At No Time || Bruno Mars

62

Peter stood before Trystan's front door, his disposition mild as he fought difficulty to internalize his angst.

He did not really know what he expected to see when she opened the door, and the worst parts of him hoped she appeared just as disheveled as he did. It had taken him countless sleepless nights and futile attempts of contacting her back, but he had finally managed to text her after so many of her own efforts had been neglected.

I'll be there on Monday at noon.

He did not respond to her numerous messages back, feeling he was not required to as he had done his part in communicating with her. He did nothing the entire jet ride to Georgia, merely staring out the window, eyeing the clouds as rays of golden sunlight perched a top of them, mocking him as life was not as beautiful as they made it seem.

Peter did not move when she opened the door, his hands remaining in his pockets and the frown that had managed to become permanent sewn to his face.

Trystan stood before him, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt with the words Colombia University: School of the Arts stitched boldly in navy coloring. To Peter's reticent satisfaction, it looked as if she, too, had not slept a wink. A mix of anger and resentment filled him when he saw her.

Her face, soft and fresh as it was bare, held a weariness he had never seen in her before. Bags lingered beneath her eyes, remnants of sleeplessness and crying, and though her hair managed to look neat, tied back into a bun, she still did not look like herself, and Peter understood what Raina had meant. She looked completely drained.

"Hi, Bruno," she greeted quietly, and for a split second, it appeared as if she wanted to reach out and hug him, but thinking better of it, her arms dropped back to her side as she awkwardly allowed him into her home.

The house did not hold the inviting air that it used to—warm and welcoming like Yvonne's in New York. It seemed darker and colder from the last time he had been inside of it, and he was sure their moods of despair were the culprits.

Unlike Peter, Trystan had managed to keep her residence clean, but oddly enough, Peter saw that it was too clean. It was as if she had taken a brush and scrubbed every inch of every room. Not one crumb could be spotted on the marble floors and dust particles could not even be seen in the lines of sunlight coming in from the kitchen window.

"Can I get you anything?" she inquired as she traipsed to the cupboards, ready to grab him a cup if he requested a glass of water, but he did not.

"No. No, thank you."

She nodded, closing the cabinet's door, and then went to the sink where she wiped the already-spotless steel. It was a nervous habit, Peter noticed, that she went to clean. His mother had been the same way, resorting to mopping or dusting when she was uncomfortable or needed something to do after one of she and Joel's disputes.

Trystan cleared her throat, "Um, Raina . . . she's not here. She's with my mom in Brooklyn."

"I know."

"You know?" Her hand stilled against the basin.

"I was in New York last weekend visiting Diane and I saw her and we spoke."

"Did you . . . did you see her?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Raina was upstairs sleeping when your mom asked me to come speak with her." He did not tell her he had heard her, though, that sweet little voice he almost could not bear to hear.

"Oh . . . well . . . what did you guys talk about?"

"She told me I needed to come to you for answers."