A day after he leaves, I'm bored and frustrated. Bored because I miss him and hate knocking around this big apartment by myself. If it weren't for Ozzy, I'd return to my studio.
Frustrated, because I seemingly can't write as well without his presence.
Oh, sure, I'm getting some things down on paper, which is a huge accomplishment from the pre-Tristan days. But now each sentence is like pulling teeth with pliers, and I can tell that the old writer's block is knocking at the door.
And that scares the hell out of me.
After my second walk with Ozzy in Central Park today, I plop in my chair and vow to write at least a hundred words.
My phone rings, and I lunge for it. I've only heard from Tristan once, and he seemed so busy and preoccupied that his voice had taken on that arrogant, bossy tone again.
It's Mom's nursing home.
"Sienna?"
I immediately recognize the head nurse's voice. God knows we've talked enough over the years.
"Yes?" Some sixth sense makes my stomach curdle.
"I'm so sorry. It's your mother. She passed just now."
The phone slips from my grip and I crumple to the floor. Ozzy runs in from the other room and nudges me with his nose, trying in vain to console me.
* * *
I let out a strangled cry of frustration. I'm in the backseat of Tristan's hired Mercedes, and Ozzy's sitting next to me.
"Miss?" the driver asks, glancing up into the rear-view mirror. "May I help?"
"Unless you can get Tristan on the phone, no."
It's been fifteen hours of pure hell. First, I had to deal with the nursing home. Then it took time to authorize the transfer of Mom's body to a funeral home. After, I chose a funeral home.
Alone.
Because Tristan isn't picking up his damned phone. I'd called him, wild with grief. No answer. Then responsibility kicked in and I was in robot mode. I'd texted and emailed, too angry to want to hear his voice.
Still no response.
Figures. I'm just an employee to him. One that's doing a job. He doesn't give a crap about me. All those times he said he was enamored with me? All bullshit.
"Craig?" I lean forward in the seat.
The driver nods.
"Take me to my studio."
"Are you sure, miss? I think Mr. Black will be displeased."
Craig might be afraid of his boss, but I'm not. I glare out the window, allowing my anger to mask the swirling, messy grief inside me.
"I've never been more sure of anything. And I don't care what Mr. Black thinks."
* * *
I manage to creep into my studio after three weeks away without any of my neighbors noticing. It's a Sunday evening, so most of the shops on the block are closed. Ozzy looks around and sniffs, his black nose high in the air.
"I know, it's musty. We'll air it out," I mutter to the dog, who watches me as I throw open the old, rickety window near the bed.
Coming back — I can't call it home, because it doesn't feel like that anymore — after living in Tristan's opulent apartment adds to my grief.
Mom's gone.
Tristan isn't returning my calls.
And I'm in an apartment that reeks of mold and despair.
I shower and dissolve into racking sobs under the weak spray of hot water. I think about Tristan's luxurious shower, and how he'd soap up my hair and kiss me at the same time. This makes me cry harder.
Ozzy's waiting for me in the bathroom doorway when I get out. He lets out a high-pitched whine, which is his way of getting my attention.
Usually for a treat.
"Oh, Ozz, I didn't bring your cookie treats. I'll have to get you some." I wrap an old, threadbare pink fuzzy robe around my body. It smells like my old perfume, the vanilla-scented stuff I'd worn before I went to stay with Tristan. Mom had bought it for me, and that fact makes me tear up again.
"Yeah, we'll get you some snacks, big guy."
Ozzy thumps his fluffy tail in response.
I'd been so crazed with sadness and rage when I left Tristan's home that I hadn't grabbed anything of Ozzy's other than his leash. And now I'd have to go to the bodega down the street, right when I feel like I've been run over by a truck.
The dog lets out another whining whistle.
"What is it? You hungry?"
And that's when I hear it. The knock.
Ozzy runs to the door and sits.
Aww, hell. One of the neighbors knows I'm home. I pad to the door, barefoot, and fling it open, not caring that I'm in my old robe.
Tristan?
Ozzy pounces. Crouching down, Tristan stares at me while petting the dog.
"I came as soon as I heard, Sienna."
My brows knit together. "Hunh?"
Tristan stands, slips past me, and walks into my hovel of a studio. If he's repulsed, he doesn't show it. He rakes his fingers through his hair.
I shut the door and join him in my living room-slash-bedroom. I can't decide if I'm angry or disappointed. And since I'm already grief stricken, I feel my nose stuffing up and my eyes itching to cry.
"The nursing home called. I jumped on a plane straight away."
"What? Why did the nursing home call you?" I fold my arms across my chest.
Tristan walks to me and pushes my wet hair out of my face with a heartbreakingly gentle touch. I'm frozen, unable to move. Close to bawling my eyes out.
"I'd wired money to pay for your mother's care last week. When she passed, they called me. My name and contact info were on the bank transfer register."
"You did?"
"I was going to tell you when I returned."
I shake my head as if trying to clear the fog from my brain. "Why did you do that?"
"Because I wanted to. It's my job to take care of you." He frowns. "I'm sorry about your mother. Truly. I wish I had the chance to meet her."
Why is he telling me this? To rip my heart out? "I'm upset about Mom and I'm angry at you that you weren't here with me. That you wouldn't pick up your phone when I called and that you don't truly care—"
"No," he says, in a loud, harsh tone, then clears his throat. "Sorry. I was in a meeting."
I ignore his words and barrel on. "I'm angry that you were the one person I wanted to talk to. The one I needed comfort from, and you didn't care enough to be here. That I've fallen for you and you don't feel the same way and now I'm alone."
"You're wrong."
I scowl at him.
"When I heard the news, I hired a private jet to return. There was no time to waste, and the times I called, your phone went to voicemail. Which isn't set up. I figured you'd get a missed call."
My cheeks flare with embarrassment. "It's true. I hate voicemail. And I did get some missed calls from private numbers, but figured they were all the funeral homes I'd called."
"I had to get here quickly to be with you." He roughly pulls me into his body and hugs me tight. "Oh, my love. My Sienna. You are not alone. Not as long as you have me. I'm sorry you had to do everything."
He strokes my hair as I sob and sob in his arms. I babble about how I'm sorry, how I'm a bother, how he has better things to do than babysit me. How I already miss my mother but I'm glad she's without pain and somewhere more beautiful.
His breath comes in a shudder. "I know what you're feeling. I'm alone as well."
I step back and stare at him.
"My parents are gone. They died years ago. I have a sister, but we lost touch when she joined a religious order. I haven't talked with her in decades."
"We're both alone." A bittersweet idea dawns in my mind.
He nods. "And perhaps now, we can both be alone, together? I would like that very much, and I'm sorry I wasn't here for you when you needed me the most. I'm here now, though, and will be here for as long as you want me."
For all the bossiness he exuded during our first meeting, for all of his wealth and arrogance, I now see Tristan for the man he is.
Vulnerable. Introverted. Lonely.
Not much different from me, actually.
"Together. Not alone." I slide my arms around him.
"I missed you." His voice breaks ever-so-slightly and it makes me love him even more. "So, so much. More than I thought I could miss a person. I... I..."
"You what?"
"I went to my wife's grave and said goodbye. I told her that I'd found someone and that I'm going to live my life. I'm finally turning a page."
My heart swells. Fills my chest so much that I might burst with joy.
"You did?" I'm crying still, but it's not just for Mom.
"Tris?" It's the first time I've called him by a nickname, and I wonder how he'll react.
He beams, and his smile and soft, tender gaze are the most beautiful sight I've seen in days. "Yes?"
"I missed you, too."
He presses his warm lips into my cheek. "I love you," he murmurs against my skin. "I know it's soon to say that, but I love you and I want you in my life. Forever. I don't even much care about the book at this point. But if you want to keep going, we will. I will. For you. You can write it for the world, or you can write it only for us."
I hold on even tighter.
"Can we? Please? Keep going with the book? It's given me my confidence back. You've given me that."
"Of course." He grins.
He kisses me deep and hard, making every cell in my body sparkle.
"I also want to keep writing because it's our story."
His eyes widen.
"Our love story," I murmur.
— THE END —