Trystan's been quiet since the confrontation with Sean. I have no idea what's going through his mind. One moment he's spewing philosophy and the next he's looking at me like I'm a mirage. I don't know if he's attracted to me. That kiss is messing with my mind. Is that what it'd be like? Are normal guys doting and sweet? Trystan hasn't demanded a thing from me. He's nothing like Sean, but one thing is the same. I don't think he sees it, but I do.
Broken hearts don't mend.
We're in Trystan's apartment, well, a condo, I guess. It's the hellhole where he grew up. The place is worn and hasn't been lived in for years. A thick layer of dust covers every inch, every surface. A ratty couch and chair are in the small living room, set in front of an old TV that probably doesn't work. It's the fat kind that looks more like a piece of furniture than electronics.
Trystan pulls open a drawer and tosses me a towel. "I don't come here anymore."
"I can imagine why." I say the comment without giving it much thought. Mistake.
He turns and glares at me. "No, you can't." His azure gaze goes back to wiping down the dining table and chairs, before he hurls the cloth at the wall and sits down hard. Sucking in air, he leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, grabbing fists full of hair. "I shouldn't have come back here."
I stand there like an idiot, not knowing what to do. This place is like poison to him. I can see it soaking into his veins and choking him to death. He's withering before my eyes. I pad toward him and place a hand on his shoulder. "Trystan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to put you through this. I'm sorry you're here. I'm sorry you crossed my path and I sucked you into this." My jaw hangs open, but the only sound that pours out is silent regret.
After a moment, my hand slips away and his breathing slows. Still looking down, he tells me, "The last time I was here my old man tried to kill me. Then they found out who I was. It was like a line of dominos. One fell right after the other, good and bad, stirring together until I was so turned around that I didn't know what to do. I had people then, people who helped me. You have no one, except Sean, and in case you didn't notice, the Ferro's are like acid." Trystan sits up and turns. His face is blank, eerily expressionless.
"But Jon's your best friend. So is Bryan." Shaking my head, I ask, "I don't get it. Then, why are you always with them?"
He smiles like he's the stupidest man alive. It's the humble grin of a man that realizes his own naiveté. Sighing deeply, he runs a hand through his hair and looks up at me. "The same reason you're with Sean. I thought they were a little battered—hell, who's not—but they're not like that. Are they?"
When I don't answer, he stands and walks along the tiny kitchen, trailing his finger in the dust. "From the moment I met Jon, I saw what they did to him, the way his family dug in their fangs and sucked him dry. The way they use each other, like they aren't even people, as if they don't matter. Every bite is venomous, every breath taken in that house is poison. They both know it, but there's no way out. I stick around and pick up the pieces, and they do the same for me. Once in a while, I flame out. They can hide things, make it so it never happened, so she never sees." His gaze cuts over to me, before lowering to his dusty finger.
Wiping it on his jeans, he smiles that fake grin of his and tips his head to the side. "Like I said, they're acid—every single one of them. They can clean up a mess so that there are no marks left at all, but they poison everything they touch."
I defend him before I have time to even think. "Sean's not like that."
"Oh?" Trystan folds his arms over his chest. "Elaborate. Enlighten me, Call Girl. Tell me how he's kind and compassionate, about how he takes care of you and puts you first. Tell me about the height of the pedestal he's placed you on, and that you worry about falling off…that he thinks too highly of you. That you're just a girl, but this man thinks you're more stunning than a star hung in the heavens." As he speaks, he steps toward me, one slow step at a time. My heart races as he talks and strings those words together so effortlessly, describing a vivid scene from a life that I don't know. My spine straightens and it's as if I'm being slapped, but he doesn't stop, not until we're nose to nose. "Say it, Call Girl. Tell me."
His breath mingles with mine. I can barely speak without our lips brushing together, but I don't step back. "Just because he's not like that doesn't mean he doesn't care."
Trystan's eyes narrow to slits and his tongue becomes sharp. "Oh, I know. He cares about controlling you, using you, and what else am I forgetting? Oh yeah, claiming you. You're an object to him, something to be won." He lifts a lock of my hair and then drops it as if I wasn't a prize worth fighting for.