“Not the greatest shoppers, are you guys?”
Tristan finally found a box of pancake mix and set to work, ignoring my question.
I enjoyed watching him. I’d grown so used to angry Tristan. Even in the good moments, there was always a dark air to him, like you could imagine him snapping at any moment and going feral on someone. But this morning, he seemed light—almost happy.
I twirled my hair, sitting at the counter while I watched him struggle with the simple recipe. He looked so intent on getting it right that I didn’t have the heart to laugh, so I just waited patiently, even when he mistook baking soda for flour.
It ended up not mattering anyway, because he burnt every last pancake, which sat in a tall tower of failure when he was finished.
Tristan snapped his fingers, pointing to the ceiling. “Better idea. How does the best cereal you’ve ever had sound?”
“Wonderful,” I said.
He opened the fridge. “Shit. No milk. Okay, new pl—”
Someone knocked at his door.
We both turned, looking. “Expecting someone?”
“No,” he said. His face was dark again, like all that lightness had just drifted away in the moment I’d taken my eyes off him.
“Should I go?” I asked quietly.
“Stay,” he said, moving to the door.
When he opened it, there was a well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties standing there, looking confused. She was holding a small stack of “for sale” signs under her arm. “Tristan Blackwood?” She asked.
“Yes.” Tristan’s voice was stiff. Hostile.
“Your father led me to believe the house was unoccupied.”
“If he wants me out, he’ll have to get on a plane and physically remove my ass. You can tell him that.” He slammed the door shut on the woman and stalked back to the kitchen.
“Tristan… What’s going on?”
He dug in the fridge for beers, offering me one.
I shook my head. “Can you just talk to me?”
He sat down heavily, just staring at his beer instead of making any move to open it. “I thought you already knew all this. Fuck. It’s why I was such an unbearable dick to you. You realize that? I was punishing you for something you didn’t even know.”
I waited. I hadn’t put it all together, but the truth felt like it was on the tip of my mind. What do you tell them? That question his dad asked—I knew it somehow was at the center of it.
“You ever wonder why my parents are never home? Why I can throw parties all the time and not give a shit about all the alcohol and drugs people use here?”
“No… I mean, I saw your dad laying into you for it that first night. I guess I just figured you got in trouble for it all the time and didn’t care.”
“That was the first time I’ve seen him in three years. Still haven’t seen my mom or my sister. When I was fifteen, I was getting into a lot of trouble. Fights. Alcohol. Then I got caught with weed. My coach told dad about the weed and the fights. He said they could look past the fights as long as I tried to keep it in check, but the drugs were a line in the sand. One more time and I was done for good. But that wasn’t enough for him. For them. He told me he was done. They threatened to sell the house and leave me on my own, but after a few months, I started to think that had been a bluff.
“They flew out to our place in California and never called or came back. But they left the safe with about twenty grand of cash in their bedroom, so I’ve had money for gas and food, but that’s not going to last much longer.”
“They just left?” I asked incredulously. “You were only fifteen…”
“Yeah, well, one thing about rich people is they think you can throw money at problems and make them go away. Maybe leaving the house and all their toys here was their way of washing their hands of it. But that was the reason he came the morning you were here. It’s what I thought you heard. They’re out of money, and they’re going to sell this place to try to pay off some debts.” Tristan looked back at his beer, laughing humorlessly. “The only reason he bothered coming was because I ignored his calls. He just wanted to try to scare me into cleaning the place up for him, so it’d sell faster. You know, I almost burned the fucking thing down that night. But I thought you knew enough to pin it on me.”
I reached for the beer I’d refused and tried to open it, only managing to hurt my hand.
Tristan took it from me and twisted off the cap, handing it back to me.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. God,” I said, feeling it all fall together in my head finally. “I thought a football scholarship would be a joke to someone like you. But it’s not. Is it?”