At No Time || Bruno Mars

31

The wintry mix of New York bit at Trystan's cheeks as she trekked through Prospect Park, her eyes canvassing the entity as she sloshed through the wet snow that had fallen during the night. She tightened her arms around herself, wishing her trench coat and scarf would offer her more warmth as she hunted.

She called out Peter's name, but unless he was disguised as one of the homeless men slumped against thick tree trunks and lying about the sidewalk, her calls were swiped away with the wind that blew. She regretted not taking the taxi driver's offer of driving her around the park, but if she knew Peter as well as she thought she did, he would not want to be seen.

Despite growing up in the city, Trystan had never been fond of all the snow. Blizzards reminded her of the time she had been caught in one. She had missed the school bus home, and thought she had to trudge her way all the way home through the storm instead of waiting in the front office for one of her parents to get her. She did not get home until it was early nighttime. Her mother was hysterical when she found her daughter at the front door with ice plastering her face and clothes, the phone in Yvonne's hand still on call with the police and her father. She had scooped Trystan up into a hug and scolded her harshly simultaneously. Trystan hoped she would have the opportunity to embrace Peter and chastise him, too.

A gust of wind that shot pricks of ice at her face nearly knocked her over and clearly out of her thoughts, but she continued on, Peter's name becoming a broken record as she scaled the area. She pushed away any thoughts of being incorrect; there was nowhere else she thought he would have gone that was significance. He did say he went to talk to his father and sister, but the late call she made to Diane proved he had not stayed with them and went on his way. He was not back in Los Angeles, so Trystan prayed she knew his heart, knew it well enough to brave the elements, because she was taking a very slim chance.

Her voice, cracking from the bitter frigidity, had only enough power to gather one last call, but the energy was unneeded. Only "Bru . . ." passed her lips once she saw a head of outgrown, thick curls settled on a bench.

Her thudding heart settled in relief when she was certain it was him.  She had studied his profile well enough to know it could be no one else. She was sure he had heard her, even if it only partially his name, but he did not turn to look at her.

Trystan gradually made her way over, unsure how to approach him. She wanted desperately to get him out of there; he looked as if he would catch his death soon, but he sat stone-like and slumped, not even the pestering winds enough to move him. It appeared as if he had not even noticed the desolate conditions. He was just there. Her heart began to feel mellow in her chest.

When she finally approached him, she noticed that he wore nothing but a sweater and sweatpants. His face was downcast, the tips of his nose and ears burning a bright red from the frostiness of the air. Trystan wondered how cold he must to have been. The last time she checked, it had barely been fifteen degrees out. His hands, roughened by the dry draft, were clasped in his lap. , He did not shift as Trystan settled beside him, but he spoke.

"This was her favorite place in New York. I never cared for it, so I never went with her when she wanted to go on runs or just walk around and enjoy the nature." His words were slow as if he had to think deeply before executing them. Trystan only listened.

"She would always ask Diane and I to go with her. Di would go, but I never would. I always told her I was busy, but I was only goofing off with my friends or in my room or off with some girl. I didn't understand the beauty she saw here; why it made her so happy. She had to have asked me about a hundred times. But I would never go." Peter sniffed, and Trystan had to look away when she saw a teardrop spill from the tip of his nose.