He shook his head. "He died about five years ago. Shot in the thigh, and the bullet hit his femoral artery. He bled out in under three minutes."
I gasped and covered my mouth. "I'm so sorry."
He shrugged. "It happens, Grant. People die. I try to remember all the good times we had. If I only fixate on the negative, then I let bitterness take over and I chance losing all the laughter we shared." He took my hand and squeezed it.
I sniffled, and Tristan reached up and wiped away my tears. I never remembered crying as much as I had since I'd met him. He leaned in and kissed me. "I'm jealous because I want that same connection with you. I want to know you so well I'll be able to finish your sentences and tell stories to our friends about the time you caught a hummingbird."
I chuckled through my tears.
"I'll call Mel tomorrow and apologize for being so grumpy at dinner, okay?"
I nodded. "I'm sorry too."
Tristan turned his body into mine and kissed me again. I felt his hand sliding up my inner thigh as he deepened the kiss. His fingers ran over the hairs of my bare leg, and it tickled. When he rubbed my dick through my boxers, I gasped and pulled back.
I shook my head and whined, "I can't. My ass really hurts, Tristan."
He chuckled, moving his hand to my knee. "Okay. Fair enough. But what if I offered to blow you?" He waggled his eyebrows.
My dick pulsed and I lifted one corner of my mouth. "Um, okay." It was hard refusing a blowjob.
TRISTAN UNDERSTOOD my dilemma. I wanted more sex, but my ass ached for days after Tuesday. He'd fucked me so damn good, but the aftereffects were difficult to ignore. I needed time to recuperate.
When I wasn't working at the bank, I was cleaning out his mess. As he'd suggested, I also cut back my hours in order to get the house cleaned. I brought most of my dishes over to his house so we could use them whenever we were there, but my clothes remained at my house because his bedroom was still untouched. The upstairs bedrooms had taken way too much of my time. By Saturday, Tristan was home with papers spread across the dining room table.
The upside: the engine was gone. The downside: more clutter.
He seemed very frustrated, more so than usual, so I stopped on my way back from taking out a bag full of trash. "Are you all right?" I asked, squeezing his shoulders and kissing his cheek as I leaned over him from behind his chair.
"I'm fine," he sighed. "This is more tedious than I thought it would be."
"What are you doing?" I asked, peering at the bank statements and copies of checks he had stacked in front of him. Bank statements were something I was familiar with.
"I'm looking for evidence of a cashed check." He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. "This bill was sent to collections, and I swear I paid it. I might be slightly behind, but I haven't forgotten to pay a bill since I took over this business. I'm normally very responsible." He huffed and leaned forward on the table, rubbing his head.
I read the paper and then looked at the papers and stacks of unopened mail on the table. "This is for fifty-three dollars, dated two years ago. Are you sure you paid it? It seems strange they would wait two years to try and collect it. Are you sure it isn't fake?" I had seen my share of scams trying to get personal information out of me.
"No. I remember that one. We had to return three different parts, and I never used them again after that. I know I paid it." He sounded certain.
I pointed to the unopened mail. "Then what is all this?"
"I haven't opened a bank statement in a few years."
"What?" I shrieked. Then I cleared my throat and asked again, in a more controlled tone, "What? How can you not open the bank statements? Don't you balance your checkbook every month?" The very thought made me nauseated.
He turned and looked at me. "Don't yell."
"Why would I yell?"
"Grant, you just pierced my ears with your first little shriek."
"I won't do it again."
Tristan took a deep breath and then said, "I've never balanced the checkbook."
My voice went up three octaves involuntarily. "What?" I immediately covered my mouth and whispered behind my hand, "I'm sorry." I took my hand away and asked, "But I don't understand how you can do that. What if checks don't clear or are cashed for the wrong amount? Or if they get lost and are sent to collections." I stopped talking when he glared. "Oh. Yeah. That's what happened."
He huffed loudly. "Yeah. It hasn't happened in ten years. I hate math."
I ran my palm over his bald head. I felt stubble for the first time. If he'd been so caught up in this issue that he forgot to shave, then it must be serious. Although I rather liked the feel of the hairs growing back. "Tristan, why don't you let me help you? I'm really good with numbers."
"Are you? I know you work in a bank, but I didn't want to assume you knew how to do everything money related." His reply seemed not to make sense, but I wasn't going to argue about it. He was stressed enough.
"Yes," I answered. "I'm good with all money-related issues. I have a degree in accounting from Loyola University."
"Then why aren't you the manager of the bank or running your own accounting firm?"
I chuckled. "Yeah, because all accountants start off opening their own businesses right out of college." He didn't react to my sarcasm, so I let it go and shrugged. There was no easy way to tell him I was lazy. "I didn't try because those jobs take more effort than I'd like to give. Being a teller is easy. I really liked working alongside Mel every day. Things have changed since I moved to this branch, so I guess I should consider using more of my skills. I always thought moving up would be too stressful."
"You mean you have all kinds of knowledge and you choose not to use it?"
I felt like a schlub for admitting it. "Yes. I haven't found a reason to."
Tristan looked back to his stack and gestured. "You think you can sort this out?"
How hard could it be? "Most definitely. Go make me some coffee and start cleaning out your bedroom. I'm tired of looking at those ships on the walls. The frames never stay straight."
Tristan stood up and offered me his seat. He kissed me before I sat down and then rubbed the back of my shoulders this time. "You're pretty awesome."
"I haven't fixed anything yet." I glanced around the table. "Um, where's your checkbook? I should probably cross-check these numbers and go back as far as you have records."
"You're going to yell about that too," he said, closing his eyes and sighing.
"Don't tell me you don't keep a checkbook. You have to. How do you know how much money you have in the bank?" He was right, I was close to speaking louder than I should, but I contained myself.
Tristan walked over to the counter in the kitchen and returned with a box. "These are my checkbooks. Number forty-three is the current one. I do keep a checkbook, but I keep a mental ledger on how much I have in the bank. I know roughly how much comes in, and the checking account is linked to a savings account in case of overdraft, although I've never been overdrawn. I don't write a check for money I don't have." He set the box in front of me.
I took the top one off the pile inside the box and opened it. All the figures were for even amounts. No change. I knew some amounts could be even, but not all of them. I had to question him. "Er, Tristan? Why are all the numbers even?"
He drew in a long breath, exhaled, and said, "I round everything up."
"What do you mean? You round to the nearest dollar and pay that amount?" I doubted that was what he meant, but the alternative might give me a stroke.
"No!" He shook his head. "I pay what I owe, but I round up the number I write in the checkbook because then I always have more money than I think."
"But you said you keep a mental ledger. You should know how much you have anyway." He ran his hand over his face. I could tell this was getting more frustrating for him the more questions I asked. I let it go. "Okay, I'll just take this one statement at a time. Bring me that trash can, and help me open the statements and make a pile according to the dates. I'll get this sorted, I promise."
It was a daunting task, especially when I opened a statement from 2006, but this was also what I was good at. Helping Tristan would make me feel good. Cleaning his house made me feel like a maid no matter how many times he assured me I wasn't, but straightening out his money situation made me feel important.