"Baby, you work too hard, give yourself a break. Let Raina have some time with her grandmama while you get have a day to yourself, all right?"
Yvonne ran a hand down her daughter's face. She had just announced she would be taking Raina out again, to the park, then the toy store, and then to a café in town that sold some of the best ice cream and hot chocolate anybody could buy. "You deserve it," Yvonne added with a concerned tautness to her brow.
They sat out on the deck, shaded by the abundance of trees in the backyard and a surrounding net warding off insects that refused to see their deaths as the cold months approached. A teapot and cups sat between them both, as well as crackers. Trystan always wondered why her mother preferred crackers with her tea over something sweet, like cookies or macaroons like Trystan liked, but Yvonne had never had a big sweet tooth like her daughter.
Trystan sighed, and then nodded, accepting her mother's suggestion because she was left with no other option. Before almost anyone, her mother could pick up on things that Trystan herself had not realized. Maybe she did appear tired, though something in the pit of her stomach swelled with furor.
Yvonne did not know that Peter was coming over a second time, and it had worked out well that she wanted to leave with Raina for the day. It was not that she did not like spending time with her child and mother—Yvonne's visits were some of the best parts of the year for her—but since she and Peter's moment the day before, she could not shake the feeling of him, trailing his finger across her scar, off.
She could not shake away what she felt when he told her she was beautiful. She could not shake awake the butterflies when he sat so close to her. No amount of late-night conversations with her mother, lullabies she sang to her daughter, or how she smiled a little wider when looking at her scar in the mirror that night, could distract her from her thoughts of him. She craved them. She craved him.
But then the tiniest part of her, the part that managed to feel the least bit guilty, thought of Derek, too. He was away, clear from knowing about anything that went on in the home, maybe privy of her innermost feelings, and calculating of her intentions.
And that made her nervous. Not that he was thinking these things, but because he had every reason to.
"Did Bruno go back to Los Angeles?" Yvonne asked as she stirred her cup of tea, not because it needed to be but because she was too concerned with reading her daughter's face.
"Uh, no actually. He's still here in Savannah," Trystan admitted and hoped she looked innocent enough.
Yvonne tilted her head in the same manner that Trystan did and the same way that Raina was learning to.
"Oh, is he now?" she took a dainty sip of her drink. "Why don't you invite him over then?"
Trystan cut her eyes to her mother and smirked, "I thought you wanted me to rest?"
Yvonne offered a knowing look. "How much energy do you think you'd be taking up? I can tell you like talking to him. About matters that are worth talking about." She slid her gaze to the teapot to pour herself some more as Trystan shifted beneath her words.
"Besides, I know you don't like being alone all the time. It'll be mighty quiet without Raina to keep you company. Rest for a little and then invite him over for dinner."
"For dinner?"
"Yes. Cook something for the both of you." Yvonne shrugged as if the sentiment were simple. "I know how much you like to, so it'd be a nice gesture. Nothing wrong with spending an evening with a good friend."
No, there's a lot of things wrong with that, Trystan disagreed. And a lot of things right, too.
"It would mean a lot more than grabbing a box of pizza or Chinese food," her mother added as she took a cracker from the small plate and chomped into it. "Raina and I won't be back until later, so you won't have to worry about us intruding."
Trystan did not ask why she was pushing her so hard; she knew the reason why. It was the same reason Angelique had been doing so. She simply nodded, taking her mother's proposal into consideration long enough to watch her leave out the front door with Raina, who promised to be on her best behavior, and after a shower and dressing, stood in front of her freezer debating on whether to serve something with chicken or beef. She remembered Peter having a preference for the latter, and took it from off the shelf.
As she stood at the counter slicing vegetables, bouncing jazz playing in the background as it was her favorite music to cook with, her phone trilled from her pocket. Wiping her hands off with a dish towel, she grabbed it and openly rolled her eyes when she saw that it was Derek calling.
For a moment she thought about declining the call, but then thought of the repercussions—him hounding her about ignoring him and then accusing her of having something to hide, she answered with a less-than-roused, "Hello?"
"Hey, Trys," Derek responded from his end, and she still hated it when he called her that. There was only one person she accepted the nickname from.
"Hi, Derek. What's up?" she hoped she sounded like she was busy as she went to the stove to check on the meat.
"I was looking at one of my bank statements today . . ."
Of course that's why you called; not to check in or ask about Raina, Trystan thought irritably as she lowered the burner and let him continue.
"And there's money taken out from the therapist for an extra session. We've only gone to seven but an eighth is listed."
Shit. Dr. Robert's must have made a mistake and forgotten to bill Trystan's account. While she had been the one to suggest therapy and therefore would have made payments on the sessions, Derek had insisted that he be the one to pay for them. His reasoning was him being generous and putting forth his end of trying to help their relationship, but a small part of Trystan had always believed that it was just another way to control their relationship, and her.
"That's weird," she feigned perplexity as she reached into the cabinet to grab a few seasonings. "But I'm sure it was just an accident. I'll call Dr. Robert's and tell her about it."
"You sure? It's my account and the call would only take a couple minutes."
"Yeah. You're busy. Don't worry about it; I'll handle it."
"Okay."
Trystan was gracious for the conversation being a short one. She called Dr. Robert's and left a message telling her of the incident and to charge her for the separate session she had asked her to come to. Then, she returned her attention back to what mattered most to her in the moment.
Sometimes, Trystan felt like a teenager, having a crush on the boy with the class down the hall, waiting at her locker to see if she could spot him at his own, and when she did, she would not approach him, but smile to herself at just the sight of him, daydreaming about him later in her bedroom and scribbling down in her journal imagining a future together. At just the thought of him, Peter had her smiling, feeling giddy, had her wanting to go grab her journal and write down everything he made her feel.
But then, she remembered, that she was no teenager, but a grown woman, wanting to do grown things.
Smoothly so, he had her wanting to sin again. Wanting more than just convivial conversations, endless laughter. She worked the food on the stove, hoping to quell her internal desires as they had a way of distracting her.
For so long, she had tucked away her feelings for the man, so much that it felt they simply were not there anymore. But the more she entertained them, the more they pushed to be expressed. At a battle of wills, choosing between what was virtuous and what was immoral, mostly, he had her wanting to sin.
It was four o'clock by the time he came, ringing the doorbell though he knew where the hidden key was and that she would not have minded had he simply walked in.
He looked dapper as usual, and Trystan wondered how he always managed to pull it off so seemingly effortlessly. She tried not to stare as he looked incredibly handsome in his blue sweater and cross chain tucked beneath the hem. He smelled good, too, that quotidian aroma of his cologne always proving the best choice.
From behind his back, Peter pulled out a bottle of red wine, already chilled and ready for consumption. "I didn't wanna come empty-handed," he smiled.
Trystan mirrored his expression and took the bottle from his clutch to inspect the label. "Wow, a 1994 Araujo Eisele Vinyard Cabernet Sauvignon?" She looked at him. "One: you know me very well, and two: how the hell do you get your hands on things like this?" She was flattered he still knew of her preferences for aged wines, but they were not always the easiest to come across, at least in the quality she favored.
"When you've got some wine-making friends in California, the ties are endless," Peter grinned.
"Well, thanks for this amazing treat," she laughed. "And I hope you came with an appetite," Trystan jested as she allowed him inside.
"I was wondering wonder what that amazing smell was," Peter chuckled as they ventured further into the home, the savory aroma thickening as they did so.
Though it had been her mother's suggestion, Trystan thought it not a bad idea to take credit, "Well, I thought that since you always go out of your way to fly to Savannah, the least I could do is treat you to a nice dinner as a thank you."
Peter thought about all the times he had badly wanted to ask her out to a nice dinner, treating her just because he wanted to. It had been difficult not being able to do so, but seeing as she gone and created an ambiance he could have only imagined, it seemed twice as good.
"Chef Trystan at it again I see!" he joked as he sat down at the dinner table at her instructing him to. "I thought we were just gonna gulp down this entire bottle over a game of Poker and Scrabble."
"Well," Trystan called from the kitchen, "I'd rather you be full and tipsy when you lose at both those things. Never been a big fan of starving, angry drunks."
Peter chortled. "So I see you're already planning my defeat?"
Trystan looked at him over her shoulder. "Oh, absolutely."
She set two tall wine glasses on the table before bringing over the dinner plates, laden with succulent roast, seasoned vegetables, and fluffy rice, all lightly doused in savorous sauce.
"Trys, this looks incredible," Peter complimented and she fought from blushing, one from the admiration, and two from him calling her by that nickname. Even closer she felt towards him.
"Thanks," she appreciated as she sat at the corner, adjacent to him. "I gotta give props to my mom, though. She taught me everything I know about cooking."
"Well, if that's the case–," Peter popped open the cork on the wine and went on as he poured into each glass a respectable amount, "–then I'm in for a treat."
As they ate, their conversation light and humorous as it usual was, Trystan thought back to the time where she told him that cooking for friends was not an act of flirtation, but hospitality.
Now, however, she felt that in their case, it was slowly becoming a lie. Indeed, as they both sat together, enjoying each other's space and silently aware that their attraction to each other surpassed zones of basic camaraderie, it felt like a date.
Of course, she would not open her mouth to call it that, and was glad that Peter had not mentioned it either, but that was what it felt like. Even when she and Derek would go out for dinner, it did not feel as it did with Peter. She was much more relaxed, finding endless things to talk about, genuinely enjoying herself. She could not say the same thing for Derek, and could not even think back to a time where she authentically would.
When they finished and were working on second helpings of the wine, Trystan began clearing the plates from the table to place them into the sink. As she did so, she asked, "So which game are you ready to get beat in first; poker or Scrabble?"
Peter did not answer immediately, so she turned to look at him, but then quickly retraced her eyes back into the sink and tried to still her nerves as she realized his gaze had been on her backside.
He spoke after a couple seconds, controlled and calm as if he had not just been getting an eyeful of her, "I'm sure you meant what game I'll beat you in, and Poker. That'll be quicker."
As they sat on the family room rug on either side of the coffee table, Trystan took a smug sip of her fourth glass of wine. She added a small wooden tile to the Scrabble game board, creating two words worth nearly three hundred points and looked at Peter, whose snobbish grin at the beginning of the game had leisurely deflated as she earned more and more points.
"Qualify and lithify—thank you high school geology," she snickered. "What's the score now? Two-hundred-twenty to . . . ninety?"
Peter offered her a short look, "How the hell do you know so many damn words?" his language willfully unclean as he did not need to filter it since Raina was not around.
Trystan shrugged and then laughed. "I'm a songwriter; I'd hope to have an extensive vocabulary."
Peter shook his head, eyeing his own pitiful words, most of them short and simple in comparison to hers. After having lost two out of three games of poker, cursing openly as Raina was not there to push for him to have clean language, he thought that he could at least outplay her in the game of words.
But of course, one should never assume anything about Trystan Wildes. Keen and skillful in nature, she was kicking his butt, but he did not mind. Even in all her victories, he simply enjoyed being in her presence. Even when Christine had tried to contact him twice, he barely looked down at his phone as he was too involved in being enamored.
"I don't even think it's gonna be worth trying to beat you now," Peter admitted, shrugging and leaning back on his hands. "There's no way in hell I'm catching up to you."
Trystan giggled, "The P-Dez giving up so soon? Aww."
He chuckled, "I'll confess, when it comes to games, you've got me beat."
"Well, I'm glad that's finally came out of your mouth. I can rest easy tonight knowing that you understand that."
Peter chuckled, "Damn, you can't just win peacefully can you?"
She snorted, "I deserve a little gloating. It's okay, Hernandez. One day I'll teach you my skills."
He shook his head at the comical woman and his eyes drifted to the the black shelves full of records near the fireplace. One in particular stood out to him. "You got Cookin' with The Miracles on vinyl?"
Trystan followed his line of vision and then smiled. "Yeah. It was my grandfather's. He gave it to my dad and then he gave it to me. He would've given it my mom, but she was always more of a James Brown kinda girl."
"Wow." Peter snickered, impressed. "Now you've got something I can't find. It's hard as hell to get copies of that record. My mom used to like playing it, but she had the CD. Everybody's Gotta Pay Some Dues is my favorite track."
Trystan twirled her wine glass, watching the sharp, maroon liquid nearing the bottom and almost entertained another refill, then spoke, "You want me to play it?"
Peter looked at her as if the question had not needed to be asked. "Hell yeah."
One song turned into the entire album, and one album turned into multiple vinyls, their covers scattered across the floor as Trystan continuously switched them from the record player.
She and Peter laughed and sang along to the oldies' tunes, grilling the other when they messed up a lyric and egging the other on when they got so into singing they had become the actual entertainer. Trystan nearly lost it when Peter did his best Diana Ross imitation.
Chaka Khan, Ike and Tina, The Temptations, The Commodores, and countless of others swam through the family room, creating the aura of a night club that would never let younger generations forget where popular music stemmed from.
"You should've became a singer!" Trystan yelled over the music after Peter finished his own rendition of Outstanding by The Gap Band and the song Stay With Me followed right after. "I've always told you you've got a great voice!"
"But you see, the world can't handle all that!" Peter joked. "If I've already got you swooning, just imagine what it'd do to everybody else!"
Trystan rolled her eyes, not so much from his cocky jesting, but to hide that he indeed had her swooning. Not just from his singing, but his mere presence. What she was to do with accepting that, she did not know, but that tiny part of her, the tiniest part that sang of greed, wanted to.
Finally worn out from laughing and their throats becoming sore from improper but incredibly fun crooning, they both lied on the floor, reticently listening to the live version of Reasons by Earth, Wind, and Fire.
It was so comfortable, though they did not touch, they felt close as they both engaged in an activity they loved.
"I know it sounds cliché," Peter began as Philip Bailey sang on about all the reasons he wanted some lovely woman so badly, "but there really isn't enough music like this anymore."
Trystan nodded, her hands folded a top her stomach and the wine in her system making Philip's high note sound even more heavenly. "There's a lot of artists out there that have the range, but mainstream doesn't like it as much as it used to. It's a shame."
They listened on to the music, quietly hypnotized as music had the power to do that. They both heard the lyrics, "I'm longing to love you for one night. Please let me love you with all of my might," and tried not to think of what it implied between them both.
It would be asinine to believe that neither had not thought about, dreamed of it, even desired it, but to act on it? A gamble, one that could either work out in their favor, or fall into shambles.
Peter rose from the ground before he actually tried coming to a decision about what he wanted to do with all his own reasons, and Trystan, watching his ascent, leveled up onto her elbows.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Peter scoured the second shelf of records with his finger, then grinned when he found what he was looking for.
"You thought we weren't gonna listen to some classic Stevie Wonder during this listening session?" In his hands he held the album My Cherie Amour.
Trystan bit her lip and giggled. As she stood, she said, "I guess it wouldn't be right if we didn't, huh?"
And then, as Peter pulled the record from its protective slip and placed it onto the player, skillfully applying the needle, her favorite song played, its olden sound lulling and inviting.
She smiled wider, loving the tune and lyrics and everything about it. She closed her eyes and swayed. "My cherie amour, lovely as a summer day. My cherie amour, distant as the milky way . . ."
"May I have this dance?"
Trystan opened her eyes to see Peter's outstretched hand, requesting she join him. She stared at the appendage, for a moment frozen in place.
"I haven't worked out in a while, so my arm's getting tired. If the answer's no, you'll have to tell me soon or it'll fall off," Peter joked, though it seemed he would keep his hand there as long as it took her to say yes.
"Oh, uh," Trystan stammered lightly, suddenly anxious. She debated internally, going back and forth about what it would do being in such proximity.
She slowly, deliberately, met his hand with her own. " . . . Sure."
"La la laaa la, la la," Stevie sang on, making the room feel as if they were having their own personal concert, confined to a small space neither minded sharing.
Trystan's heart beat loudly in her chest as Peter's hand went to her back, high enough where it was respectable, but he held her close enough where that respectability could be questioned.
She thought of how they had not danced together in years, and even when they had, it had not been often, but their steps aligned as if they danced together all the time, swaying as if in that moment, they were the most comfortable, with the aura, with each other.
Peter spun Trystan and she laughed before being brought back into his arms. "Light on your feet, I see," she teased to ease her nervousness, but that probably had not been the best thing to do, because when he chuckled, he looked so damned handsome, his chiseled dimples both sexy and adorable, the very sound of it enticing.
"As are you, Miss Wildes." There he had gone again, calling her by that name and making it sound much more desirable than if anybody else were to say it.
She licked her lips and tittered away the butterflies in her stomach, wanting to clutch something to gather herself, but the only thing she would be clutching was his hand tighter, and that would not work in her favor, at least if she were to choose morality.
Then, Trystan felt herself being pulled even closer to him, definitely warranting a call for personal space, but she said nothing as she allowed the warmth emanating from his body to mingle with her own.
The dancing began to feel different, more intimate, and Trystan was certain her not moving away was just as dangerous as his bringing her nearer. She wanted to ask what it was he thought he was doing, knowing her relational status and still going on, but she did not, as she liked it.
She could feel her heart thudding in her ears and head when Peter's hand ventured lower down her back, so near to her that their breaths were shared. He began singing the song's lyrics softly, and Trystan was not so unaware that the words were not just Stevie's, but his own.
"Oh, cherie amour, pretty little one that I adore. You're the only girl my heart beats for . . ." his mouth was closer to her ear, sending chills, accepted, down her spine. She parted her lips, exhaling, because it had become harder to breathe.
"How I wish that you were mine."
Peter pulled away from her slightly, just enough where he was close enough to her face, where her lips were right there, just as full and soft as he remembered them to be.
He looked into her eyes, those incredibly dark ones that held in so much but expressed a lot, too.
And then he kissed her.
Trystan was still, her reaction so slow that it hardly returned what he offered, but when he pressed his lips to hers a second time, her own began to melt from their shock, warming against his.
She did not know how long they had been standing there, closer than they had been in years, but she knew it was long enough where she had come to her senses.
Trystan pulled her face away from his and backed away from him. She began turning to walk away. "Bruno, I'm sorry, we can't. I-I–,"
"Trystan, c'mere." Peter reached forward and pulled her from the small of her back into him, crashing her body and lips back into his.
Trystan fought but for a millisecond, before her head screamed, fuck it, and she grabbed his face between her palms and kissed him back with as much fervor.
It felt so good, incredibly good, to be in his arms again, his mouth against hers, warm, inviting, and determined to moisten the place between her legs. She ignored all thoughts of Derek and their relationship to the point she pretended they did not even have one. It was just she and Peter.
Trystan grasped at the hem of his shirt as he backed her into a wall. With his hand against her cheek, they kissed deeply, Peter's tongue invading past her lips as he did not need permission to do so. Her small moan, quiet but there, fueled his fire. His hands swam down her sides to her hips, gripping them tightly as his mouth moved from hers and to her neck.
She gasped when he bit at the skin lightly, and her arms went around his neck and brought him impossibly closer. She had not felt this ravenous, this excited, since the last time she had been with him.
And she was almost willing to do anything to have more of that feeling, to have it quenched in the best way possible, so much that she allowed for Peter's sly hand to venture between the join of her thighs, and right then she really wished she had not worn jeans but something thinner so she could really feel his touch. So much that she allowed him to whisper into her ear that he wanted her. So much that she allowed his tongue to taste her skin and send prickles throughout her entire body.
But it was not enough where she would actually go through with it.
"Bruno, please, stop." She pressed her hands to his chest and gently pushed him away, inhaling as she realized she had not been breathing.
"We . . . we can't do this." That same line again, the one she had spoken that night in the studio so long ago, touching both their ears, this time for different reasons but holding the same weight, or lack thereof.
They stood there, their chests rising and falling as they caught their breaths. Trystan swallowed, embarrassed she had let things go that far, but when a shy eye met Peter's, he did not look in the least sorry for what had occurred. His eyes rivaled indecency, their copper still clinging on to the feeling of desire.
"Trystan, I'm not gonna act like I don't want you," he announced, his voice collected, clear, and certain. She eyed him nervously, because she did not know what he was about to do, and worse, she did not know if she would even try to stop it.
He stepped to her, his face close, but if she wanted to kiss him, she would have to make the effort to step forward and do so. "Because if I'm being honest, every time I see you, I wanna fuck you until you can't walk."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"But mostly?" His brows cinched, and Trystan could not tell if he were angry or just absolutely serious. "I don't wanna act like I didn't love you, like I don't love you."
Trystan felt she could not move even if she wanted to, but that was fine by Peter, because he was going to say all that he had bottled away for months whether she wanted to hear it or not. "Because I do. I do love you, Trystan."
There it was. That dastardly, heavenly admission.
"I don't think I ever really stopped loving you," he continued on, and if he knew what it was doing to Trystan's heart, he probably would have been kind enough to stop. "I tried to convince myself I didn't, that after all these years, I didn't feel the same way I used to, but that was all a lie. From the first time I told you I loved you up until now, I always have. I never stopped.
"I know you're with Derek and you've been trying to make it work, but I don't give a damn. And I don't think you do either. I don't think you even want it to work between the both of you. I think you want me to stand here and tell you all this because it's what you've been wanting to hear. Well, I'm telling you now—I want you, all of you . . ." He shook his head. "But I'm not willing to play this game. Not again."
"What game?" Trystan managed to squeak out quietly, and Peter answered her swiftly.
"Going back and forth between what we want. Maybe it was okay back then, but not now. We're grown, Trystan, so if you want something, just say it. On my part, I'm making it very clear: I want you. And I would really love if you wanted the same. But you have to tell me that. I don't wanna have to guess, have to ask, have to wonder. I want to know."
Trystan did not speak. Very clearly, she, too, knew what she wanted, but what held her back kept her lips from moving.
"I know I'm asking for a lot, so you don't have to answer me now. I'm gonna be in town until Sunday. If you make your choice, and you want the same things I do, just let me know. Otherwise, I'll leave you alone."
Trystan wanted to scream that she did not want him to leave her alone, that she wanted him to stay there and hold and love her, because he had said all the right things, but either her lack of courage or how quickly he kissed her cheek and left her home without another word prevented her from doing so.
Stevie Wonder's album still played gently in the background, the song Light My Fire being sung in a way only he could do it.
The time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
. . .
. . .
. . .
Thanks for reading! ^_^