The Counting-Downers (34 page)

“CAREFUL.”

“I’ve got it.”

I watch, helpless, as Tristan struggles to support himself on the kitchen counter, while at the same time pouring himself a glass of water with fresh lemon from the jug.

Ever since my almost answer a week ago, there has been a snag in our connection that is hindering the natural flow and comfort level between us. Tristan and I need our connection to be open at all times in order for us to both be the best people we can be. Having to fight for ease through the awkwardness is draining and taking its toll on both of us.

Although I worked out what I needed to do and say after speaking to my mom that night on the deck, I’m waiting for the right moment to pull back the Band-Aid on the fresh wound of Tristan’s hurt, so that we can have the conversation we need to have. That moment hasn’t arrived yet. Or maybe I’m allowing it to escape whenever it shows up.

But sometimes, you can’t just wait around for moments. Sometimes, more often than we’d like, you have to
create
moments for yourself if none exist, much in the same way you have to forge out opportunities on occasion.

Whether a moment arrives or I create one out of thin air, I know that something has to give. We can’t keep going on like this, eyes full of silent accusations and words clipped with unvoiced emotion.

Since he was discharged two days ago, Tristan has been staying in our guesthouse. Surprisingly, my mom suggested it before I had the chance to. Unsurprisingly, she drew the line at me staying in there with him.

Much to Oscar’s delight and the aggravation of my mom’s allergies, Leo has also been living with us except for the first two days when Jacob took care of him.

I know she’d never admit it, but I think my mom loves having a full house again. It’s loud and chaotic, but the now quiet house is once more
alive
with energy and activity. Grief is always amplified in silence.

“I know you have it. I just want to help.”

His eyes soften as his defensiveness ebbs. That’s always the way with us, giving and taking, ebbing and flowing, with the perfect rhythm and balance of the ocean waves.

“Thanks. The crutches and cast will take a bit of adjustment.”

“Tell me about it.” I wave through the air with the heavy cast on my right arm. I’ve never been more grateful to be left-handed.

He smiles and I know we’re once again okay. For now.

“So what do you want to do today?”

I take a minute to think about it as I sip my own glass of tangy water, the refreshing zestiness gliding over my taste buds. The lemons were handpicked from the lemon tree in the meadow, and it might be just my imagination, but to me, they taste far superior to store-bought ones.

I love this time of year when our homegrown fruit trees are in full bloom. Although this summer I’m hindered by only having one useful hand, I have blissful memories of helping my parents pluck ripe, juicy plums, crisp pears, and crunchy apples from the trees, reaching up from my seat on my dad’s shoulders when I was much younger.

Returning my attention to Tristan’s question, I try to think of something fun that we could do which would help ease the tension and remind us why life was worth living. Together.

True Californians, we’re both active, me in particular, but we’re hindered at the moment by his broken leg and my broken arm. With that thought, an idea comes to me.

“Want to paint on my cast?”

His eyes spark to life at the suggestion and something in me settles upon seeing the faded light in his eyes return to full force. His expression makes me glad I thought of it. Not only will this bring us physically closer, but emotionally too, I hope. Art is one of the many things that connects us. It’s what brought us back together over a year ago.

“I love that suggestion. Do you have an idea in mind?”

“No, I trust you. You can do whatever you want.”

The final drawbridge lowers at my words as he allows me to see his love and vulnerability. I can only hope the same emotions are reflected in my eyes. The tender smile on his face tells me they are.

“I promise not to go too crazy.”

“Where’s the fun in that? I think you have to be a bit crazy to enjoy everything life has to offer.”

“Welcome back.”

I understand the exact meaning of his words even without the intense, pointed gaze accompanying them.

“Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve seen you every day.”

“I know. But I missed you even when you were right next to me.”

“Tristan…” This man always seems to leave me grasping for words like a child trying to catch raindrops through spread fingers. “I’ve missed you too.”

“So, when do you want to do it?”

“Whenever. Mom has taken Oscar to the zoo again so we’ll have the house to ourselves for a few hours.”

His eyebrows wiggle, causing me to laugh at his mischievousness.

“I don’t think either of us is in any state for
that
.”

“Spoilsport. And you call yourself creative. We just need to combine our creativity and magic will happen.”

“Behave.”

“To quote you,
‘Where would be the fun in that?’
’ He winks as his deep dimples appear.

Because his emotions are so tightly tied to mine, the reappearance of his joy causes happiness to spark beneath my skin.

“How about I set up the blanket, table, and chairs in the meadow to make us comfortable, while you gather all of your art supplies from the guesthouse. Or will you need my help to carry everything?”

“No, it’s fine. I won’t need much and can always make two trips.”

So that’s what we do. Soft flower petals brush against my bare legs as I run over to Tristan and help him lighten the load on his second journey to the spot I’ve set up on the wild grass. My broken arm makes braiding my hair impossible unless my mom does it for me, so my loose hair hangs down my arms and back.

The natural highlights in my hair always brighten in summer, leaving me with streaks of platinum through the gold. I’m wearing a white t-shirt with the words ‘Dirty Hippie’ written on it in black cursive text and interspersed with illustrated flowers that Blaise bought me for my birthday. I haven’t had it long, but it’s already one of my favorites. The top is tucked into my favorite pair of light wash denim shorts, which have white and yellow sewn-on daisies.

Scratches, scars, and scrapes still cover my arms and legs from the accident but I’ve started to think of them as proud proof that I’m a survivor. My mom’s reminder about the meaning of my name revived my tenacious spirit. She reminded me that I’m not just a survivor, but I’m also a warrior. And warriors go to war despite knowing they may lose. The fear of defeat shouldn’t make you a defeatist; it should make you a fighter. I will fight death for my right to live until my last breath.

“This is your last chance to back out,” Tristan tells me as he peeks up at me from his seat on the wooden chair. Without thinking, I brush away a lock of burnished gold that has flopped into his eyes before bending down to kiss his forehead.

“Do your worst.” I sit down in the chair to his left and rest my casted right arm on the small wooden table between us, watching in fascination as he mixes the paints he needs to achieve the perfect color blend for whatever he has planned.

“Do you trust me?” Although the question and tone he’s delivered it with are light, the weight of the hidden meaning and the real question he’s asking is unmistakable.

“Always.”

He gives the fingers that are hanging out of my cast a gentle squeeze.

“Close your eyes, or don’t look down until I’m done.”

“Bossy.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

“Knew it. Now close your eyes.”

“Yes, sir.”

I do as he asks and shut my eyes, making the vibrant meadow disappear from view. The San Diego sun is exalted in the air, so I see abstract shapes of amber laced with crimson behind my lids instead of a blanket of black.

The rest of my senses are heightened without my sight. I focus on the soft caress of Tristan’s brushstrokes, which press the cast against my skin every few seconds. I allow the smooth, rasping cadence of his voice to wash over me like my favorite kind of melody, as he talks to me about how much he’s enjoying this, how much I mean to him.

Without the use of my eyes, I can only sit and absorb the sensation of sunshine against my face as it warms me from the outside in. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Leo running around, engrossed in whatever game he’s playing by himself. Something almost sensual underlies this moment, which is pulsing with energy. I’m feeling instead of thinking, placing my trust in Tristan and Mother Nature. I become so relaxed with his touch, his voice, and the sounds and smells of all the life that surrounds me, I begin to drift to sleep. I’m coaxed back to consciousness by Tristan’s gentle voice calling my name.

“…wake up, Sleeping Beauty. There you are, welcome back.”

“You seem to be saying that to me a lot today.”

“It needed to be said.”

“Have you finished?”

He looks almost nervous as he says, “Yes. Take a look.”

Every ounce of air leaves my body in a hurried rush as I glance down to see Tristan’s artwork on my cast.

It’s not just a single image, but an intricate tapestry imprinted on plaster and my soul.

Rolling ocean waves crash above an anchor. A couple of sand angels sit next to a silhouette of a couple dancing. My eyes travel over a paintbrush and camera, underscored by the words ‘Art Matters.’ What looks like a birthday cake is roasting over a small campfire under the close watch of a pair of arctic blue eyes that could only belong to a husky dog.

I smile as I take in the three chairs in different sizes, which I know represents the fairytale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. A balloon is tied to the back of one of the chairs.

Elsewhere, a midnight sky sprinkled with stars gives way to a stunning sun setting over the sea. Flying trails of daisies, sunflowers, and forget-me-nots weave through pine trees and around a solid oak treehouse. A couple of antique pocket watches sit side by side as their chains inextricably entwine.

But there are not just images. Words and quotes that mean so much to us are written all over the cast.
‘Go with the flow,’ ‘Make the moment yours,’
‘It always comes back to T.I.M.E,’
‘Believe in magic,’
and
‘What will your legacy be?’
are just some of the tiny words crafted with painstaking precision and significance.

He’s painted the story of us.

“Do you like it?”

“Tristan…
love
is not a strong enough word for what I feel about this, what I feel about
you
. This is just… incredible, thank you so much.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling. And you’re welcome.”

“You know, this cast is extremely valuable. Someday, people will pay millions for it.”

“Makes sense since the owner is priceless.”

The words are out of my mouth before I even think them. “Ask me again.”

“What?”

“Ask me.”

“Til… I… Are you sure? Because I can’t handle another rejection.”

“I never rejected you the first time. I just allowed my fear to choke my answer.”

“And what answer is that?”

“Ask the question and you’ll find out.”

“I can’t kneel and do it properly.” He gestures to his cast.

I stand and make my way over to him, running my left hand through his hair with loving strokes. “I don’t care. Besides, it’s kind of perfect this way. It’s us. A bit different, a bit broken, and not playing by the rules. We’re making the moment ours.”

“I did do at least one thing right. I asked your dad for permission.”

I jolt at the electric shock his words bring. “You did? What? When? How?”

My favorite throaty laugh leaves his lips at my ability to speak only in questions before he answers them in turn. “Yes, I did. About three weeks ago. I went to his bench and told him how much I loved you. I mean, it wasn’t a two-way conversation and he didn’t speak and give me his permission, but I’d like to think he would have granted it. I—”

All of a sudden, he breaks off and his expression is anxious, as if he’s not sure he should say what he was about to. It means so much to me that he thought to do this. More than I can express or describe.

“Go on.”

“It”—he takes a deep breath—“it’s going to sound crazy, but when I finished my nervous, rambling speech and finally asked for permission, a strong gust of warm wind just came from nowhere. I mean the evening air was still before that, you know?” I nod, dumbstruck, my heart racing so fast it pounds against my ribcage. “I… I’d like to think it was your dad giving me his blessing. I know what this sounds like. I’m not one to believe in signs or messages from beyond. But it just felt… right. I was calm and warm… content.”

He misinterprets the stunned look on my face as his forehead creases with concern.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you, you think I’m crazy, don’t you? Now you won’t want to marry me.”

I laugh, my breathing still rapid from the shock of his revelation. “No. Not at all. I think you’re right. It was him giving permission.”

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too, so ask me.”

He pulls out the familiar ring box from his olive green cargo shorts. My eyebrows raise at the fact that he has it on him. Because of the way he’s watching me, he reads my expression and reaches the correct interpretation.

“I haven’t stopped carrying it with me. I kept hoping…” He trails off and doesn’t finish the thought even though I can guess the end of the sentence. “I never gave up hope. You taught me how to do that. You’ve taught me so much.”

“You’ve taught me a lot too.”

He smiles at me with a soft look of such longing. He doesn’t have to long for anything when it comes to me. I’m his in every way possible, except the immortal.

This time I allow him to open the box and gasp at its contents. I know Tristan’s art has already made him wealthy, but this must have cost a fortune. Aside from Tristan’s priceless personal artwork that he’s given me, I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything this valuable before. I don’t know anything about carats or clarity, I’m not that kind of girl, but you only need a working pair of eyes to see that the ring is stunning, worthy of the grandest royalty.