I'm Not in Love

CHAPTER3

Tristan

By the time I get home, I’m dead on my feet.

After the life drawing class at LaCasse College, I wolfed down a quick salad at the dining hall and took a bus downtown to the Garner Center for Music and Arts where I spent the afternoon posing for Human Portraits in Watercolor Workshop. I held a long pose for three hours, taking short breaks to stretch and drink water. Unfortunately, my choice of reclining pose was awkward—I stretched out on their well-used couch with a towel under my butt, halfway on my side, with one leg bent and the other tucked beneath it. The tucked foot kept falling asleep. And my back cramped up at the end of the third hour, but that’s pretty much par for the course.

After the watercolor workshop, I splurged on an Uber and headed to pay-per-class yoga instead of hitting the cheap gym I belong to near our apartment. I needed to get my body and mind back on the same page after spending the entire day offering myself—if only just the view of me—to strangers. For money.

I’ve got to be in the right frame of mind to face a lively evening at home. Between three needy kids and a sister with a major guilt complex, home-sweet-crowded-apartment is not exactly a center of spiritual renewal or a source of physical relaxation. But I wouldn’t change it, even if I could. Which I can’t, so there’s no use dwelling on it.

My family needs me, and I’ve got all four of their backs.

“Uncle Tris, you’re finally home!” Eight-year-old Jared is always the first to greet me. His habit is to wait for my return in the kitchen alcove’s window seat of our tiny first-floor apartment on the outskirts of the city. The city itself would be more convenient for my work, but here in Brentwood Village there are two parks for the kids and a lot less traffic, plus rent is cheaper. Cheap rent being the critical factor, as I pay for it on my meager modeling salary. “Me and Tommy are, like, starving! What’s for dinner?”

“Your mom hasn’t started anything yet?” I drop my duffel bag next to a mountain of shoes by the door and then playfully bop my nephew’s platinum head with the long, paper-wrapped loaf of bread I picked up at the corner store.

Jared grins. “Uh-uh. Mom’s in the bedroom with Wendy.”

“Wendy isn’t feeling good again?” I ask.

“Nope. She’s got another sore throat.”

“Did your mother take her to the clinic?”

“Uh-uh. Mom says it’s, like, just her allergies acting up.”

Stupid ragweed.I huff in frustration. “I’ll put some water on for spaghetti.” Next stop is the kitchen where six-year-old Tommy is coloring at the table.

“Hi, Uncle Tris.”

“Hey, there, buddy. How was school?” I proceed to fill the large cooking pot with water and turn on the stove.

“Super good—had art today.” He doesn’t look up from his paper, so all I see is the tuft of white-blond hair that sticks up from the top of his head. His hair refuses to cooperate with the comb.

“Cool. What did you make?”

“Didn’t make nothin’ yet. Just started workin’ with the clay. We each got our own lump—mine’s bigger than everybody else’s.” He switches crayons. “Been waitin’ for clay time for almost forever.”

“I know you have.” It’s all he’s been able to talk about since school started. I grab a jar of sauce and pour it into a glass bowl. “Want to help me make garlic bread?”

“Uh-huh—as soon as I finish this pumpkin I’m drawin’.”

When Jared comes into the kitchen, we whip up a quick dinner. “You guys start eating. I’m gonna check on your little sister.”

They’re already filling their faces when I leave for the kids’ bedroom.

“Hey, Tara,” I say softly as I push open the door. “How’s Wendy?”

“More of the same,” she replies. “Stuffy nose, scratchy throat, runny eyes.”

“What we need is winter.”

“A good frost would help with Wendy’s allergies, for sure. But then the dry air messes with her.” Tara slides out from underneath Wendy and stands beside the bed, staring down at her daughter with a frown. “We seriously need one of those air purifying systems that we can’t afford.”

“How long has she been out?” I nudge Tara aside to tuck Wendy’s favorite fuzzy “lambie” blanket around her and smooth my hand through her tangled, strawberry curls.

“She’s been sleeping for over an hour already—this little girl is gonna be up all night.”

“No worries—I’ll stay up with her,” I offer. Between the dark circles under Tara’s eyes and the way her light hair falls in her face, my twin sister looks more worn out than I feel. “You need rest.”

“She’s gonna want you to read to her,” Tara warns, hands moving to her hips.

I smile. “I’ll read her that book she’s so crazy about—you know, the one that keeps repeating ‘it’s bedtime for little lamb.’ She’ll hear it as many times as it takes for her to nod off.”

“The power of suggestion, huh?”

“I sure hope so.” I don’t mind the long reading sessions with Wendy. Children’s books inspire me—almost as much as they inspire her—with their lyrical language and dynamic art. And then there’s the minor detail that Wendy just melts me. “Come on, Tara. Dinner’s ready.”

Tara follows me from the kids’ bedroom to the kitchen. As I fill her bowl with pasta, she drops into a wobbly chair beside our thrift shop kitchen table. “Oh, joy. We’re having spaghetti.”

I don’t miss the sarcastic tone or the implied “for the third time this week.” Still standing at the stove, I stuff in a forkful, so I don’t snap back. Because Tara isn’t complaining—she’s reacting from guilt that she can’t do more to help her family.

“When I get a new babysitting job, or if I’m really lucky an online business job, I’m gonna buy you guys juicy steaks from Artie’s Butcher Shop,” she promises. “And Uncle Tris can cook them on the charcoal grill on Mr. Shahid’s back porch.” Tara’s still upset about losing the ten-month-old boy she’d been taking care of until Wendy’s allergies got so bad she had to quit.

“Pasta fills our bellies.” I offer a positive spin on the Wilder family’s menu limitations. “Isn’t that right, guys?”

“Uh-huh, but have we got, like, any grated cheese?” Jared asks.

“There’s just a little bit left, and we need to save it for Wendy.” Tara’s tone is too sharp.

“Little Wenny won’t eat her noodles without it,” Tommy reminds us. “Right, Mommy?”

Tara nods, a tight frown on her lips, and Jared pouts but doesn’t beg. Financially challenged kids learn the rules fast.

“Well, can I at least have some more garlic bread?” His eyes are as hungry as Remi’s were when he noticed me leaning on the wall at the beginning of life drawing class.

I rub the chills from my shoulders. “You can have my share.” Ripping off a hunk, I add, “Growing boys need as much garlic bread as they can possibly consume—but don’t inhale it.”

“I won’t.” Jared allows a reluctant smile. “Thanks.”

Tara looks at me appreciatively. “Doesn’t your Uncle Tris rock?”

The boys nod enthusiastically as they chew, their mouths stained red with tomato sauce.

They’re more than worth the sacrifice.

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