The clock haunts me with its tick, tick, ticking. I’m pacing a hole in my carpet, and I’m filled with a very unfamiliar feeling. It makes my stomach knot, my heart race, my hands sweat, and my breaths falter. What is this awful feeling?
I stop in my tracks. Oh my God, am I…jealous?
Is this what jealousy feels like?
Placing my hand on my heart, I try to take a steady breath to calm the frantic rate at which it’s beating, but every time I picture Tristan on a date it starts back up again. Why am I so affected by this? It’s not like we’re a couple.
He’s my dead husband’s best friend. Okay, he’s more than that. He’s my friend. In fact, he’s become my best friend over this last year. And it’s suddenly obvious to me how much that friendship means to me. If he starts dating, then what does that mean for our friendship?
I’m not naive enough to think a woman would be okay with her man being best friends with another woman. That rarely works out. Besides, if I feel this jealous already, how am I going to feel when he’s in an actual relationship?
I need to sit down.
I sit on the couch, placing my elbows on my knees and spearing my fingers in my hair. My gaze lands on the dozens of photos I had developed—photos of people walking down the street, couples at the beach, the back of a little boy as he runs with his dog at the park.
I blame these photos for my current state. If I hadn’t taken these pictures and then decided to work on a collage and put them on display, then I wouldn’t have even needed to look for the damn screwdriver, and I wouldn’t have called Tristan and then I wouldn’t have known he was on a date and I wouldn’t be freaking the fuck out like I am.
But that’s not fair either. I needed this. Photography has always been a huge piece of my identity. I needed to find myself again in the thing I love doing the most. And honestly, Tristan’s probably been going out on dates this whole time, and I was just blissfully unaware of it. It’s not like we’re together twenty-four seven. And he’s a hot, single guy. Why wouldn’t he date?
And why does that thought deflate me so much?
My doorbell startles me out of my spiraling thoughts and I get up, glancing out the side window to see Tristan, his hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it and his blue button-down undone at the top with the sleeves rolled up his taut forearms and his tattoos partially on display.
My stomach clenches and another unfamiliar feeling hits me—one I haven’t felt in well over a year. A tingle accompanies a sharp ache between my thighs, and it’s so surprising I have to lean my head against the door and take a breath.
What the hell is going on with me?
Ignoring my body’s strange response, I open the door to Tristan.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply, leaning against the partially open door. “Wanna come in?” I offer as I open the door wider, so he can fit through.
He nods and steps inside, his gaze flitting around the room before settling on me. “Did you find it?”
Huh? He can’t possibly be talking about my sanity although I’m sure that’s the one thing that’s really gone missing tonight.
When I continue to stare at him blankly, he adds, “The screwdriver.”
“Oh! Uh, no, I haven’t.” I don’t tell him I completely forgot to even bother looking after I got off the phone with him because I was so worked up over the idea of him being on a date.
“Okay. I’ll go take a look in the garage. I was thinking about it on my way over here, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly where it is. Be right back.”
He walks out of the room, and it’s like my body has a mind of its own because my eyes watch him walk out, admiring the way his ass fills those dressy jeans he’s wearing. That tingle returns—although I’m not entirely positive it ever left—and brings a heat with it that nearly knocks me over. I need to pull myself together.
I busy myself with sorting more of the photos I had printed, deciding which ones I want to display and which ones I want to keep for my portfolio. I have a digital portfolio, but there’s something about holding a photograph in your hand that’s been lost in this day and age of taking pictures with a cell phone. I love delicately picking up the rectangular print, careful only to touch the edges so as not to get fingerprints all over the image. Feeling the lightweight paper in my hand while I examine the story being told. Holding an actual printed photo makes me feel so much more connected to my photographs than looking at them on a screen. There’s also a sense of possibility holding a tangible product. I’m staring at a picture I took three days ago, and it’s the first time in over a year I’ve actually felt like myself.
“Found it,” Tristan’s voice reverberates around the room as he enters from the kitchen. He walks into the room, but then stops at the threshold that connects the kitchen with the living room. He stands there, one hand holding the screwdriver and the other squeezing the back of his neck. I wonder if he knows how that movement enhances the veins in his forearms and makes them look even more fit than they already are.
“Great, thanks.”
His eyes lock on my photos. “Are these new?” he asks, interest clear in his tone.
“Yeah.”
His gaze meets mine, and there’s a sparkle of happiness there that makes my breath catch. “You’re taking pictures again.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah. I got the itch a few weeks ago and decided to use the camera you bought me for my birthday.” My finger slides delicately along the edges of a couple of my favorite photos. “It felt good to have a camera in my hands again. I felt like me for the first time since Robbie died.”
When I glance back up at him, he’s still staring at me, and there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes my cheeks feel warm.
“I’m glad you’re finding yourself again.”
Is that what I’m doing? Did I really lose myself when Robbie died?
I suppose I did, but only because Robbie was such an integral part of who I was. We got together when we were fifteen. He was my first love. We experienced all of our firsts together, which bonds a couple in a way that’s hard to break. So, I guess it’s only natural that losing him made me lose a piece of myself.
I think it’s discovering which piece of myself I lost that I’ve had to come to terms with. I didn’t die with Robbie—as much as it sometimes feels like it. He was my whole world while he was alive, but now that he’s gone, I have to find out who I am without him.
“I’m going to sell the house,” I blurt out.
His expression changes from tenderness to surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, I already started talking to a realtor. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
“I know. You told me.”
Right. I did.
“Do you think it’s a mistake?” It’s the question I’ve been asking myself nearly nonstop since I made my decision.
“Depends on your reasons.”
I glance around my house before looking back at him. “Memories of us are everywhere. And as much as I love him, I need to let this part of him go, or I’ll never be able to move on like he wanted me to. The idea of bringing someone here, in our space, where we were so happy…it feels like cheating, even if it’s not. I think it’s time for a fresh start, as hard as it’s going to be to actually let go of this house.” My eyes start to fill with tears, but I hold them back. “We loved this house.”
“It’s a good house.”
I nod and sniffle, but feel like it’s progress that my tears never leave my eyes.
“I don’t think it’s a mistake. He’d want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, he would.” We both smile at each other, and I can no longer ignore what bothered me so much earlier. “I’m sorry for interrupting your…dinner.” The word is weighted in my mouth and hangs in the air. I didn’t say date, but we both know what I’m thinking.
“It was stupid. You actually saved me by giving me an excuse not to linger.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I thought I was meeting Trent and Becka for dinner, and instead I showed up to a blind date.”
I bark out a laugh. “No way!”
He buries his head in his hands and groans. “Yes way,” he mumbles into his hands, keeping his face covered from me.
“Why would Trent do that?”
Tristan glances up at me, his crystal-blue eyes piercing. “He thinks I need to mo—date.”
He was going to say something else, and I’m curious what it was, but by the stubborn set of his jaw, I suspect he won’t tell me.
“When was the last time you went on a date?”
The look he gives me is almost…sheepish? And there’s a tinge of pink to his cheeks like he might be embarrassed to answer. It can’t be any worse than my answer. I think the last time Robbie took me on a proper date was probably three or four months before he died.
“Tris?”
“Define date.”
I arch a brow. “Dinner, maybe a movie or another activity of some kind, followed by a goodnight kiss.”
He nibbles on his lip, and my eyes are drawn to the motion, but not enough to deter me from getting an answer out of him.
“It can’t be that bad. Seriously, when was the last time?”
He mumbles, but I know I couldn’t possibly have heard him right.
“I’m sorry, I’m gonna need you to say that again.”
“Never.” When he looks up at me, there’s something in his eyes that makes my heart clench painfully. He looks so sad, but it’s more than that.
“You’ve never been on a date? What about in high school? Didn’t you go out with Stacy?”
He shakes his head. “We had sex one time, and she kept trying to convince me to take her out, but that’s all it was.”
I’m stunned. That can’t be right. I’ve seen him on tours. He always has a woman draped over him. “Never with any of the girls you’ve met on tour?”
He shakes his head, and now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t recall ever seeing any of those girls more than once. I never noticed or paid much attention before.
“Why not?” I’m baffled that this gorgeous, successful musician has never been on a date.
“It’s not a big deal, Jo.”
“It is! It’s a huge deal. You’re twenty-six, Tristan. And you’ve never been on a date! That’s insane.”
“I guess I haven’t met a woman who was worth it.”
There’s a weight to his stare, and I can’t help feeling like there’s so much more he’s not saying. And more than ever, I wish he’d open himself up to me instead of always being so closed off.