Pieces of a Mending Heart (14 page)

“Do you need to stop at your locker?” Tristan asks, tucking a stray hair of mine behind my ear, making me shiver.

I shake my head and start walking towards the school, grabbing his hand and pulling him along with me. I double take at the
massive crowd of people openly
gawking at us. The girls all seem to have their eyebrows
raised with shocked expressions
and the guys seem genuinely freaked out. Instead of acknowledging the others, Tristan pulls me closer to his side and picks up our pace.

Confused, I pull Tristan into a nook at the end of the hallway, seeking shelter from the watchful eyes that followed us as we entered the school. “Tristan, what was that?” I say, shocked and, to be honest, kind of pissed off.

He leans against the window, running his hands over his face, shaking his head slightly. “They know… what happened to me. I kind of… lost it, for a while…” he struggles to continue, due to embarrassment, anger, frustration, or a combination of the three, I don’t know.

I boldly wrap an arm around his waist, pulling myself closer to him; so close that I can see a tiny scar just over his lip, one I hadn’t seen before. Instinctively, I want to touch it, and I need to literally force my hand to stay at my side. “They know,” I state, understanding.

They know Tristan blanked out after his sister’s death, but what they don’t know is the fact that he is trying his damn hardest to make things right again. He isn’t a boy flooded with guilt; all he is now is a
young man
in the process of getting his life back together.

“Let them think what they want to think,” I say, hugging him tighter for a moment before stepping back and grabbing his hand again. “Come on, the warning bell just rang.”

We walk into AP
Government
together, feeling fifteen pairs of eyes boring into our skin. Fingers still locked, we scan the ro
om for seats next to each other and miraculously find some
directly in front of the room. Tristan pulls us over towards them as the final bell rings, no one breaking the awkward silence that filled the room as soon as we walked in.

If you asked me what we learned in class that day, I would’ve told you the one thing I learned; Tristan is a genius. He scribbled notes furiously as Mrs. Hollis continued on with her lesson. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he kept his right hand locked with mine; thank God he is lef
t handed, because I never want
to let go of
him
.

When the bell ri
ng
s, signaling
that first period
is over, I jump
, having been daydreaming deeply. Glancing
automatically at Tristan, I see
that
he is
already standing, my book-bag and his slung over his broad shoulders.

“English,” he says, smiling. I nod, standing tentatively on my legs, afraid they would crumple under me.

We make our way through the crowded hallway, Tristan inadvertently making an easy p
ath for us to go through. I keep
my eyes trained on his back, willing myself not to look at the judging faces observing us.
Free period passes, and soon we are on our way to English.

“Crap,” I mutter, walking into the room beside h
im. Tristan quirks a brow at me
and I explain that I need to go to my locker and get my notebook. He takes a seat, setting my bag onto the desk beside him. Not like anyone would take it anyways with the looks he’s been given this morning.

At my locker, I hear the final bell ring, but take
my time. Mr. Morrison gave me permi
ssion to leave the room, so I’m not in need of a pass. I hear
the clicking of heels behind me and turn
to see the dark skinned girl I hadn’t seen since my first day. She smiled warmly at me, but it looked plastic. Just like she did.

“Hi,” she says in a singsong voice, dripping with false charm. “You’re Katherine
Prince
. I haven’t formally introduced myself to you. I’m Malaya
Garzon
, maybe you’ve heard of me?”

I shove down the urge to burst out laughing. This girl was the typical
cheerleader stereo
type, which I can recognize from a mile away. Remembering her cruel words directed towards Tristan and I, I merely smile, not saying anything, and turn to shut my locker.

“So, you’re Tristan’s new play toy?” she says, eyes cutting.

Forcing my expression to remain calm, I feign a look of confused innocence. “Play toy? I don’t think that’s the proper title; girlfriend is more appropriate.”
Soul mate is more appropriate, actually,
I add silently.

Malaya just laughs a shrill and demeaning sound that sends prickles to the surface of my skin. I can feel frustration and hostility rolling off her, and I’m disappointed my old “knack” for detecting emotions is making a reappearance.

“Honestly honey, there’s not a girl at this school that hasn’t been with Tristan
Parker Presidio
. I’m just warning you, the guy’s a psycho. His like, whole family was killed in some awful fire or accident or something like that, and Tristan totally went off the deep end; drugs, gangs, drinking, carjacking, you name it!” she says, voice laced with contempt and I can tell she’s just itching to share this gossip with new ears.

I am not a violent person; on the contrary, I am extremely non-confrontational. In this moment, I feel the burning desire to slap Malaya across the face simply because she’s speaking ill of Tristan. Instead of being rash and acting out my physical frustrations on this dimwitted girl, I slap her with the most powerful thing in my arsenal; words.

“Listen, Malaya,” I sneer
her name. “For future reference
, get your facts straight when you’re telling someone else’s story. I’m not interested in any information you have to give me, so please get out of my way,” I say, voice deadly quiet.

She stands there, mouth slightly open, eyes filled
with shock and pure rage. “I’m
just trying to help you out, Katherine,”
she says, faking hurt. I can feel what she’s really feeling, which is anger and jealousy. Mhm… that’s interesting.

“I don’t need any help, but thanks anyways,” I say, voice dripping with
a
sarcastic venom I didn’t knew existed in me. Silently, I say a prayer apologizing for my behavior just now, but I’m still too frustrated to be completely heartfelt.

Opening the door to English, I keep my eyes averted from those staring at me as I take my seat. Mr. Morrison continues his lecture on the personalities of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, and I feel Tristan’s finger tracing a circle on my clenched fist resting on my desk. Relaxing at the contact, I lose myself in the words spewing from our teachers’ mouth.

During
our second free period
it beings to rain outside, so we forgo our bench in the garden for a table in the library.

“What do you think about Mr. Darcy?” Tristan asks, distracting me from my AP Calc homework.

I look up, pleased to have an excuse to ignore my very difficult homework. “I think he’s fantastic,” I say with a
genuine
smile.

His eyebrows shoot up, a look of pure disbelief coating his angelic face. “How so? He’s such a
n asshole to Lizzie
and he’s insanely arrogant. What about that is appealing to you?” Tristan asks, leaning towards me over the tiny library table.

“He’s just trying to do what’s best for her! So what if h
e’s got some major ego problems? H
e’s the picture of gentlemanly swag,” I joke, wondering if all boys have the same opinions of Mr. Darcy as Tristan does. In fact, I wonder if any other boys in our class are actually reading the book.

“How is being stuck up and narcissistic attractive? He hurt her while ‘trying to do what’s best for her,’” he quotes with his fingers.

“At least he tried to help out! He believed Mr. Bingley was going to get heartbroken by Jane, so he intervened. Yeah, it was a stupid move from Lizzie’s point of view, but that’s because she didn’t see his reasoning behind it. Darcy was only doing what he thought was best for his friend, so that makes him honorable and forgivable, don’t you think?” I challenge.

Tristan purses his lips and shakes his head, inciting a laugh from me. “The
guy
’s an idiot; he almost lost Lizzie because of his stupid Aunt and his own ego. Could you ever imagine one of your family members taking away the love of your life?” he asks rhetorically.

“His aunt never took Lizzie away; she just threatened their relationship,” I correct, unable to let him butcher such a key point in the plot line of my favorite novel.

“You get my point,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair, hands locked behind his neck. “I’d kill myself if that ever happened.”

Our eyes lock as we realize the ironic seriousness of what he just said. A moment of awkward silence passes, but Tristan leans forward again, reaching towards me and taking my hands in his.

“I need to learn to watch my words,” he says, a small smile gracing his features. “Kat
ie
, calm down, please.”

I grip his hands and stare into his blue eyes, which look gray in the dim light of the library. In that moment, I want nothing more than to kiss him; to feel his lips on mine.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” I blurt out, mouth acting of its own accord and forming the words that bubbled in my throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that aloud,” I say, embarrassed.

To my surprise, Tristan takes on a look of surprise. “Can you read minds, too? I was just about to ask you the same question,” he says, leaning on his elbows.

My eyebrows gather in the middle, furrowing. “You’re the boy; you make the first move. It’s traditional,” I offer, as if it’s common sense, which I thought it was.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to kiss me. Maybe he thinks we’re moving too fast and he’s getting freaked out by how heavy and serious our “relationship” is getting so soon. But we’re supposed to do this with each other. We were
made to be a whole; to help
one another find themself again. This- being together- feels as natural as breathing, and I thought he felt it too. Shame and embarrassment floods through me at the thought that he doesn’t want me the way I want him.

Again, his eyebrows shoot up, a look of panic in his eyes, and I realize I had forgotten that he can feel what I feel upon contact.

“Katherine! You’re ridiculous,” he says, pulling his hands from mine and standing from his chair. For a moment, I’m terrified he’s going to hit me, or walk away and never come back, which makes me think of my father, which makes me want to cry.

“Katie,” he says,
kneeling
down next to my chair, hands resting on my knees.

I close my eyes, choking on the feelings welling up inside of me. I haven’t missed this feeling of powerlessness, and I wish my Punishment would go away permanently. Tristan takes my hands, bringing them to his face.

“Sweetheart, we’re in this together,” he whispers, eyes closing. I can almost see the transfer of energy as my sadness, fear, shame,
and embarrassment float from my heart to his as he takes away my painful feelings.

We sit there for what feels like hours, eyes closed and feeling completely content just to be next to the other. The warning bell rings, signaling our return to reality.

“I don’t care that it’s a Monday,” Tristan says as we walk to his truck at the end of the day. “I’m taking you out tonight, if you’ll have me Juliet,” he teases.

I groan. “Please, no Romeo and Juliet references! The last thing we need is to end up like them,” I say, shuddering at the thought.

He chuckles, tucking me under his arm as the misty rain coats our clo
thing in its feathery lightness
“Touché, but we have something they didn’t,” he says ominously.

I quirk my head to the side, urging him on. “Fate himself designed our future; He wouldn’t approve of a tragic ending when He went through so much trouble to make things right for us, right?” he winks, so carefree.

Smiling, I lean into him, enveloped in the scent of Tristan, which is a woodsy, cinnamon, light cologne type of smell that makes my stomach flutter. I really hope we have a better chance than Romeo and Juliet; Tristan is right, though. We have God on our side. 

Chapter 9

             
Tristan takes me home right after school, but I don’t want our time together to end. I feel like a drug addict, hooked on the boy beside me.

             
“Could you stay for a while? I could really use your expertise with my AP Calc,” I ask, flirtingly batting my eyes and smiling, trying to lift my heavy spirit.

             
“You’re great at math, who are you kidding?” he shoots back as he kills the engine, parking his truck in my driveway. “But I’ll stay,” he winks, flirting back.

             
Hopping out of the car, I see Aunt Rachel walk around the side of the house, eyebrows raised up to the brim of her large gardening hat. Her car isn’t here, so I assumed she was working, like she usually is.