Spring of 2007: Donald Baker. He had been a year ahead of me in high school. We'd both been out since middle school and joined the photography club in ninth grade. By the time he was a senior, he'd built a reputation for being a slut. There had only been a few other gay guys at our school, so I wasn't sure where the rumors of his prowess had come from until he asked me to go to prom. I was nervous, because I wasn't sure the school would let us go together, but I was thrilled he asked. We went on one date two weeks before prom, and he told a few people the next day we'd done it. It wasn't true. He hadn't even kissed me, yet he started rumors of a sexual encounter. Needless to say, I didn't go to the prom with Donald.
I flipped several years to the fall of 2010: Vincent Granger. He'd been in my sociology class at college. He was fine to look at until he smiled, revealing a missing tooth. One missing tooth would have been okay because anyone could get that fixed, but when you took a closer look it was obvious there was a bigger problem. All his teeth were rotting. I had agreed to go on a date, but once we were sitting at a table for two and he smiled, I couldn't bear to look him in the face. He'd gotten offended and stormed out before dessert. I felt bad, but I thought he should take better care of his teeth if he got that upset over it. Later on, he'd gotten arrested for meth production or something. I was truly glad I'd screwed up our date.
Spring 2011: Kenny Dillenger. Good old Kenny. We had barely ordered dinner when I spilled my soda across the table and into his lap. He jumped up, threw some expletives my way, and stormed out. Come to think of it, storming out had been a habit for my dates four times in a row. I didn't know why I kept saying yes when a guy asked me out.
I put my phone away and stared at the front door of the bank, hoping that Tristan would walk through it. If my self-loathing had been the impetus of failed relationships, then I needed to refocus and change my outlook. Tristan was willing to give me a chance, so I needed to be willing to give myself the same chance. He was so nice looking. Why couldn't I believe he liked me?
The next customer was a balding man with good taste in clothes. He smiled and handed me his transactions. He kept smiling as I punched in his numbers, and I knew right away he was into me. It was the way his eyes undressed me as I worked. I counted out twenties and a ten, counting back his money as I would any other customer. When I was done, he winked and said, "Until next time."
I cringed.
"Why couldn't I see Tristan's interest so easily?" I whined aloud to myself.
My phone buzzed. Tristan. I sighed. His text said: Because I have more respect for you than Mr. Palmer. I'd never stare at you in pubic like you were a piece of meat.
How could he … ? I glanced around the lobby and spotted Tristan way over in the corner by the table with the pens and deposit slips. I gave him a confused look, and he sauntered over.
"How did you know what I was thinking?" I asked when he stepped up to my window. Luckily Jessica was getting change from the vault, so she wouldn't be able to eavesdrop.
"Because he's been in my shop. He looks the same way at any younger man, gay or straight. Ask Wes. You felt cornered, didn't you?" He spoke so confidently. It was weird, because our previous conversations at the bank had been so businesslike. I felt the shift in our relationship. I didn't know who Wes was, but it didn't matter. Suddenly I knew that Tristan knew me in ways I wasn't prepared for. Not details of my life like a stalker or anything like that, but Tristan did have an uncanny bead on me no one ever had before.
"Yeah. I felt queasy when he was watching me. Did you hear me just now, or do you have cameras in the building?" I glanced up and around the ceiling.
He grinned. "No. I noticed last year that if you stand in that corner by the fake plant when no one else is in the lobby, the sound carries all the way over there." He pointed to a spot by the drive-thru windows.
"Really?"
He nodded. "When a friend of mine had a crush on a girl who no longer works here, he said he'd stand in that corner and listen to everything she said."
I gaped at him and made a face. "Oh, that's terrible. It sounds worse than stalking. Why were you doing it to me?"
"I didn't intend to. I walked in when he did, but I wasn't comfortable standing in line because I thought I'd be called over to a different window and I wanted to talk to you. So I waited over there and watched."
Tristan's eyes on me felt different, and I grew more self-conscious as the seconds ticked. Had I wiped my mouth off after lunch? Was my hair okay? Would he find fault with something and comment? "Why did you come in? You told me you were staying away for a while. It's only Thursday."
"Pull my account up on your screen. Here's the number." He handed me a piece of paper.
I did what he asked. "Here it is." Why wasn't he answering me? Was he going to give me a hard time for being an idiot? And why did he have such a devilish expression on his face? Oh my God, I'm going to die if he keeps watching me like that.
"Okay. Now, point at the screen and pretend you're talking about my transactions. If someone gets close enough to hear, randomly throw in a comment about a deposit. Got it?"
"But why?"
"Because I want to talk to you, and I'm not getting you fired for personal conversation on the bank's time. Just pretend, and you'll be fine." His voice was so smooth and sexy.
Why had it taken me this long to notice how he spoke to me? "Okay," I agreed, not knowing what I'd agreed to. I was too distracted by the memory of his kiss.
His self-satisfied grin grew wider. "You have to be the most adorable person on the planet."
I didn't see what that had to do with his account. "Huh?"
"You. I've never seen someone blush so deeply before."
"Oh God," I cried, covering my cheeks with my hands. I could hardly catch my breath, and now he sent my heart racing from embarrassment. I could feel a panic attack coming on. Oh God. I wanted to believe I could give myself a chance, and yet here I stood flipping out on the inside because he was gazing intently at my outside. Why me? I was nobody.
His blue eyes seemed darker than usual and his smile too alluring. "Especially when I haven't said anything suggestive," he added. "What are you going to do when I start describing the things I want to do to you with my tongue?"
"Oh!" I covered my mouth in shock. I lowered my hand slowly and whispered, "Oh my God. You're a porn star, aren't you? You're going to lure me into your sex club and videotape me being whipped and chained, aren't you? No wonder you're into me. You probably see me as this helpless, gullible little virgin who's so repressed he'd do anything with a guy like you." My heart was beating a thousand miles an hour, and I thought I was about to puke.
Tristan's expression changed immediately. He no longer had the demeanor of a swaggering stallion. His eyes grew huge, and he held up his hands and apologized right away. "What? No! Grant, I was joking. Do you really think I'm a skeezy, whip-wielding masochist?"
"Sadist," I corrected automatically.
"What?"
"You mean you're not a sadist. A masochist derives pleasure from pain, whereas a sadist is the one who enjoys inflicting the pain."
"Why … . What … . How do you even know that?" I wasn't sure if he was impressed or disturbed by my knowledge.
"I have the Internet. I may not do any of the things I know about, but I get bored watching cat videos and Netflix streaming. I poke around at stuff." It seemed logical to me. The illogical thing was our conversation. Where the heck was this going, and why? "Is there a point to your visit? This conversation is getting really weird and uncomfortable. Besides being at work, you're making me feel worse than that other man did. I sort of know you, but I don't think I know you at all, and I'm thinking I'm a little scared." I had to get all my thoughts out at once, because I heard the vault door shut. It was close to closing. Soon I'd have to count out my drawer and settle my deposits. I needed Tristan to tell me what was going on, or leave.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and placed both hands on the counter. Was he meditating? He took a cash envelope and a pen and wrote on it. As I watched him scribble his note, I couldn't help but think, they aren't supposed to be used that way! Then he slid it over to me and pointed at my screen. "Will you tell me the amount that check number sixty-two fifty was written for?"