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“Oh,” he sounded disappointed. “Well, I am.”
“No one has ever said that while getting stitches.” I grabbed another swab.
He unexpectedly turned around and grabbed hold of my arm, my hand still holding the rust-colored swab. “Calista,” he said as if he were out of breath. His eyes captured my own before I had a chance to look away. For a split second, they drew me in, pleading with me not to turn my head.
I closed my eyes, furious he’d caught me off guard. That once again, I’d broken my vow.
“Please,” he begged. “Please look at me.”
“Why?” I protested.
“Cal, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that to me,” my voice cracked. I needed him to hate me as much as I hated him. It was easier that way. It left no room for conflicting emotions.
“I know apologizing in no way makes what I did right. But, Cal, from the depths of my soul, I’m sorry I hurt you.”
I drew away from him and turned around, hardly able to catch my breath. The swab in my hand shook as badly as my body. “I hate you” was all I could think to say.
“Probably not as much as I hate myself,” he said in a low voice.
“I wouldn’t bet on that. Please, just turn back around,” I pleaded.
“I’m good at that, aren’t I? Turning my back on you.”
No one did it better, I thought, not able to say the words out loud. All I could do was stare at his back once he’d turned around. The dagger with my name on it screamed at me. It spoke of some vital piece of information I might have missed. I didn’t know exactly what that could have been. But I knew one thing: I wasn’t ready to hear it.
TRISTAN
TRISTAN SMILED AT QUINN CURLED up with her two calico kittens, Coco and Poppy, at the opposite end of the couch from him in Jonathon’s den. She’d begged for both of them, and he couldn’t say no. And she made a good point—they could gift one to Calista. She loved cats. Too bad she hated him.
He adjusted uncomfortably. The 800 mgs of ibuprofen Calista had prescribed were wearing off. The cut didn’t bother him as much as the way Calista loathed him. He wasn’t sure if he should feel like an idiot for trying to apologize to her, or if he should congratulate himself for his bravery. Especially considering she had been about to sew him up.
But she’d seen the tattoo. She had to know it was for her. The pain from the nail ripping his flesh had made him forget about the ink on his back before he’d rushed over to the ER. He hadn’t thought about the implications of it all.
He’d gotten the tattoo after his divorce was final five years ago. It wasn’t one of his finer moments. He’d had too much to drink and was angry about how his life had turned out. The combination had him wanting to do something rebellious. Something his parents would hate. All he could think about at the tattoo parlor was how much Calista would have loved that he was living outside the box. It was the first time in years he’d allowed himself to admit he’d never stopped loving her. It was a painful realization.
At least she looked at him today and even spoke to him. Even if it was only to tell him she hated him. It was worth it. Maybe. He felt like more of a jerk for hurting her.
Tristan looked around Jonathon’s den. He had a feeling Quinn liked to watch TV in this room as a way to be close to her dad, even though she had mixed feelings about him. Parental relationships were so complicated. At least in their dysfunctional family.
He gazed at the photos on the wall. Portraits of his brother, along with Stella and Quinn. He had to wonder if every smile was a lie. Or if there had been happy times. He hoped so. There were also a few photos of Tristan and Jonathon. One on the golf course, arms around each other. They’d gone to see the Masters Tournament several years ago. It was an amazing trip. Good food, lots of laughter, and several rounds of golf. He missed that Jonathon. It made Tristan wonder where it all went wrong. He knew Jonathon had loved Stella and Quinn, even if their marriage didn’t start off the way he’d envisioned. Tristan thought he was a better man than Jonathon. But was he really? He’d let go of the thing he loved most, just like his brother had. And for what? His career and money? Was that any better than the sex and drugs Jonathon had traded his family life for?
Sadly, none of it seemed to make either of them any happier. Sure, Tristan loved the corporate game. He even liked the comfort of his large investment portfolio and bank account. But there was something missing in his life—or someone.
Quinn smirked at him, pulling him out of his dour thoughts. Stranger Things played in the background. It was their show, and their second go-around bingeing it. “So, what are you going to do to win back my aunt?”
Thinking of the hurt in Calista’s eyes, he knew he shouldn’t even consider trying. But heaven help him, he wanted to. “I think the best we can hope for is that maybe she’ll voluntarily look at me one day,” he said in defeat.
Quinn narrowed her eyes at him.
“What’s that look for?”
“You’re not even trying,” she scolded him.
“I think falling down the stairs and getting stitches deserves some credit.” He grinned.
Quinn giggled. “That’s not romantic at all.”
