Broken Pieces
Page 110

When he stepped into the house, his mom sat in her favorite chair by the window. His insides seized up watching her look out at the city she hadn’t ventured into in years. She’d never seen much of San Francisco at all.
The heavy weight he always carried around in his chest doubled. The urge to reach over and look for the beat in his wrist was there, too, but he fought back.
“The lights are pretty,” he said as he walked over. She didn’t turn to face him.
“They are.”
“Nighttime used to be my favorite time in the city,” he told her as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, her cotton robe against his suit.
“And it’s not now?” she asked.
“No. Now I’m quite fond of early mornings.” And then, because he knew it would mean a lot to her, because it would mean a lot to him, too, he forced himself to add more. “Remember when I told you Josiah likes to walk? Well, he does it every morning. I like to go with him. We have someone else living with us, too. His name is Mateo. Sometimes the three of us go together.” Even though he knew she didn’t really get what he meant about Mateo, it was important for him to say.
She looked up and smiled at him, suddenly the woman he knew as a child standing in front of him instead of the scared, broken one she’d become. She hadn’t smiled like that in years.
“You’re happy. I said that a while back, when Josiah came into your life, but it’s even more apparent now. You’re happy in a way I’ve never seen you.”
Those words broke through his barriers. Had he really never been happy? No, that wasn’t true. Things had never really been great, but they’d had their moments. They’d laughed together and decorated Christmas trees, even if it was only a cheap, two-foot tree they got at a secondhand store.
But there had always been the underlying sadness, too, waiting to get its claws into him when it inevitably grabbed her.  “I’m trying. I want to be.” And he did, but he also wanted that for her, too. “Maybe we can try sometime? To walk together? We wouldn’t have to go far.”
She shook her head. “Oh, Tristan. I don’t know. It’s been so long. I don’t think there’s anything out there for me anymore. Sometimes I don’t even remember what it’s like... or how this all happened.”
Slowly and painfully. She left less and less after the attack. Struggled in crowds and being around people. He’d come home to find her crying, or even see her sitting outside the apartment, arms wrapped around her legs, scared about something she would never voice.
And then things would seem to get a little better before they’d get worse again. And when they did, Tristan sold himself to ensure he could always take care of them, the same way she had done to take care of him.
He’d thought things would get better when he managed to get her out of New York, but she slipped even farther way.
A good son would reach out and grab her hand, maybe even hug her, but hell, he didn’t know how to do that anymore.
“There are things out there for you. I can show you. Your doctor comes to see you tomorrow. Maybe it’s something you can talk to him about.”
She gave him another smile, threading her arm through his since he would never do it. “I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about you. You’re in love, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
He couldn’t say much, but Tristan found a way to say what he could. He started with, “Did Josiah ever tell you his dream is to have his own coffeehouse? I don’t get it, but it makes him happy,” and then continued to talk from there.
It surprised him when toward the end, he added, “And pictures...He likes to take pictures, too.” He meant Mateo, not Josiah. He still hadn’t sorted out exactly what his feelings for Mateo were, but leaving him out didn’t feel right. Neither did trying to explain it to his mom.
A little while later, Tristan let himself into the house, Mateo and Josiah’s laughter coming from the kitchen. After setting his briefcase down on the table by the door, he stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and leaned against the frame.
“What the hell, Teo? How much salt did you put in this?” Josiah wiped his mouth as he stood next to the stove, a big pot in front of him.
“I don’t fucking know. You said to put salt in it, so I put salt in it.”
“The whole bottle?” Josiah replied, and Mateo playfully pushed him.
This time when Tristan put his finger to his pulse, he welcomed the rapid beat—the reminder that he was, in fact, alive. They were just as beautiful like this, laughing and having fun, happy, as they were making love.