Tristan
Wendy has caughta cold at preschool, which isn’t all that surprising. But combined with a resurgence of her allergies, it makes for work interruptions for Tara and sleepless nights for me. Not to mention a frustrated three-year-old who is miserable about missing school and her BFF, Tammy. Or as Wendy refers to her, “Moo’s Mommy.”
“She’s gonna miss all of the holiday fun at Kid Castle if she doesn’t get better soon,” I tell Tara when we finally get Wendy down for the night. “Only four more school days before winter break.”
“That’s the least of our worries. How are you going to keep modeling and working at the preschool when you’ve had little to no sleep?”
“We need to buy that air purifying system now,” I decide.
“After Christmas—remember, Santa Claus is coming to town. We need to pay for the kids’ presents first.”
I haven’t seen Tara so frustrated since she started her job at Remington Plaza.
“Mommy! I scored a goal!” Tommy races into the kitchen after their usual Friday night soccer game, glowing with pride.
Jared follows at his heels, and then Remi steps reluctantly into the kitchen. “Hey.” He looks at Tara. “Missed you at the game tonight. How’s Wendy feeling?”
“Not good.” Tara hugs Tommy. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I scored twice.” Jared is not one to miss out on the glory. “But it’s cool—scoring one goal is, like, a super big deal for Tommy.”
“I’m proud of you too, Jared. And thanks for being so excited for your brother.” Tara takes the boys by the hand. “Time to get your pajamas on, guys. I want to hear all about the game.”
And just like that, I’m alone with Remi. He studies the wall behind me like it’s fine art.
“Thanks for taking the boys to their soccer game and out to dinner again,” I say. “I would have taken them, but I had to work at the Wining Painter.”
“They kind of expect me to be there now. And I can’t say no to a pizza date.” Remi finally settles his pained gaze on my face. “Not a problem at all.”
“I bet the coaches like it when you come too,” I say. “Tara calls you the soccer-whisperer.”
“They’re getting used to me, I guess.” He glances away again. “How have you been?”
If I believed that honesty was truly the best policy, I’d tell him that even when Wendy was sleeping through the night, I wasn’t. My head has been too full of memories of us. “I’m okay.”
“You look tired.”
“Wendy’s been sick, so, you know…” There’s so much I want to say, but the words are stuck in my head.
“I… uh, I got a few ideas from the boys about what they want for Christmas. And what Wendy wants too. I wrote it all down, so you and Tara don’t get them the same things.” He pulls a scrap of paper out of his front pocket and slides it across the kitchen table.
“Thanks. That will help us out.” He certainly seems dependable, at least when it comes to the kids. Maybe I judged him too rashly. “We’re gonna save up for an air purifying system—after we pay off the Christmas presents. Maybe late in January.”
“Okay, then.” He buttons his winter jacket. “It was good to see you. I miss you, Tristan.” He glances at me expectantly.
A huge lump makes me cough when I swallow. I clear my throat, but it’s still there. Clearly, returning Remi’s sentiment aloud is not an option, so I nod.
His gaze clouds over. “I guess I’ll head out. Kiss Wendy for me.”
I nod again and watch as he turns and walks out the door.
* * *
Remi
Classes endfor winter break on Wednesday, so I need to make my move tomorrow after Life Drawing class with the target himself, Professor Mario Santini.
I’ve spoken to four men—life models who Santini reportedly sexually harassed last semester with intimidating treatment in the studio during class and unethical behavior when they agreed to model at his house. They’re all willing to speak out about how he threatened their jobs and future options at LCC if they didn’t come to his house, model for him—naked and alone—followed by a demand to provide him with oral sex. Thankfully, he never got that far with Tristan.
I’ll present my case for suspending Professor Santini to the Dean of Students at noon tomorrow. The witnesses are readily available upon my request.
Sundays seem so empty, especially now that I know how full of laughter they can be when I’m surrounded by Tristan and the kids. I step to the interior wall where I hung the completed portrait of Tristan. I mounted it at eye level so I can pretend we’re looking at each other… when I talk to it. How warped is that?
“I can’t be with you, but I can do something to make life for models like you safer—and that means taking down Santini.”
I’m not insulted when he doesn’t respond. In fact, he wouldn’t know what to say about my plan if he were here in the flesh. Tristan would probably think of what I’m planning to do as seeking vengeance, which is not his style. I, however, am not above it.
I did justice to Tristan’s stunning beauty in this portrait—I painted his face to show its chiseled perfection. His captivating eye is the work’s focal point, though. It radiates light as does a shard of green sea glass gleaming on white sand. And I caught his expression exactly as it was on the first day he posed—distant, yet coy. I remember well how on that morning his cagey stare and subtle smirk burned a single, unwelcome question in my mind. Does he want to be mine as much as I want to be his? Then there’s his skin—the color of warm Gobi Desert sand. My skill at articulating it in watercolor has me yearning to touch him.
My yearning is for more than the physical aspects of the man. I miss Tristan’s ability to calm me, coax me, comfort me. I long to break through his mask of self-control, to be the only one he trusts to peek behind the stoicism.
Impulsively, I pull my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans. I dial his number and hold my breath until he speaks.
“Hello.”
I can tell by the restraint in his voice that he’s seen the caller ID and knows it’s me. “Tristan?”
“Uh-huh.”
I need to come up with something to say, to legitimize this reckless attempt to connect with him. “I wonder… when can I come over to drop off the kids’ Christmas presents?”
We both know I could easily have called Tara for this information.