Pieces of a Mending Heart (15 page)

             
“A-Aunt Rachel-l,” I stutter, flustered by the expression on her face.

             
“Katherine, I didn’t know you knew Tristan,” she says, a smile forming on her lips. “Why haven’t you told me you
made friends
, Trist?” Aunt Rachel says, walking towards him with arms wide open.

             
He seems a little surprised, but walks into her embrace, hugging her back. I’m sure my face portrayed my shock, but I was
more frustrated than anything else; how well did these two know each other, and why hadn’t Tristan told me everything? Why hadn’t Rachel?

             
“I figured the gossip would get to you eventually,” he laughs, releasing her.

             
“It’s not as good as seeing the real thing with my own two eyes, now is it?” Aunt Rachel says, smoothing down Tristan’s hair, which is spiking up in the front.

             
Tristan seems to be avoiding my stare, but there’s no doubt he senses my aggravation.

             
“Where’s your car, Aunt Rachel? And why aren’t you at work?” I ask, crossing my arms, which makes my shirt sleeves ride up. I’m still uncomfortable having my scars out in the open, but the breeze feels nice.

             
“Broke down on the highway before I got three miles from home,” she says, taking off her hat and batting away non-existent dirt. “Called the taxi and came straight home. Figured I could go a day without being in the office, especially a day as fine as today,” Aunt Rachel finishes, gesturing to the now clear sky with her hands.

             
I don’t believe her for a second. There is something too innocent about her expression, and it makes me uneasy. Instead of
pressing when it’s obvious she wants to avoid details, I just nod my head but send her a look that says “we’ll talk about this later.”

             
“Why don’t you take her to the barn, Tristan? I’m sure she’d love a ride,” Aunt Rachel says, wiping the sweat off her forehead.
It had gotten very humid
, which supports my conclusion that Montana weather is bipolar.

             
Tristan goes to say something, but I cut him off, not wanting Aunt Rachel to know we have already been to the barn. “As much as I’d like to ride with Tristan, I think we’re gonna do some homework,” I say, then blush furiously when I hear the double-meaning behind my words.

             
Aunt Rachel starts laughing, a cackling sound that makes me blush even more. “Well honey, I won’t have to worry about you gettin’ steamy with Tristan here if you’ve got some homework to do instead of havin’ a bit of fun,” she says, laughing so hard tears stream down her youthful face. I don’t know why she finds the situation so humorous, but it’s ticking me off.

             
“Alright, going inside now!” I say, attempting to avoid any more discomfort.

             
“Tristan, you’re stayin’ for dinner now, you hear?” Rachel calls to us as we walk up the stairs, backpacks in hand.

             
He nods, looking peaceful. Once I open the door, he hesitates before stepping over the threshold. I motion with my head for him to come in, and once he does, I shut the door behind him.

             
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” I wag my finger back and forth, teasing and serious at the same time.

             
It’s like he didn’t even hear me; his eyes roam the room and his expression turns ice cold. Without warning, he bends down and rips his boots off before walking down the hallway and out of sight. I follow after him, eyebrow cocked, pausing to set my bag on the ground in the dining room.

             
“Tristan?” I say, confused and worried. This is strange.

             
I walk down the hall slowly, peering into each room to see where he is. Is this some type of game? When I get to my bedroom, door ajar and Tristan staring at the wall, I’m about to explode with frustrated confusion.

             
“This is your room?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

             
“Yeah,” I say, not sure how else to fill the silence.

             
“Your favorite color is
blue
, isn’t it?”

             
I walk until I’m standing next to him, our arms touching. “Yes, it is. What’s going…?” I was about to say, “What’s going through that head of yours,” but he silences me by pulling me under his arm. His comforting gesture would be nothing more than
that- a comforting gesture- if not for the trembling of his hands and tensed muscles.

             
“Let’s go for a walk,” he whispers into my hair, so lightly I can barely hear him. His deep voice sounds extra sultry in this moment, and the corners of my mouth turn up despite my frustration.

             
I nod, and then take his hand, expecting to lead him out, but he pulls me along instead.

             
“Be right back, Rachel! Going for a walk,” he yells out the kitchen window to my gardening aunt.

             
We don’t wait to hear her response, just walk out the front door, barely closing it behind me before Tristan leaps down the steps in haste.

             
“You need to promise me something else,” Tristan says, eyes empty, face guarded.

             
“Anything,” I respond, pulling his hand to my mouth, kissing his knuckles. This gesture surprises me;
I never initiate
physical affection.

             
He watches me for a moment, studying my face and hands. “That you’ll trust me no matter what,” he says, but the words hitch at the end, making the sentence sound like a question.

             
“I trust you, no matter what. I promise,” I say, begging, desperate to know more; to solve the mystery that is Tristan
Presidio
.

             
He moves in front of me, walking backwards while keeping one hand in mine. “Then close your e
yes,” he says, free hand lifts
to my face, covering my eyes
, which
close immediately.

             
“Is this some super-secret-spot that nobody knows about?” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.

             
“No,” he says, voice still serious and sexy. “I just like having proof that you trust me.”

             
His words make me sad
and I can’t keep the frown off my face. About what I judge to be ten minutes later, he gently pulls me to a stop. “Open your eyes, Katie,” he says, running his big hand through my hair.

             
The beauty of the landscape will never cease to amaze me; the rolling hills and massive snowcapped mountains in the distance are like Disneyland to a child for the first time, wondrous and vast. Breathtaking.

             
Before I can speak, he guides me towards a boulder resting on the edge of the cliff-like structure we’re standing on, which is looking out over the land. Scooting over to make room for me, he pats the spot beside him, gesturing for me to sit down. I surprise myself yet again by denying his offer and walking to the front of
the rock before sliding on, seated between his now open legs. He pulls me close, lining up our bodies, which mold perfectly with one another. My impatience returns, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. Figuratively, for once.

             
“Come on, Tristan. It’s time for some answers,” I say, breaking the peace around us with my voice.

I feel his arms wrap around me a little tighter, and instinctively tilt my head back to see his face better. Instead of finding
comfort in his
blue eyes, I see the tenseness of his square jaw, smarting with pressure as he clenches his teeth.

“I’ve known Rachel for a while, Katie. Wh-when I, um… sh-she,” he stammers. This is the first time I’ve ever heard Tristan so unsure of himself; he has a graceful flow to his speech most of the time.

             
I wait patiently for him to continue, urging him on with my silence. “My mom kicked me out of the house the first time I was arrested,” he says.

             
“Arrested? What were you arrested for?” I ask, trying to stay calm, but my voice raises a few octaves.

             
“I got caught downtown with some guys I thought were my friends. They planted three bags of weed on me when the cops showed up, and some speed was stuffed in my pocket,” he says, sounding guilty and ashamed.

             
I squeeze his knee in reassurance, but only because I’m too stunned to speak.

             
“So anyway, my mom wanted to put me in temporary foster care. The court wouldn’t give the go-ah
ead, so she took action herself
and Rachel was the first volunteer. For five months, she homeschooled me, I lived in her house, slept in what is now your bedroom, ate in her kitchen… basically, it was stay-at-home therapy,” he continues, voice growing somewhat bitter.

             
“How come you never told me this? Did you think this wasn’t worth sharing with me?” I ask, pulling away from him to see his face. The shock there was obvious, but the sting in my chest didn’t recede; I’m upset he wasn’t completely honest with me, even after I told him everything. I feel anger working its way through my veins, and I attempt to control my blood from boiling.

             
“Katherine, I just don’t want to scare you off!” he says, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “It isn’t easy to retell this sort of stuff, alright? It isn’t like this is some funny old story!” he says, voice fierce and eyes shining, tinted with something that looks an awful lot like anger.

             
I scoff, frustrated. “Tristan, you think you can scare me off? Don’t you think if I was going to run, I would have by now?” I stand, trying to stop the heat of my intensified anger from spewing foul words from my mouth. “I’m the person you’re supposed to trust!”

             
The flash of heat in my veins is unnatural, meaning the effects of my Punishment are seeping into my blood. I watch as Tristan runs a hand over his face, a gesture saved for when he is under stress. My brother used to do the same thing, and I feel a twinge of sorrow at the fact that he hasn’t contacted me in weeks.

             
“Do you just want me to say it? Flat-out tell you what I’ve been keeping from you?” asks Tristan, sounding nervous but just as frustrated as I feel, but I don’t know why he would be irritated. I’m not the one keeping secrets.

             
“Yes!” I answer, lifting my hands up in a way that says “are you stupid?”

             
“Fine,” he says, standing from the boulder and stepping toward
s me. “I stayed with Rachel before
going to the same boarding school your brother went to. He was in my therapy group, and he talked an awful lot about
you
.”

             
My mouth pops open, but no words crawl up my throat. He knew David? He was friends with David? “You were friends with my brother?” I ask quietly.

             
He shakes his head, rocking back on his heels slightly. “No, Katherine. Dave wasn’t exactly friend material,” his eyes take on a sympathetic look.

             
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

             
Tristan sighs, long and deep and full of something I can’t decipher. “Kat
ie
, I wrote those letters to you. The ones you thought David sent you? That was me,” he says, not meeting my gaze. “Your brother isn’t… stable. He was transferred to a mental facility in California where he still is… until further notice.”

             
My stomach drops. That’s why “David” hasn’t returned my last letter, because Tristan was probably at Rachel’s by then. I haven’t talked to my brother in months, but I assumed my parents have kept in touch with him and his advisors

My brother was diagnosed with a split-personality disorder that turned him from a loving, quiet, gentle boy into a screaming, homicidal madman. I had only ever seen one of his episodes, but it was scary as hell, not to mention extremely unpredictable. Pushing the flashbacks out of my mind, containing them inside the glass bubble that I’ve protected myself with all these years, I lash out instead of coping with the pain. 

             
“Why would you write letters to me? How did the facility let you do that?! You were letting me believe he was getting better! That he loved me and would come see me soon and that he was living his life carefree and…” I get cut off by the sob that escaped me, and I couldn’t stop the tears that followed. I feel angry, but also betrayed, and my mind flashes to the words that popped into my head while I was showering. Maybe this is the betrayal I was warned about.