approach. He kisses my temple and tugs gently on a lock of my hair, then he walks away. He’s just opened the door to his Mustang when something clicks in my brain. I gape at him.
“Did you use my GPS to stalk me?”
“Yeah. You weren’t answering my texts, so what else was I to do?”
Rolling my eyes, I wave at him then turn to my SUV. He honks once as he drives to the exit, and I slide into the driver’s seat. It’s been a long morning already, and it’s barely eight o’clock. I know it’s only going to get worse over an Irish breakfast. I decide not to think about it. If I do, I might throw up.
I might throw up, anyway.
I arrive at the pub before Tristan, two hours and anI’m on my way!text from him later. I lean against the side of my SUV and light a cigarette. It trembles between my fingers, and I curse when it nearly falls to the ground. Forcing myself to take a deep breath not laced with nicotine, I scan the parking lot for the familiar yellow car. It’s nowhere in sight so I inhale another drag of smoke.
The sound of sneakers scuffing against asphalt catches my attention a few minutes later. I look away from my shadow on the ground to see Tristan standing only feet away. His gaze flicks to the cigarette; I scrape it against the bottom of my shoe, stomping on the still-smoldering ember, then pull open the driver’s side door. The soda can in the cupholder has enough liquid in it, so I drop the butt inside. Tristan waits until I’ve locked the doors before throwing an arm over my shoulders. I walk dutifully beside him.
The server leads us to a booth next to a large window. Warmth and sunlight fill the area, much at odds with the chill in my chest. Once we’ve given our drink orders and the woman has walked away, silence descends. It grows painful quickly, and my fingers shakily tear a napkin to shreds. Tristan sighs and rests his elbows on the table, his hands clasped in front of him. I squirm.
“Dealla, c’mon.”
“It’s been a week since we talked,” I admit. “Holden and me, I mean. Like, the last time he responded to my texts was a couple days after we made things official. I know he’s busy, Igetthat. He warned me his music takes up a lot of time when he’s in the studio or about to go on tour.” I shrug jerkily. “I dunno, my brain’s just being dumb.”
“No, your brain is trying to find a pattern where there is none. You’ve not ever been in love before, have you?”
“I’m not in love,” I protest, only to shrink back in my seat at the flat look Tristan gives me.
“Most of your past relationships have been pretty casual, right? The type where you meet up for a few dates then find an excuse to end it because ‘the spark wasn’t there’? Except for Toby and Daniel. So your brain is just… figuring out how a serious relationship works. That’s all. You said it yourself. Holden is most likely busy, and I’m sure he’ll kick his own ass when he gets the chance to breathe. You just gotta be patient.”
“Tris...” I slump in my seat, fidgeting with the shred of napkin.
“I know, I know. Patience isn’t your strong suit, but you’ve had plenty of practice by dealing with Katie’s bullshit, right?”
Thankfully, Tristan’s words—his logic—put the disquieting niggling in the back of my mind to rest. For now.
By the time the server brings our food, I feel less like I’ll burst out of my skin. The low-grade panic has been replaced with guilt. I’m already screwing up this relationship. I shouldn’t be reacting this way to the first lack of communication between Holden and me. I definitely should not have given in to the impulse to buy cigarettes. Quitting had been Hell last time.
