"How so? It's a big step from human rights lawyers to corporate lawyer."
Though his tone is not in the slightest judging, or accusing, I feel defensive.
"Just because," I snap, but then soften at his stricken expression. "I'm sorry. This is a very sensitive area for me."
"Your career choice?"
I sigh, sitting on the airstairs, one step beneath him. No one asked me why I decided to change my career, though everyone knew I was dreaming of being a human rights lawyer. After my parents' death, it was sort of implied why I changed my mind. Or, well… not why. People never understood why. They just assumed that the traumatic event had something to do with my decision. But that didn't keep people—my closest friends, even Chris—from judging my choice.
"Do you know how my parents died?" I ask.
Tristan inhales. "No."
"Umm…" I pick a spot on the airstairs and gawk at it, fiddling with my hands in my lap. "My parents dedicated their life to charitable causes. This meant more than donations or charity parties. They'd often fly to underprivileged countries to give out food and medicine, and oversee infrastructural projects. They were my heroes when I was little and into my teenage years, even though they were gone for long periods at a time. I rarely saw them." Warmth feathers me on the inside, as I remember checking the mailbox, and later my email, waiting to hear from my heroes—to learn when they'd be home to spend time with me and tell me about their latest achievements.
"Before long, they also got involved in the politics of countries that were… politically unstable. Wherever the danger was greater, there they were, both of them. Wanting to bring hope to places where there was no hope. They were fighters. They believed they could make a difference. The week after I turned eighteen they went to one such country that was on the brink of a revolution. The revolution started a few days after they arrived there, and they were killed." The warmth inside me turns to an engulfing flame—the flame that turned all the memories and thoughts of my parents into a source of misery and anger instead of the happy place they used to be before their deaths. "The world isn't a better place. And they are still dead. What was the point?"
Pain pierces my palms, and I look in my lap, discovering I've dug my nails very deep in my skin.
"The point is, it's people like your parents who help this world become better every day, even if you can't see it right away. They did a lot of good. I read an article about them once. They were good people. Fighters." His voice is gentle, but every word feels like the lash of a whip.
"Oh yes, they were fighters. They fought with everything they had to bring good to the world. They sacrificed anything for that. They gave everything to the world. And what did the world give them back? Nothing," I spit. I don't dare meet his eyes, for fear I'll find the same accusatory look that Chris had when I spoke like this in front of him. But I can't stop myself from spitting out more words. Wrong words. "The world took everything from them. And it took them away from me. You’re right, they were fighters. But I wish they hadn't been, so they'd still be alive. When I was little, I dreamed of my father walking me down the aisle to give me away. Chris's father was going to do it, because my dad isn't here to do it."
"You are bitter." Tristan slides down the steps until he's on the same level. I still avoid looking at him.
"Yes. And selfish. Lamenting that my father isn't here to walk me down the aisle. What a tragedy, right? When there are real tragedies going on around the word. Tragedies they were trying to prevent. I used to want to be a human rights lawyer because I wanted to follow in my parents' footsteps. But after they died, I became a different person. I didn't want anything to do with anything they did. So yes… that's how I went to the other extreme and became a corporate lawyer. I bet my soppy story wasn't what you wanted to hear." I try to sound humorous, like the whole thing is a joke.
"There's no shame in what you did, Aimee. It's a natural reaction to want to distance yourself from your parents' world and ideals. You associate that with pain. You don't have to feel ashamed. I'm not judging you, Aimee."
His words—so simple, so serene—have a calming effect on me. Like sprinkling honey on a burn, they rein in the fire that scorches me, soothing the cracks that the contained pain and shame have cut inside me.
He tilts my head until I meet his gaze, as if to make sure I got his point. But neither his words nor his gaze manage to silence the raucous thoughts tormenting me.
"I am not a fighter, like them," I whisper. "If I were, I wouldn't have given up so easily. I'm a selfish person." Tristan opens his mouth, then closes it again without uttering a sound. I pull away from him. "Go ahead, say it. Everyone else had no qualms with letting me know how they feel about it."
"You're not selfish. If you were, you wouldn't have gone for those leaves last night. The forest terrifies you when it’s dark."
"That's not tipping the scale in my favor. But then again, compared to all the things my parents did, nothing I do will tip it in my favor.”
"I'm sure they would be proud of you anyway."
This has haunted me since my first workday. "No, they wouldn't. Not at all." I rise to my feet, walking to the signal fire, putting more branches on it. My confession to him drained me of energy. But it also drained something else… a rotting negativity I have accumulated over the years. I feel more at peace than I’ve felt in a long time.
Tristan takes the cue and doesn't pursue the topic. "Ready for some shooting training?"
"
I guess."
"We need a target."
Tristan's back cracks when he attempts to stand, and I push him back on the steps, assuring him I'm capable of doing this on my own. I build a makeshift target by curling a few branches and putting leaves inside them. I get the bows, arrows, and spears from the wood shelter and drop them at Tristan's feet. Then I realize…
"Can you shoot with your back?"
"No. Arching my back hurts. But I'll explain it to you the best I can."
Turns out no matter how much Tristan explains what I have to do, I can't shoot straight to save my life. The arrows don't touch the target, instead flying below, above, or to its sides and into the bushes. The process becomes cumbersome, because I have to retrieve all the arrows. Eventually, Tristan stands up. He does it slowly and doesn’t seem in pain—just uncomfortable. He presses his hand on my stomach, explaining that I have to center my weight there.