If voices were like cupcakes, his would be red velvet with butterscotch frosting. Yum. He was so close I could see his Adam apple and the amber specs dancing in his eyes. I must say something. “Yeah, well, it’s getting late, I need to head back.” Brava Monica, bravissima. What a great line. Even in the looming darkness his pained smile was hard to miss. I hated, hated myself for it. He had been so nice to me, not like Tommy, or Max. Well, better leave Max out of the comparison, at least for now. After all, this was not a competition.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s getting late. Let me walk you down to Shea where there are more lights and people. I would offer to escort you home but guiding a horse on a main street in the dark is not a good idea. Some drivers are too busy texting or worse.” He paused. “Is that okay with you?”
“Huh, okay. What?”
He cocked his head and smiled. “Oh, girl, what am I going to do with you?” And he laughed, an open, friendly laugh.
I returned a smile and tugged on the leash. “Let’s go Dior, these good souls are guiding us back to civilization.” Everything was going to be okay.
Tristan laughed again, this time softly, took my hand, intertwined his fingers with mine, sending electrifying waves up my spine. We walked out of the nearly deserted parking lot, Tristan holding his horse reins, while I dragged a disappointed dog.
We headed toward Shea Boulevard, because the only other way was to the dark mountain.
“Fiat,” he said slowly, “I understand your feeling uncomfortable being too friendly with me. And I respect your strong work ethic.”
My strong work ethic? Was he poking fun at me?
“Soon the Horse Ranch escrow will close and you’ll no longer be my agent, which in this case, makes me very happy as I would like for us to be more than that.”
I could see the light at the intersection turn red, a good thing because he couldn’t see the crimson tide overtaking my cheeks.
“More than what? Aren’t we forgetting a small detail?” Keep moving, Monica. Don’t stop. Don’t look at him.
Keep walking.
I quickened my pace, felt his fingers slowly slip away, letting go of my hand. He took my elbow instead and forced me to stop. The light went from red to green. We were feet from reaching the main road. Soon he would turn around, walk his horse home. Please let me go. I can’t handle more heartache, not today.
“A small detail? Can you be more specific?” No more butterscotch frosting.
“You’re a married man.” The words hung in the night air now, turning amber-colored, like his eyes, like the traffic signal. Stop!
He stepped squarely in front of me, still holding Tache’s reins. The shift confused Dior, who moved back a bit. Tristan, a head taller than me, bent a little, getting closer. Perhaps trying to look into my eyes? Tache snorted impatiently.
“I explained all that to you in my message.”
The message. I bit my lips hard. Some things you don’t forget. The memory of the messages appearing next to each other on my phone. Tristan’s and Max’s. My heart yearned for Tristan’s, my conscience settled on Max’s. And Tristan’s message was deleted, unread, to avoid further temptation.
“Remember? After you visited me, when I was bedridden?”
I couldn’t look at him. Even in this changing light I recognized the hurt mantling the face I so adored.
“I wanted everything out in the open between us.” Hurt and disappointment threaded through his words.
I lowered my eyes. He straightened up, tall and proud again. Stepped back next to his mare. “You never read it, did you? You never cared to.” A whisper. And he was gone.
The light turned green. I crossed the street on the marked walk and let the tears free fall.
Trifecta, I repeated furiously, pulling Dior along. Tommy, Max, Tristan. Trifecta. The screeching of brakes snapped me out of my self-imposed slide to hell.
“What are you two night owls doing on the streets so late?”
Brenda!
“Hop in.”
And hop in, we did. As usual Dior sat in the back for all of twenty seconds. The minute the Honda moved, he crept forward and soon his snout rested on the center console. Both Brenda and I pretended not to notice. Dior, our lovable, invisible Dane.
“Where have you two been?” she asked.
“I took Dior for a walk. I don’t think he had been let out all day. I cleaned up and gave him food and water, and really you can’t blame the dog.”
“What are you saying?” By her side glances I knew she was trying to read my thoughts. If only she could.
“I’m saying Tommy must have left the house in the morning and didn’t come back, at all.”
“Don’t tell me. I bet he never finished setting up the equipment.” Again, glancing at me.
“I’m not getting involved. It’s between you two. I felt sorry for poor Dior.”
“Just how sorry did you feel? I can tell you’ve been crying. Did that son of a...” (she swore so ladylike it sounded like B***H) “do something to you? I swear I’ll kill him.”
“No, Brenda. Haven’t seen Tommy at all. Relax.”
“So, why the crying?”
“It’s — hormonal — you know.”
I shut up, tears crowding to run free again. That didn’t stop Brenda, of course.
“I heard you mumbling something when you got in the car, trifecta? Please don’t tell me you’ve been betting on horses. That’s Tommy’s department.”
“Brenda, listen. No horses, no betting. I’m depressed over my own mistakes. Hormonal, I told you.”
Luckily at that point she pulled into her garage. Okay, she tried to get into the garage. Once the automatic door went up it displayed a whole assortments of boxes, furniture, even clothes, strewn all over the floor. She killed the engine while muttering about killing her nephew. I could only imagine her reaction once she saw
