I'm Not in Love

CHAPTER25

Tristan

Wendy is as infatuated with Kid Castle as I am. What a pair we make—never happier than when we’re at preschool. It’s a safe space, where “make pretend” rules. The real world can’t compete.

As we step onto the street in front of the building, Wendy is fully wrapped up in telling me about her new BFF. “Tammy loves baby cows—she calls ‘em caffers.”

“Calves,” I correct her with a smile.

“That’s what I said—caffers. They’re not as cute as lamb babies.”

Wendy could talk about farm animals all day. Sometimes she does.

“I wanna go to the Castle tomorrow—Tammy’s gonna bring her caffer, Moo, and I’m gonna bring Bah-Bah Lamb Baby, an’ they can play together.”

“We don’t go back to Kid Castle until next Tuesday,” I remind her.

“Me and Tammy are gonna feed ’em with tiny baby bottles in the kiddie kitchen… like real mommies.” She pulls in a long breath, loading her lungs with enough air to bellow. “Please,Uncle Tis—lemme go to the Castle tomorrow!”

Before her bottom lip pops out, I reply, “I’ll talk to your mom about it when we get home. If she says okay, I’ll call the director and see if they have space for you.”

“Cool beanies.” In compliance with the rule that has been strictly enforced since her close call with Remi, Wendy grabs my hand. We head down the sidewalk toward the bus station. “Lambies are fuzzy and wooly and…”

As my niece babbles about her favorite topic, I sink into my thoughts, as has recently become my habit. Echoes of last night’s conversation with Remi prickle my brain. He claimed to have lied when he denied loving me on the day I ended our dating relationship, alleging that he was scared. Scared of what? He also claimed to want me back in his life—for me to even move into his loft—but that could be a declaration made from sheer loneliness. And horniness.

The truth is that I love Remi enough to back off—so he has the time and space to figure out what he wants from his life… and who he wants to share it with. I had sincerely wished it could be me, but I’m not one to push. Pushing people into giving you what you want is a frustrating waste of energy. It never worked when I tried to force my mother into coming down to earth to help Tara with the kids when they were first born. The result was that Mom ran away from us instead of just walking.

But Remi isn’t Mom. And both of us claimed we had no use for the complications that go with a serious relationship. I had come around to giving love a try—it was my choice.

I thought love was in the air.

I roll my eyes at myself for thinking something so sappy. Still, it’s true. I’d thrown my hat into the relationship ring, so to speak, and I thought Remi was starting to see me as his boyfriend too. But then, after Wendy almost got hit by a car, I morphed into somebody who was fun to hang out with and hot enough to fuck. Not someone to love.

It doesn’t make sense.

My plan is to stay away from Remi until his dangerous whims can’t hurt me—until time sucks the passion out of how I feel, and all that’s left of my love is the cracked shell. We can call that shell friendship.

Maybe I’m not so concerned about Remi’s emotional fulfillment after all. Could it be I’m terrified of something too? He gave me an easy, if not painful, way out when he denied loving me—I snatched it with both hands and refuse to let go.

“And Bah-Bah Lamb Baby’s gonna fit just right in the dolly highchair.”

“Uh… at Kid Castle?”

“Uh-huh.” Wendy wrinkles her nose. “Are you listenin’ to me, Uncle Tis?”

“Of course I am. Bah-Bah Lamb Baby will fit perfectly in the kiddie kitchen high chair.”

* * *

Remi

This time of year,days are short, and I experience the lack of light as a chill in my bones. Especially on cloudy afternoons, like today. I pull a rag wool sweater over my T-shirt instead of continuing to fight shivers in the briskness of the airy loft.

Since I’ve arrived home from the liquor store, I’ve been standing behind my antique easel, hard at work on the watercolor portrait of Tristan. To some extent, all painting and drawing is created from memory, as we must take our eyes off our subject when we commit it to paper. Even without Tristan in front of me—draped provocatively over the wingback chair, staring me down with a coy side eye—I’m able to complete this project without too much difficulty. Throughout my years in art school, I’ve trained my memory to recall visual detail, so the colors and shadows I’m now creating in watercolor emerge from a solid reference in my brain.

Tristan posed for hours in the chair by the window. The image is burned in my memory.

The knock on the door that interrupts my brooding can have only one source. “Come in, Dacia!” I left the door ajar when I brought in the latest box full of assorted bottles of liquor. As of late, my best friends.

She strides across the living room to stand behind me and is silent as she studies the watercolor portrait of Tristan. Finally, she says, “This is the best portrait you’ve ever done.”

I shrug. “Call me inspired.”

“He looks real, but better than, if you know what I mean. Which is hard to imagine, seeing as Tristan’s already the best-looking dude in the Western Hemisphere.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I wasn’t trying to beautify him with my art. I just want to express who he is.”

“Even with just the one eye showing—it’s like looking into his soul.”

“Yes, I know.” And it’s pure torture.

“What are you gonna do with it when it’s finished?”

“Hmm.” I sniff. “There’s a scuff mark on the wall over there.” I point with my paintbrush. “One night when we were watching the kids, Jared got overly enthusiastic in an indoor soccer game with Tommy. He jumped to kick a high ball, and his sneaker left a mark on the wall. I’ll probably hang the portrait over the sneaker print.”

“To hide the mark… or the memory?”

“Both.” I’m nothing if not honest. It’s easy with Dacia.

She nods. “What happened when you talked to Tris in the courtyard on Wednesday night? Did you work things out?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it through the thriving grapevine.” I thought Tara and Dacia knew all my painful secrets.

“Tris won’t talk.” She makes a zipped-lips/throw-away-the-key gesture.

“Then why should I?”