Bankers' Hours (39 page)

“You’re welcome,” I called back to her.

“And Dad, you need to fill out a paper for me to change buses,” she added from the top of the steps.

“Okay, sweetness,” Tristan answered. He was laughing so hard he had tears running down his face.

I declared, “I don’t know what that was, but if you meant to scare her, I think you succeeded.”

He wiped his eyes. “No… and yes. I wanted her to know I’d talk about sex, but it wasn’t a good idea to ask about you and me.”

I snorted. “Yeah! And now
I
don’t even want to talk about you and me.”

He laughed but held out his hand. “Come here.” I took it, and he pulled me into his arms. “You heard her, didn’t you? She’s agreed to live here.” He kissed me. “That means I might need to buy a ball gag for you when we have sex, to keep you from screaming.”

I swatted at his chest and blushed. “Stop!”

He lowered one hand to my ass and squeezed. “You love it.” He winked and kissed me again.

Chapter 16: Hopes, Dreams, And Financial Planning

CLAIRE DIDN’T
move in right away. It took her another week and a half to decide she was ready to move more of her clothes into Tristan’s house and change her habit of riding the bus to her mom’s after school. Like me, she didn’t own that much besides clothes, but her shoe collection was enough to make me jealous.

I had needed that week to prepare for her arrival. I’d only been around Claire for two weekends. They had been good ones, but living permanently with a teenaged girl in the house was something to work myself up to. Moving in with Tristan had changed my routine already. I was no longer living alone, and I was also not living with my controlling, albeit well-intended, mother. I was living with another man and sharing his bed, his space, and his time. When Claire moved in, it meant sharing even more of my space, with someone who potentially wouldn’t like it.

With Tristan, we’d fallen into sync quite easily. I got up with him, adjusting to an earlier schedule without difficulty. Tristan even set his alarm thirty minutes before his previous routine to allow for morning sex, which I was not complaining about. In fact, for the week and a half it took Claire to move in, we had sex three times a day on most days. I think it was a challenge to see where we could do it, and how many times, before our freedom became limited. We’re talking the kitchen counter, the dining room table, in the shower of course, up against the front door, over the back of our new sofa, on our new recliner, on top of the washer during the spin cycle—which actually made me nauseated—and on the stairs. I’d thought that would be uncomfortable, but Tristan insisted we try a variation of the reverse cowgirl, and I actually enjoyed it. And we also had sex on our new carpet.

We had had an enormous amount of sex in the two weeks I’d lived there, and since we’d only just been married, Tristan compared it to being on a honeymoon. I had no problem with him fucking me however and wherever he wanted. Since those first tentative times after we’d been married, I had learned how to relax and take him in. In fact, I craved it.

WE DECIDED
to throw a dinner party for our one-month wedding anniversary coming up on Sunday, November 15. It was up to me to call or e-mail the last minute invites to our friends. I’d worked a long shift on Wednesday so I could take off Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to put another coat of paint on the hallway upstairs and finish the living room. I also wanted to be there when Claire got off the bus, and to finish up the work I’d been doing on Tristan’s accounts. I had too many things going on at once, but I worked more efficiently when I overextended myself.

Tristan’s records were atrocious. I had no idea how he’d escaped an audit by the IRS, but at least I was certain he was safe now. If the IRS did show up, his bank records and receipts were organized and easy to follow.

I was in the middle of altering his most recent checkbook on Friday afternoon when he came in the door. I glanced up. “Hey. It’s not lunch yet. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if you were done with the checkbook. I need to pay a guy, and I never write a check without looking at my balance.” He strolled up to our dining room table, the place everyone keeps their financial statements, and peered over my shoulder at my piles. We’d made great progress cleaning out the clutter and unnecessary relics, but cleaning had also gotten in the way of finishing his finances.

I pushed an eyebrow up and quirked my lips. “Really? Your checkbook isn’t accurate. I understand why you’ve never bounced a check, but I cannot for the life of me understand why you have to check the balance. You have plenty of money.” In fact, I had unexpectedly married a rich man.

“It’s a habit. So which one is it? I see six in front of you.”

“They’re the only ones I could find. Your issues go back further than six years, but I can’t balance books I don’t have. I started halfway through 2008 and went from there, assuming the bank statements are correct.” I’d never had an incorrect statement, but that didn’t mean everyone was as lucky.

“Then where’s the one I’m using now?”

I picked it up and handed it to him over my shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the exclamations.

“Grant, you erased the totals. How am I supposed to know what’s in there?” His voice wasn’t as hostile as I had expected.

I explained. “I told you I had to start over. I’ve been working through the last six years’ worth of statements. I think it took me the best part of a day to get them in order after we’d opened all of them.”

“When did you have time to do that? I know you cut your hours back, but I’ve also seen how busy you are with cleaning around here, especially after the carpet got installed.”

“I took a stack to work on Wednesday. It’s all bank stuff, so no one really pays attention to whose statements they are. I could always say I’m researching an account for a customer.” It
had
been relatively easy to bring in envelopes to open. I wasn’t doing anything with them, nor was I using the bank computer system. All I did was open some envelopes and paperclip the statements in order.

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. He was very quiet, but I noticed his fist was clenched and his jaw was tight. Why was he getting angry? I hadn’t done anything but try to help him.

“Why did you take my personal statements to the bank? Why would you do that?” he asked quietly.

“Because I thought I’d have time at lunch to organize them. It turns out I had time at lunch
and
half of my shift. It was easy.” I had been very pleased with myself for being so productive.

Tristan dropped his hand, so I could see his eyes burning as he looked at me. “Why did you take my personal stuff to a
public
setting?” His voice was louder than the first time.

I gulped. “Because I was trying to be efficient. I got a lot done.”

Tristan turned around and covered his face with one hand. I got the impression he was regrouping. For some reason, taking his papers to work upset him; while I wasn’t sure why, I knew the best thing to do was apologize. This wasn’t the same as driving to Mel’s that night, but I wanted to avoid a fight with him at all costs. I rose from my chair and warily placed my hand on his back.

When I spoke, I made sure my voice sounded contrite and nowhere near smug. “Tristan, I’m sorry. I should have asked before taking your private statements to work. I didn’t realize it would make you angry.” I moved my hand in small, soothing circles on his back. “I won’t do it again.”

Tristan rubbed his face and didn’t respond right away. Perhaps he was thinking over his reaction. When he finally looked at me, his expression was tight but not as hot. He said directly, “I don’t like people knowing my business. It was a challenge to even allow
you
to look over my stuff.” He swallowed, closed his eyes again, and took a few deep breaths before resuming his explanation. “I’ve always been a private person, Grant. I never liked answering questions about having a daughter, being gay, who I’m dating, why I was single, running my dad’s business, or….” He paused. “How much money I make. I always thought that everything in my life was my business. Getting angry with you just now, as well as the other time about your friend, is all because I’ve never had to share my responsibilities, my decisions, or my time with anyone. It’s all been part of a routine I’ve done for years. You came along, and I guess I’m still adjusting. I’m still learning to trust you.” As he spoke, the tension softened into regret. His expression turned downcast as he waited for my response.

I took another step closer, resting my other hand on his chest. I didn’t smile at him, because I thought it wasn’t a “smiling” moment. He could misconstrue my intent. Instead I looked into his eyes and hoped he’d discover openness, honesty, and devotion. I said, “I think we’re both learning those things.” Our eyes remained locked, yet danced in the way eyes do when trying to figure out which eye to focus on, because you could never stare at both eyes simultaneously. I always seemed to look at one and then the other.

Tristan reached up and cupped my neck before kissing me. One lingering press of lips that told me he appreciated how open I was in admitting we were works in progress. He lifted the corner of his mouth and asked, “So you’ve straightened most of my clusterfuck?”

I snorted—he did seem to like that phrase—and stepped back to the table to answer. “Yeah, I guess so. Your bookkeeping leaves much to be desired, but I think you did what you did to save money. Right?”

“Yeah.”

I picked up one bank statement and pointed to a figure. “These transfers are made once a month to this account, but I can’t seem to find statements for that account number.”

“It’s a savings account.”

“So you’ve transferred one thousand dollars a month into this account for six years? That’s gotta be a lot of money by now, unless you spent it.” I could do math in my head, so I knew he’d transferred at least $72,000 in those six years.

Tristan took the statement from my hand and looked it over. “Is this my current balance?”

I glanced at the statement date. “Yes, in 2011.”

“Oh. Then what is it now?” He set the paper back on the table and looked at the scattered piles.

“I’m still working on that,” I explained. “But if the most current statement from September 2015 is close, then you have about $45,000 in your business checking account. In my opinion, that’s way too much. With that kind of cash, you should have it in a savings account, a money market account, or invest some of it. Why keep it lying around in your checking account?”

“That much, eh? I’m surprised.”

“I guess so. When I started, I thought you merely rounded up to the nearest dollar when you subtracted, but you round up to the nearest ten. Every deduction is subtracted for more than the amount. At first I thought you couldn’t do basic math. But then I found your payroll account, and it’s accurate to the penny, which means you do keep at least one account correct.”

“Of course I do. I have monthly transfers set up to that account too, but I change the amount whenever I give out raises. I basically know what I have coming in and going out.”

“After the time I’ve spent on this project, I have a good idea what you have too. You have a lot, Tristan. If the thousand-dollar transfers are some small indication, then you have at least $72,000 sitting in a bank somewhere.” I wished I had that much dough. I barely had $5,000 to my name. It was sickening how fast money spent after the government took their share. I had wanted to put money away and save for a house, but the more I worked the more I seemed to spend my cash on dinners out, vacation trips to other countries, and clothes for work. I wanted what Tristan had. I sighed. “That’s insane.” I looked over the stacks as if they were lost dreams of mine that were just out of reach. I’d never have what he had. Tristan took my hand, and I gave him an inquiring look. “What?”

“
We
, Grant,
we
have a lot of money, but it isn’t $72,000.”

“Huh?”

“I transfer money into a savings account, and then half of it gets split between a retirement account, investments, and bonds. Part of the reason I got angry when you said you took my statements to work is because I don’t want the general public knowing what I do with my money. Allowing you to look at my statements was a stretch for me. I’m rather controlling, if you haven’t noticed. That’s why Wes doesn’t pay the bills, and I do.”

“I can understand that.” I really could. A person’s finances should be private.

“What I’m saying, Grant, is that I’m
trying
to let you in. I
want
to let you in. I’ve already asked my lawyer to rewrite my will to include you as my primary beneficiary. I’ve started changing my investments to include you, and all I need for the bank stuff is your signature for bank records.”

I was blown away. “Really? You’re serious?”

“Yes, I am.” He cupped my shoulder and squeezed it. “I told you, I love you. Getting angry comes naturally, and I’ve even taken anger management classes for it. But I promise, I want you to be involved in my life, even on the financial level. I’m learning to let go and allow you to do things your way. Erasing my totals caught me off guard, and I got angry, but not
at
you. I was angry that I couldn’t see my balance when I wanted to. I’ve always gotten what I wanted, when I wanted it. With you, I’m learning to be flexible, although my learning curve is more like a gradual incline.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes at his math analogy. “You’re so silly.”

He winked and kissed me. “I’ll just write the check and not worry about it.” Tristan walked over to the door and paused before leaving. “Remind me when I get back to show you my ledger with all my accounts and passwords. I think I need to hire you as my accountant.”

“Okay.” I had an accounting degree, but I’d never considered using it in my job when my position at the bank had never utilized it.

He closed the door and then opened it to add, “One more thing. I started working for my dad as soon as I got out of the Navy. He didn’t die until four years after that, and while he was alive, he taught me how to pay the bills and told me to save my money. So… I haven’t been transferring a thousand dollars every month for six years—it’s been ten.” He winked again and closed the door.