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.
"One afternoon, she wanted to go running. Diane was at work, Pop was wherever, and it was only me. It was freezing out, but she didn't care. She just loved the exercise." Peter laughed in spite of himself, and though Trystan heard the humor, she saw not a trace of it on his face. "She asked me again, and I told her no, that I was busy with homework. I wasn't really. I never did that stuff. I just wanted to play video games and stuff my face with cheese puffs. And despite that, I remember her smiling when she left my room. She always had a beautiful smile; could light up the damn world."
Peter paused, the rugged memory he had entombed resurfacing, gasping for air to stay alive. "She goes, One day, I'm gonna get you to go running with me. And . . ." He choked up, and Trystan's own tears threatened to spill as he finished.
"I never got to. She died that same day."
Peter collapsed into a fit of sobs, and Trystan pulled him into her embrace. He didn't fight her comfort. He permitted her fingers through his hair and his tears to stain the front of her coat. He did not have to finish his story. Trystan knew the rest. It had been on the news.
"A woman was found by passersby in Central Park earlier this evening, who appeared to have suffered from a heart attack during her run. Joggers along the path said they knew of this woman and had seen her routinely. She was taken to the nearest hospital, but was pronounced dead arriving on the scene . . ."
The news reel that had been hidden in the fragments of her mind hit Trystan full force. She remembered, coming home from dance practice that night and seeing it all on T.V. She thought it awful, someone having to die like that, but she never would have dreamed it was Miss June who suffered such a fatality. Her heart broke for Peter, just as it had when they were fifteen.
"She never asked for much. Did everything a mom should do and all she ever asked of me was my time. All I had to say was yes. Maybe she would have still be here if I'd just gone with her. I could have helped her. Got her to the hospital in time and they could have saved her. But I was being selfish piece of shit and told her no. I told her no, Trystan! I told her . . ." Peter held onto Trystan as sobs wracked his entire body, the berating and frustration and heartache he'd held within him for eleven years finally falling into the lap of a woman he knew his tears would be welcome.
Trystan made him sit up and held his tear-streaked face in her palms. His hessonite eyes looked at her for an answer, one he had not been able to find. He struggled against her gaze, and ultimately let his fall.
"Bruno, listen to me. I don't care how cliché this sounds, but that heart attack was not your fault. Her dying was not your fault."
"But-but I-,"
"Look at me." His cheeks grew warmer in her hands, and his eyes returned to hers. "Nothing could have prevented what happened and nothing can change it. Don't you dare blame yourself for it. You can wish all you want to return to the past, but time moves forward, and that's what you have to do. Miss June would want you to do that. It was just her time to go, Bruno, and that had nothing to do with you, okay?"
Peter stared at her for a moment longer, neither affirming or denying her claim, but lied his head back into her chest as the cold around them became less bothersome.
Trystan wrapped her arm around Peter's waist as they trekked out of the park, the dastardly occurrence that had taken place mixing with the wind. She hailed another taxi, and she was sure the driver had side-eyed her for being in the company of Peter, who only looked a tad better than the homeless citizens on the sidewalks.
"Where to, folks?" he asked as he looked between the two odd couple with an arbitrary gaze. Trystan wanted to tell him to mind his business, that there was nothing wrong with either of them, but instead, she disclosed the location and gathered Peter back into her arms, hoping to warm him as he nestled close to her. She noticed how small he appeared then, how fragile. She had never seen him so vulnerable, the uptight-turned-affable man she was growing used to transformed into an image that could break anyone's heart. She did not like it, did not like having him be other than what satisfied her, but she held on, just as he had held onto her. Two brokenhearted people held on together to feel whole.
Trystan walked Peter quickly through the lobby, careful not to draw the attention of Edward, the elderly receptionist who was found dozing more often than not, and to the elevator. Trystan felt safer behind the closed doors, away from the prying eyes of those who did not understand.
The entire ride up, Peter said nothing, staring forward blankly with thoughts obscured. Trystan was uncomfortable in his silence, wanting to ask so much more because she still knew so little. She was not certain if he was up for speaking after divulging so much to her already, so she reached out slowly and grabbed his hand. It was still ice cold, his fingers barely able to clasp hers, so she turned the thermostat passed eighty-degrees when they entered her room.
Shrugging off her coat and lying it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, she told him to have a seat and she rummaged through her pantry for a can of soup. "Is chicken noodle, okay?" she inquired and held up the small canister. Peter nodded, and she fixed a pot on the stove.
As the blue fire lit below, she called gently, "I know you probably don't want to, but we're gonna have to talk about this, okay? You scared a lot of people."
Peter did not respond, his gazed still glued somewhere before him. He still shivered slightly, and Trystan instructed him to go take a hot shower and change. "It's in my bedroom and to the right. Your food will be done by the time you finish."
Peter rose from the table without acknowledging her and went to his suitcase to grab out clothes similar to what he was wearing. He disappeared up the stairs, and Trystan finally released the breath she was holding when she heard the shower come on. She took a second to text Neal that she found out Peter's whereabouts and that he was fine and safe before turning off her phone. She did not need anymore disturbances.
As she stirred the broth, Trystan's mind whirled with questions. What on Earth had Peter been doing? Where had he gone? Most importantly, was he okay? She would have never guessed in her lifetime seeing anyone she cared about nearly freezing to death on a park bench in the middle of an oncoming snowstorm. Trystan shuddered when she thought about what would have happened had she not gotten him. She did not think she knew him well enough to know if he would have left on his own or stayed.
Peter's shower did not last long, and when he returned, he did look a little better. The slight swarthiness of his skin transformed from its original paleness and his hair was tamed. He still looked worn however, and Trystan had him sit back down again. She poured a ladleful of soup into his bowl and urged him to eat. He looked less than willing, but leisurely lifted his spoon from the bowl and into his mouth.
Sitting beside him, she queried softly, "What's going on, Bruno?" canvassing his face for a register of something, resentment, alarm, sadness, something that would indicate he had not become a shell and trusted her enough to be open. She knew it had been a gargantuan deed of him to tell her about his mother, and she almost did not want to pressure him further, but she wanted to know if their was more to his pain. "Where did you go? You had people worried sick about you."
Peter twisted his spoon and took a long time to answer. When he did, his voice was still hoarse from the cold air, "I did plan to go back to L.A. . . . but I couldn't, not feeling how I was. I checked out a hotel room about a half-hour away from here and stayed there, just trying to figure things out. Walked all the way to the park and stayed there most of the day."
How was he feeling? What had he been trying to figure out? Trystan thought to ask, "How did it go seeing you dad and sister?"
Peter pushed around the bits of chicken and noodles in his soup. Without lifting his line of vision from the broth, he responded hoarsely, "Worse than I thought it would."
"What happened?"
When he did not reply, the tenseness in his jaw tightening, Trystan kept her voice soft, "Bruno, please."
For only the second time that evening did Peter look at her, and his eyes held more than she had assumed. His mouth was tentative, so she reached out and touched his hand. "It's okay," she assured. "It's just me."
Peter pulled his gaze from hers and let out an inaudible sigh. Setting his utensil down, he revealed quietly, "My father has cancer."
The news had Trystan wanting to reach out and hug him, but she restrained herself as he continued. "I'd been sending he and my sister money for two years. Brought it up and Di had no idea what was talking about. Pop wouldn't tell me, so I left. Your mom caught me in the hallway, said she overheard our conversation and told me that my dad wasn't smuggling the money but using it for hospital visits."
Trystan ran the pad of her thumb over the back of Peter's hand, unable to imagine what he was feeling in the moment. All she could offer was her ear.
"What happened with my Pop and sister just made me realize how much we needed my mom, how much we need her now. Pop wouldn't be sick, I'd still be in touch, everything would just be different, better." Peter's brow furrowed as the thought bothered him. It frustrated him knowing the world did not work out in your favor, how it did not bend to your will no matter how hard you hoped or prayed. "I just wish she was still here."
Trystan could not think of the words to say. She knew exactly how he felt, but found speaking it fruitless. She had already let out her grief, so she assumed it thoughtless to make the moment about her again. She gave him his silence, letting his thoughts brine until he was ready to speak again.
"I don't wanna bring her up," Peter began, his stare reclaiming Trystan's, "and this reminds me I never did thank you for changing the subject at breakfast the other day, but . . ." The space between his brow creased. "I think I stayed with Kimioko . . . asked her to marry me because . . . I thought I would find some of my mom in her." A humorless laugh escaped from his nose. "It was like a missing puzzle piece I was trying to find. Didn't have my mom so I wanted something to help fill the space . . . but she didn't. Tried to trick myself into thinking that she would, given more time, but she didn't. Doesn't."
Peter's eyes searched Trystan's, for what he was unsure, but she only looked back at him. She found the circumstance heartbreaking, and could have chastised him for searching for the unattainable. Time would not help in finding something if you were searching in the wrong place.
"So . . . what did you do? When you realized?" Trystan inquired quietly, only then realizing they had clasped hands.
Peter eyed her movingly. "I found her in you."
Again, Trystan was at a loss for words. Her mouth opened, then closed uncertain of how to respond. Had he really? "What?" she asked, willing him to explain.
"That missing puzzle piece . . . it was you. Being with Kimioko still left me feeling . . . empty. I knew there was something not there, but I didn't know how to fill it, didn't know how to fill full. And . . . for the first time since my mom died, I feel whole, and it's because of you."
It was not until that moment, his sentiments explained, that Trystan understood her own feelings. To the average ear, the admission would have been heavy, if not heartwarming, but she felt more than that. Peter had been the same for her. She did not know she felt incomplete, life had simply been life to her, but when Peter came into her life, loving her with a love she had not felt in such a long time, did her epiphany ring. No one had truly understood her like her father had; even when she could not put her thoughts into words, he could comprehend them, make them so they were tangible and alive. No one had been able to do that--not her mother, Angelique, Pamela, no one . . . until Peter. He made her feel alive and she had not even known there was a part of her that had died.
Trystan told him all of this, and for the first time that evening, Peter allowed himself a genuine, small smile.
They were reticent until Peter finished all he could of his meal, and when Trystan rose to take his bowl to the sink, he stopped her, his hand clasping hers as he stood to join her. He circled his arms around her waist and brought her body to his into an embrace. Trystan wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, their heartbeats synchronizing. "Thank you," he whispered into her neck before placing a gentle kiss there. "I'm glad you're okay," she said back, not wanting to let him go to preserve his safety.
The two stood side by side in Trystan's bathroom mirror, brushing their teeth as couples did. Peter watched the woman he loved strip down to her bra and panties, a sight he had yet to see and permitted himself to marvel at as he sat on the edge of her bed. She slipped on a white, New York University tank top and shorts that left little to the imagination. She climbed under the covers and beckoned Peter to follow suit. He did, lifting the comforter so he could fall underneath. He draped his arm across her waist and lied his head against her chest. She turned off her lamp before gathering her in her arms, warming his body with hers.
Neither was necessarily tired, the revelations made an hour before hanging onto their thoughts and forcing them to be thought about. Trystan ran her fingers through Peter's curls as she stared at the ceiling above her. Peter's own played against her stomach, making small, circular patterns that he did not realize was the eternity symbol.
Only an hour could have passed, or maybe, it had been four, but their eyelids were finally growing heavy, their light petting coming to a stand-still. Before sleep could overtake him, Peter lifted himself up slightly and pressed his lips to Trystan's. She submitted for a moment, having missed the feeling of his mouth against hers, until she shrank back.
"What?" Peter did the same.
"You made the rule remember? You can't use my sex to get over your pain?" she reminded with a tiny smirk to ensure her statement was lighthearted.
"I was just saying goodnight," Peter assured and Trystan giggled.
"That was a helluva goodnight kiss."
Peter smiled and placed one last kiss on her cheek before settling back against her, letting his thoughts roam on the idea that there was no place he would rather be.
Time seemed to be a listless concept, for when Trystan awakened again, she still had little idea of the time and of how long she had been asleep. The lightness of day just beginning to illuminate against the buildings across from hers, the noise of early morning traffic sounding below as snow still blew about. Peter slumbered against her, his labored breathing soothing to Trystan. She could not imagine when the last time he had a good night's rest. She slowly slipped from beneath him, careful not to wake him up as she disappeared into the bathroom for a shower.
She kept the lights low, not completely ready for the brightness of day. She twisted the knob of her walk-in shower, the heavy mist steaming the bathroom almost immediately as she pulled off her clothes and stepped inside.
She grabbed her purple loofah and gathered it thick with soap, needing to feel clean and reassured after all the days and nights she had spent thinking that Peter did not love her. The sweet scents of the suds reminded her of what she and Peter had shared over the course of four days. They had poured their hearts out in a way Trystan was not sure she would have done with anyone else, and that said plenty. She was, for the most part, an open person. She could say how she was feeling or what was on her mind with ease, but Peter had been able to open a vault she had forgotten she had locked, and that was something no one had managed to do. Every day, she felt, there was a reason to fall harder and harder for the man.
The water was so hot against her skin she felt she was melting, but it was good. She settled her back against the granite wall, its coolness sending goosebumps across her skin that the steam quickly kissed away. The clear enclosure before her was fogged, the lights above the sink barely visible through the mist. She closed her eyes, seeing nothing. However, she could still hear.
The soft click of the door opening and closing, the gentle plump of clothes hitting the floor, the small squeak of the shower's ingress allowing entry.
Trystan did not open her eyes, but she reached out, and her hands touched slicked skin, untouched by soap until her fingers left traces of suds down a neckline and passed a chest. Her nails grazed against the body parts, drawing them in, and it only took a second for Peter to realize the invitation.
Her fingers combed through his hair as his lips connected with hers, tasting along the early morning as there was no more left to hide. She set her loofah aside and let her soapy hands run along his back as his lips danced across the crook of her neck. She was kind of nervous, kind of excited. He had yet to see her so physically exposed, she wondered if he liked what he saw, thought her attractive, enticing without the facade of clothing. Her thoughts were tossed away when he leaned into her ear, his lips wet and breath warm. "Can I touch you?"
Trystan's eyes finally opened, small breaths escaping through her lips as Peter looked at her inquisitively. Her line of vision trailed down his body, and that was the moment she had become completely aware that not only was she naked, but he was, too. Peter did not appear in any way uncomfortable by her curious ogling; he simply allowed the exploration of her eyes that finally lead her to his manhood, growing thick against the join of her thighs. His palms were halted at her waist waiting for the go-ahead to explore her. He gripped her slightly, urging her on. Her gaze heightened to his lips, and she told them, "Yes."
But they were to wait. Without speaking, both were reminded of their rule; neither would use anything sexual to try to rid them of their misfortunes. Their bodies would be used to make love, not destroy hate. So, they both stood there, beneath the steaming, liquid pellets holding onto each other, allowing any leftover sorrows to wash away down the drain. Trystan's chin was settled against Peter's shoulder, her cheek against his neck as she held onto him.
Peter's face was complacent in the bend of her neck, lost in her scent as he allowed all the pain he had endured to be eased away with the soft massaging of her fingers at his neckline. They stood there, barely moving, until they felt that every bit of their suffering, tears, anger, shouting, had been whisked from off their skin to a place where love allowed no reentry. When Trystan pulled back to look into his copper eyes, and Peter to look into her almost-black ones, did they let their lips relish again in the feel they created.
Peter pushed her back until she had no place else to go, nowhere to escape. The hands that caressed her hips swam back up to her breasts. He took the pleasure of finally feeling them without the barrier of clothing, realizing how soft they, how taut her nipples became beneath his touch.
Trystan lied her head back against the shower wall as he kissed past her neck to them. Her mouth dropped open when his tongue encircled the left one. Such an easy move that Trystan had not gotten in a long time, and Peter made up every moment she had gone without it. She moaned softly when Peter took it into his mouth, toying with her piercing as his thumb caressed her other one. She gasped when he bit at it, a pleasurable pain sending a tremble down her spine. He showed equal attention to her right breast, the hickeys that were sure to arise soon marking his territory. In the moment her body was his, and she wished for him to do whatever it was he planned to do.
She expected for his lips to come back up and meet hers, but they traveled lower, between the valley of her breasts, down the watered plane of her stomach where he playfully kissed her navel, and right in front of her most intimate place.
Trystan wanted to tell her she had never been granted the thrill of that kind of pleasure, but could not bring herself to tell of him of her inexperience as he lifted her thigh onto his shoulder.
She hoped he would just go for it, show her what all the hype was about, grant her instant gratification, but she should have known Peter would take his time to prepare her.
Though she stood open for him, his mouth moved to teased her inner thigh, kissing and biting along the soft skin. His teeth grazed inward, stopping just before her womanhood so his fingers to test her first. He slid two appendages down her folds, barely ghosting across her throbbing bud and he smirked when she twitched. He opened up her lips, relishing in the fact that not only had he felt it, but got to see it, too. He thought it so pretty and told her so. Trystan would have blushed had she not already been flushed from the heated mist in the room.
Her hand entangled itself in his hair as his two fingers entered her, bringing forth her satisfaction as they only knew how. He heard her moan above him, but it was not enough. He wanted to hear more of her. They were alone, away from any company that could hear, would know, would question. He wanted to make her as loud as he possibly could.
His lips finally met her other pair, and Trystan's breath hitched in her throat. It felt strange to her at first, his tongue against her flesh, almost as if it were not meant to be there, but it took only mere seconds for her to believe that was its rightful place. Peter enveloped her folds into his mouth, sucking along her folds and clit so skillfully he heard her panting above him. He looked up at her and saw her head had thrust back against the wall and she was gripping desperately to anything she could get a hold of. Her hands slipped against the slick wall, could not find the railing to hold her up, so settled for the Peter's shoulders.
"Oh my . . . oh my god," she whined. She went to move away, the tantalizing game overwhelming, but Peter held onto her hips, keeping her in place as she squirmed about. The sounds of her breathy screams and calls of his name encouraged him, and he ate at her like he had done any woman before. He moaned against her body, and felt Trystan shake. She cursed aloud, her profanity a result of wanting more and more but not being able to take much else. She clawed at his curly hair, pushing his face further between her legs. Peter went even further, reentering her crevice with fingers that matched the speed of his tongue.
"You taste so good," Peter mumbled against her skin and she fought to regain control of her body.
"Uhn, fuck!" Trystan felt herself almost sliding down the wall as his body was not enough to keep her standing anymore. Peter did not stop, and she almost wanted to push him away for making her feel so good. The grip he had on her legs refused to let up, so she was forced to endure a pleasure that was sure to make her collapse.
She felt that familiar tension in her lower abdomen that could only mean one thing. "Br . . . Bruno . . . shit!. . . I think I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna--," her assumption was cut off when her nectar spilled into Peter's mouth. Trystan fell back against the shower wall, her breathing ragged as her chest rose and fell heavily.
Peter ascended back to her level, pressing his lips to hers before she had a chance to regain her bearing. Her taste coated his lips and tongue, invading her space with his mouth. They twisted about, kissing so heavily that for a moment they had forgotten where they were, the ecstasy outshining their consciousness. She was not sure what it was about kissing Peter that had her wanting to sin, but she did know that she was still throbbing and wanted him to be inside her.
She reached down and grabbed a hold of his length. She kneaded her thumb over top the head and Peter groaned into her mouth. He grew even larger in her hand as she massaged him, and before she could have him reaching his peak, he gripped her waist. "Turn around."
Trystan did as she was told and Peter held her against the glass. Her mouth dropped open when he entered her with no delay. Her body stretched for him and she moaned, her palms running down the transparent wall and her breath fogging it.
The glass trembled as Peter pushed himself in and out of her, her tight sex pulling him in and refusing to let her loose. The sound of their flesh meeting encouraged him to go harder, her whimpering and sounds of pleasure bouncing off the walls.
"Uhn!" Trystan screamed when he hit her spot, making her water and so tense with desire that she could hardly breathe. Her head fell back against Peter's shoulder and he gripped both of her breasts, pinching her still-strained nipples. Her eyes were closed tight as one hand went to massage her clit as the other went to her neck, pressing just hard enough to make her feel as if she were suffocating in the most gratifying way.
Trystan felt like putty in Peter's grasp as she clinched tighter and tighter around him. He could not get enough of the feel of her, the scent of her, the sounds of her. Her sex was made up of nothing but love and that made it all the better. "You feel so good," he growled into her ear, and Trystan bit her lip, smiling through her torment. "I'm close . . . please . . . please don't stop."
And Peter did not, he kept going until the water grew cold and the veins in his neck were the very last things holding him back.
"Shit!" he swore as he quickly retracted from her, immediately spilling as her walls no longer kept her captive. It was not as pleasurable as it would have been had he stayed inside her, but he was fulfilled nonetheless. Peter shut off the shower and they were both shivering from the cold water and heat they had created.
Trystan's own excitement drizzled down her legs as Peter turned her around. She was worn out, the rawness of her center and thudding heart a reminder that once again, Peter had been able to please every fiber of her being. She had very little energy, but managed to kiss him slowly, getting the last of her lust out of her system. When Peter pulled from her soft lips, they embraced, feeling better than they ever had.
They slept naked in Trystan's bed, making up for lost time they had spent being sad, angry, and worrying. Her thigh was draped across his waist, her womanhood pressed against his side and finally dulling from its high. Peter's arms were wrapped around her, the last thing his fingertips leaving being the symbol.
When they both woke up, it was three in the afternoon. They did not speak, content in the silence as they rubbed on lotion and re-clothed themselves. They went down to the kitchen where Trystan prepared them both strawberry waffles. Peter stood behind her with his arms around her waist, softly kissing her neck. "Didn't you have a tattoo back here?" He recalled the flower etched into her skin.
"Yeah, it was only a temporary, though. Never got it completely done."
"You should; it was sexy."
Trystan giggled as his lips teased a ticklish part on her skin. "And speaking of sexy," she began as she piled the waffles onto two plates. "You do realize we didn't use a condom, right?"
"Not until after we finished. I was a little caught up."
Trystan chuckled lightly. "It's okay, I was, too. I know my cycle like the back of my hand so we won't have to worry about any pregnancies and I get tested after every new partner so I'm clean. What about you? Anything I have to worry about?"
Peter did not answer immediately, and a surge of fear had her heart leaping. She elbowed him in the gut. "Bruno!"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" he laughed and reclaimed her in his arms. "I'm clean, I promise. I wouldn't even think to get with you if I wasn't."
Trystan turned slightly to give him a curt look before settling on believing him. She trusted him enough with her body but told him that they would have to remember the next time.
She dribbled syrup atop the cakes and explained to Peter that though she wore the scent of tangerine, she loved the flavor of strawberry.
"Strawberry waffles, strawberry tea, strawberry lemonade, strawberry cookies; the list goes on," she said as she sat across from him at the island. Peter chuckled. No matter how well he thought he knew the woman, there was always something he was just finding out.
"You feeling okay?" she inquired softly. She did not want to bring back up the issue of yesterday, but she would not let it go until she was sure his heart was back in the right place.
Peter nodded. "Yeah, not perfect, but I'm alright. Better that I'm here with you."
Trystan smiled. "I'm surprised you didn't catch a cold or anything. I would've been sick as a dog out in all that cold."
"It'll take more than a little wind to get to me."
"Says the guy who caught the flu from a little kid."
They both shared a laugh before she tucked a damp tendril of hair behind her ear and grabbed her fork. Though she was hungry and the scent of the food was enticing, she could only pick at it, the thought she dreaded to think coming about again.
"Bruno . . . what are we gonna do when we get back?"
Peter did not have to ask what she meant, because he had been asking himself the very same question. Things indeed would be different in Los Angeles than when they left it. They both had only gotten a taste of what the other offered, and now, they would be going back with the entire meal. They would no longer be alone, where they could share what they had aloud. They would be somewhere where the interest of their secret relationship had already been piqued by those closest to them. They had hardly been able to keep it under wraps before their trip to New York—how would they manage now after all they had shared? After all they had done?
"I wish I had an answer for that," Peter sighed truthfully. In Los Angeles, Kimioko was his "girl," she was his fiancée. Trystan was to have no other place than a fellow lyricist. He did not want it to be that way, but he had dug the grave and would have to face the burying dirt of consequences, because there would be some no matter what he chose to do.
"I still want you; I still want to be with you," he told her, and Trystan's gaze dropped from his, reluctant to have to face reality once more. "It's just . . . you know."
"Yeah . . . back to living in situations we don't wanna be in." Trystan licked her lips. She had not realized before comign involved with Peter that though she had been content in her solitude, she had been lonely. She did not look forward to going back to that, and she did not want to let Peter go for a woman who did not seem to care for him the way he deserved. Alas, it was not her place to question the woman he had given a ring to. No matter how either looked at it, Trystan was still the other woman, and she was disgusted by herself for accepting the role. She had grown too fond of him to let him go so easily.
"We'll make this work," Peter said, nodding as he meant it. Because did not love have to work out some way?
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Thanks for reading ^_^