CHAPTER20
Remi
Each time Tristan models for me, I’m awed by his physical beauty. I’m more awed that he chose me, such a profoundly flawed man, to be his partner. Sheer amazement leads to me drag him off to my bedroom where I prove my passion and gratitude by making love to him. Making love leads to a staggering rush of feelings for him—feelings I no longer fight.
Lying in bed, Tristan in my arms, I admit to myself that leaving unspoken the words that express my depth of feeling gives them so much more power.
“There’s no one else, right?” I ask, my voice rough with unfounded doubt, as I hold him to my chest and kiss his hair.
When Tristan shakes his head and utters, “There’s nobody but you,” I feel like a king.
I want to verbally claim him as my own; he’s already so completely mine. And I’m going to do this—as soon as I can find the words to explain why it has taken me so long to come clean. I’ll need to expose the darkest parts of my psyche: how losing everything I loved—my parents, my home, my hope for the future—on the eve of my ninth birthday has emotionally paralyzed me for nearly two decades.
He’s incredibly patient with me. It’s been a full week since Thanksgiving Day when I pledged to discuss the status of our relationship. Neither of us has initiated the “is this love?” conversation. It’s clearly my place to bring it up since he raised the topic on the holiday. Yet I can’t find the words, even when they’re so very simple and ring loudly and constantly in my head. Day and night… when we’re together and when I’m alone… at school and at home and on the streets between.
I love you, Tristan.
“You promised to take Wendy to the library today.” Again, Tristan lets me off the hook.
“That I did. I’ll drop you off at the Art Shoppe in Brentwood Village for your modeling job. And then I’ll pick Wendy up at the apartment, and we’ll walk to the Brentwood Village Library.”
“When you get there, she’s gonna want you to read every storybook she can get her hands on about Santa Claus. The child has a new obsession.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I assure him. “And Tara will have a few hours alone to go Christmas shopping.”
“For once, Christmas presents aren’t gonna break the bank.” He tilts his face up to collect a kiss.
I love you, Tristan.
“Go take a shower. I’ll make us lunch,” I say.
“Or you can heat last night’s leftovers.”
I nod as he rises from the bed.
* * *
Remi
Wendy isbeyond excited about Christmas. I’d forgotten about the magic that Santa Claus and flying reindeer and sugarplum fairies bring to a child’s life.
“Again, Emmie! Read it again!” I’ve read her seven different stories about the night before Christmas. In the company of three chatty toddlers, she’s built a gingerbread house with glue and cardboard and plastic jewels. She has colored a printed picture of a snowman family. At this point, the child is yawning; time to walk her home before I need to carry her.
“I have a better idea, Wendy. Let’s head back to your apartment. We can show your snowman picture to Bah-Bah Lamb Baby.”
“On the way home, can we stop at the Yum Yum Shop for a cookie?” she asks.
“Of course, we can, sweetie.” I’d do anything for her—a cookie is a minor request.
“Gotta get Jared and Tommy cookies too.”
“They’d be disappointed if we didn’t.” I bundle Wendy up in her puffy pink winter coat, fuzzy white earmuffs, and tiny purple mittens. I want to paint what I see—a happy child with rosy cheeks and strawberry curls spilling around her face. I grab my jacket as we head up the stairs to the library’s main floor, and she races for the door. “You’ve got to hold my hand, Wendy.”
“I’m a big girl. I know how to walk all by myself.” Her bottom lip protrudes.
I stop her on the sidewalk. “No deal.”
“O-kaaaay, Emmie.” The pout disappears, and she grins up at me. “I’ll hold your hand ’cause I love you, and you’re gettin’ me a cookie.”
She grabs my hand before I have a chance to put on my jacket and drags me along the sidewalk, chanting, “C is for cookie!”
After a few minutes of walking, I stop and let go of her hand. “Stand right beside me for a second—I’m freezing. Time to put on my coat.”
Wendy leans against my leg as I throw the coat over my shoulders.
“I see it, Emmie! The cookie shop! Look—right over there!” She bolts toward the street.
“Wendy! Stop right now!” I drop my jacket and race after her. “Wendy!”
“Gonna get a gingerbread man!” And she’s on the street.
“Dammit, Wendy!” I’m three feet behind her. “Come back here!”
She stops in the middle of the street and turns to look at me. Her wide eyes are the last thing I see before the screeching of tires.
Then the shrill scream of a little girl.
And my own guttural moan.
* * *