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“How does Meredith Marks’s accent go from British to Boston in one angry rant?” I ask the back of Trista’s head as we finish our second episode ofThe Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. “What is that accent called?”
“Oh, it’s not an accent,” Trista replies crisply, turning her head to glance over her shoulder at me. “It’s an ancient language called Tequilish.”
I huff knowingly. “I need subtitles with this show.”
“Are you going to keep watching it after tonight?”
I shrug. “I feel kind of invested in the rummmooors and nastiiiness now.”
Trista’s genuine giggle at my horrible impersonation is like a balm to my guilty soul, and I squeeze her tightly, grateful her mood has lifted a bit. I’ve learned that I cannot handle seeing tears in her eyes, and I would do just about anything to make them stop—like hike through the forest on my property in the rain, searching for fucking chickens.
Or offer up a back rub.
The back rub was far superior to the chicken quest. I rubbed her shoulders and back for the first episode and her feet for most of the second episode. And at some point, we shifted around and began to spoon.
Yes, spoon.
It’s new to me, but I can’t say I mind it. In fact, it feels pretty good.
She flips her laptop closed and turns around to face me in the bed. Her hair has dried into a frizzy, wild mess, and her makeup-freeface makes her look young. She is young. A whole decade below me. It’s crazy how easy it is for me to forget that sometimes. What she’s doing for me is so mature and responsible. She’s much more grown up than I was at her age.
“Are you going to have to apologize to your brother at work tomorrow?” she asks, her green eyes sparkling in the soft lamplight on the nightstand behind me.
“Apologize for what?” I ask, my body tensing in irritation again. It’s like a reflex at this point.
Her brows shoot up into her hairline. “For nearly punching him while he was holding a sweet kitten.”
“I wasn’t going to punch him,” I gruff and run my fingers over my beard. I don’t think I was going to punch him. Honestly, I’m not sure what I was going to do. I just didn’t like seeing him inside Trista’s apartment. Especially when she was just in a bathrobe.
It activated me.
“Did you really think I’d fool around with your brother?” she asks, her fingers tracing the ink on my forearm.
I exhale heavily. “I don’t know.”
She yanks her hand away from me and rolls to her back to stare up at the ceiling. Her eyes blink rapidly as she says, “It kills me to know that you think so little of me that you could imagine I’d do that…sleep with two brothers while I’m carrying a baby for one. My God, you must think I’m total trash.”
“I do not think you’re trash,” I state firmly and reach over to cup her face so she can see the sincerity of my words. The tears in her eyes devastate me all over again. On the surface, Trista is so strong, so confident, but as I’ve grown to know her, certain things seem to trigger this vulnerable side to her, and I hate myself for being the cause of it sometimes.
Especially when my defense for my actions tonight will require me to discuss my past with Trista. Baggage I’d prefer to leave packed away. But it’s unfair for her to sit here and be hurt over my own fucked-up issues.
My voice is heavy and thick when I say, “It’s definitely not you. It’s Calder. And it’s me. And it’s even Luke.”
Her glossy eyes swim with confusion as an old, familiar anxiety creeps in around me. I’ve gone so long not feeling it lately by living in a sort of fairy tale of my journey to becoming a dad. But one little misunderstanding with my brother, and I’m thrust right back into my old twenty-eight-year-old, insecure, bullheaded self.
My tone is grave when I say the next words out loud. “My brothers and I…we all sort of fell for the same girl about ten years ago.”
“All three of you?” Trista’s lips part as she deadpans, “The Housewives of Salt Lake Citycould have a field day with a storyline like this.”
“No shit,” I mumble and swallow the knot in my throat. “Her name was Robyn.” I wince as her name still brings a sick feeling to my gut all these years later. “She was the one who lived up here in this apartment years ago. I’d been living on the mountain for a bit already, and we’d just finished construction on Calder’s and Luke’s cabins.
“Anyway, we were hanging out at the Merc constantly back then. Probably drinking way too much. My dad called us the Wild Boys a lot. We weren’t exactly model employees for his business. He was constantly riding our asses about growing up, and he thought we were avoiding reality by living on the mountain. It was kind of a transitional time in our lives.
“When Robyn started working at the Mercantile, it was obvious we were all into her. She was fresh and shiny and brought some life into this sleepy, small town. And it became this game of chicken between me and my brothers for who was going to admit they liked her and who was going to back off. Keep in mind this happened almost ten years ago, so we were young and dumb. Cocky and competitive.
“Anyway…one night, Robyn was hanging out with us, and we were all drinking heavily. One thing led to another, and a bet was made on who could actually seal the deal with her…may the best man win.”
“It’s giving ‘Boys will be boys vibes,’” Trista replies with her nose wrinkled.Her judgment stings, but I deserve it.
