At No Time || Bruno Mars

34

Trystan had gone into the agreement aware of how tough it would be, but not that tough.

She thought that it would not be too difficult to hold off from Peter for a while, considering their relationship had only begun a short while ago, but she should have known by then that time meant little between them.

She found it increasingly laborious not to randomly text or call him. She had grown used to his company even when he was away from her, and she had to admit she had thought more than twice about revoking the deal just to have it back. When her fingers itched to find his contact in her phone, she quickly averted the action and found something else to do. It never failed to amaze her how attached she had become to him.

Peter had maintained his part of the deal—for the weekend she was not awakened by the buzzing of her cell phone that contained sexual messages, and he had not called her to simply talk. At most, their conversations had been strictly business as it had been before. She permitted herself to think of him in ways as more than associates, but that made it all the more bothersome. She could not simply retract to the days where they had not meant much to each other. Everything that transpired over the New Year made that task impossible.

Nevertheless, she assured herself that she would not be the first one to crack under the pressure . . . hopefully.

Trystan found herself restless during the late night. Even in her most comfortable sleeping position—everything covered by her comforter but one leg—did sleep evade her. She heard every creak, echo, push of wind, and even Bella's heavy breathing as she slumbered in her bed at the back door. She accused her difficulty on the jet lag she had acquired, the shift of time zones torturing her schedule, but she knew that the rapid cogitation running through her mind was the real culprit.

As she curled beneath her sheets, careful to not cover both legs lest she get too hot, she thought of many things. Naturally of Peter, but then of Derek, and then of her father. The latter was the most strenuous to dwell on, so much that her eyes remained open as she did so.

She could only imagine what her father would be thinking of her situation. He had set an exemplary example of what a man should be, and she admired his character since she was a young girl and hoped to be involved with someone like him. Derek surely had not been the one, and Trystan believed she should have sensed that from early on in their relationship. He had not encouraged her nor seemed interested enough in her pursuits, not like her father would have been.

Charles, that had been his name, would have sat down with her and listened to her music and writing ramblings, no matter how refined or messy, and offered some tweaking. Not too much where he would be doing all the work for her, but just enough to give her that push in the right direction. He had always known just what to say, and even when he did not, his presence was enough to relax Trystan into thinking everything was okay, or would be.

Is Bruno that man? Her thoughts trailed to her lover, and she stitched together the comparisons of the two. Being much older and more polished in the experience department of life, Charles was wiser, and probably more well-equipped for a relationship than Peter was, but Trystan could not ignore that Peter did for her now what her father had done for her as a child. In his own teasing way, Peter helped her to construct her craft, even when she felt she did not need any assistance. His own ideas, fixations, and words, forged together with hers and brought about things she had not even thought of. And that was something no deal or circumstance could disrupt.

Her mind too heavy with the thoughts of her father for the confines of her bed, Trystan escaped her room with her phone and earbuds. She crept past her sleeping piglet and into the kitchen. The late-night munchies taking a hold of her, she grabbed a pack of chocolate chip cookies from the pantry before making her way into the living room. It was cool, but not cold enough to light up the fireplace, the Los Angeles winter holding no candle to the weight of New York's chill.