But he replies eventually, saying he plans on going to lunch with a friend before hitting the gym.
Unfortunately, the conversation, which has drifted to our favorite quotes that we live our lives by, comes to an end far too soon, and I reread the messages before pushing to my feet. I enter my bedroom long enough to grab a clean outfit then head into the bathroom. Setting my phone on the counter, I start the shower and strip out of my pajamas. Once the water is steaming, I step into the tub and pull the curtain closed.
I’ve just finished rinsing shampoo from my hair when the door bangs against the wall. A hand shoves the shower curtain out of the way, the rings rattling on the rod, and I hurry to cover myself.
“Tristan!” I shriek as a familiar face shoves itself into view.
He grins without shame. “Happy birthday, hurry up.”
“Get out of here, you ass!”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see anything.”
But he does leave, slamming the door closed behind him. I tug the curtain back into place and reach for my body wash with a trembling hand. My breathing shakes, my heart racing. Despite the hot water beating pinpricks into my skin, I’ve gone sweaty and cold. I rush through scrubbing my body clean then turn off the water. Tristan’s phone plays music from the living room, an undercurrent of voices conversing threading through the notes. Once my skin is dry, I pull on my clothes and exit the bathroom.
“You hung up on me earlier,” Tristan says when he catches sight of me.
I glower at him but accept Luci’s hug. “You woke me up at five in the morning on my one free day this week.”
Luci claps her hands, throwing them in the air, and announces before Tristan can speak, “I brought wine.”
I can’t stop the giggle when my friend gestures toward the four bottles of wine on the counter, as if she is showing off a prize on a gameshow. Tristan shoves her out of the way and fills three glasses with moscato while I drop onto the couch, bringing my knees to my chest. Luci passes over a stemless glass then cuts into the cherry pie Tristan brought. They join me a moment later.
“Ever think we drink too much?” I ask before taking a sip of the wine, and Tristan snorts and shakes his head. “I’m serious! It’s not even two o’clock in the afternoon, and we’re already drinking. And also, every time you guys come over, there’s at least three bottles in the recycling the next day.”
“At least it’s wine and not heroin or something,” he retorts with a shrug.
“I’ll toast to that,” Luci comments, laughing quietly.
As Tristan brings up the media streaming app on the television, Luci launches into a retelling of her weekend. I settle into the cushions, listening with one ear and making small sounds of acknowledgment at the appropriate times. A small part of me, the part not overly interested in my friend’s chatter, feels like something is off-kilter. Something is missing.
Someoneis missing.
It isn’t until after we’ve cracked open the second bottle and the pie is gone that I realize it isn’t only Ashton I miss.
I wish Holden could be here.
I pause, glass halfway to my mouth, and wonder if it’s a bad sign. Shaking my head, I shove the musings away. Push thoughts of Holden to the back of my mind. Ignore the knowledge that somewhere along the way, I developed a crush on the man. It won’t last, I know it. Nothing will come from it, and it’s the way it will always be.
No matter what, no matter which multiverse I exist in, Holden is not in my plans.
I swallow another mouthful of wine and vow to rid myself of whatever it is that I feel for the man.
In Vino, Pactum
Ifailtoquellthe feelings over the next week. The ‘good morning’ texts, random conversations through the days, and ‘goodnight and sweet dreams’ messages at night… None of it helps. I struggle to ignore how my heart flutters in my chest. How I look forward to talking to Holden. It’s impossible to ignore everything good about him. He even asks about Ashton regularly. He commiserates with me whenever my homework gets frustrating. Even though I know he’s withholding something, I relish the conversations.
I try to build the barrier, to shore it up with stone and ice, to make it impenetrable, but each day, he chips away more and more.
Adjusting the volume on the radio, I signal to switch lanes, deftly sliding in between a semi-truck and a pickup with a dog hanging its head out the window. I grimace at the song that comes through the speakers—popular it may be, but I hate it. What’s so good about hearing how the singer can treat someone better than her current partner? I quickly press the button to skip to the next song and curse my music app for adding the song to my curated station. The pop beat is replaced by a smooth guitar, and I smile to myself as the voice joins in to speak of a love found in the unexpected.
The traffic light turns yellow, and I come to a stop at the line to wait. A glance at the stereo display shows a name and title: Holden Lynch,Too Little. Something in the voice brings a shiver to my spine, goosebumps to my skin, and the timbre of the baritone is almost familiar. I lift my phone to take a photo of the stereo screen, wanting to remember the title so I can listen to it again later, only to nearly drop the device on the floor. Someone honks behind me, and I wave shakily at the driver before pressing on the accelerator.
Tristan cocks his head when I enter the coffeeshop twenty minutes later, and I lower myself into a chair by the drinks cooler. He finishes making the coffee for the lady waiting at the counter then comes to sit across from me once she exits the building. Without a word, I slide my phone across the table and drop my head into my hands. Staring at him through my lashes, I watch his expression closely. I see the moment he comes to the same realization I did.
“No.”
I nod unsteadily and exhale slowly. “What am I supposed to do with this, Tris? He never told me he was a musician! It was awkward enough talking to him when he was just a dude, but now this?”
