Beautiful Addictions (10 page)

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Tristan woke in the early hours of the morning, his legs and arms aching from the
position he’d slept in. He looked at Josie’s sleeping face and was reminded of the
young innocence that was McKenzi’s. It was easier to see now that she was unconscious
and defenseless. Needing the bathroom, he shifted over and left her to finish her
rest.

He stretched his arms high above his head, bending and twisting to bring circulation
back to his limbs. He relieved himself and threw some water on his face. The liquid
dotted his skin with crystal-like drops. It clung to his eyelashes, matting them together,
and dripped from the scruff of his chin, taking with it the grunge from the night
before. The circles beneath his eyes were nearly invisible. He looked refreshed in
a way that made him feel like a fool for staying away. With Josie cradled in his arms,
he’d slept better than he had in years. They’d both waved their white flags and given
in to the gravity pulling them together.

It had always been this way for them. Even in grade school, they would argue over
something silly, swearing off their friendship forever. By recess, they’d be huddled
together beneath the monkey bars, whispering apologies. McKenzi had been more stubborn
than Tristan, but she always came back to him.

Tristan used the bottom of his T-shirt to pat his face dry. He looked for an extra
toothbrush, but all he found were tampons, charcoal pencils, and paint markers in
her medicine cabinet. He pushed the toothpaste around with his finger as best he could
and rinsed.

There was only one door besides the bathroom, and as Tristan let himself inside, he
had no idea what he’d find. At first it was too dark to see anything, but his eyes
quickly adjusted to the dim light coming through the curtain. There was a mattress
on the floor, tucked into the farthest corner of the room. No bedding or pillows topped
it. Haphazard stacks of spray-paint cans lined the perimeter of the room, along with
sketchpads and a few articles of clothing.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, flooding the room with daylight.
Tristan gasped. Pencil and charcoal sketches covered every inch of wall from ceiling
to floor. He turned, scanning the rest of the room and finding each wall plastered
in the same way.

“Holy shit,” Tristan whispered.

A familiar face drew him in as he stepped to the wall for closer inspection. A young
boy of eleven or twelve stared back at him, his smile a bit higher on one side. Tristan
ran his index finger over the lines of his baby face, reflecting the crooked grin.

“Tristan?” Josie’s voiced called out. He spun to find her displaying a defensive posture,
leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doing in here?”

“Just looking,” he answered.

“These are private.”

He nodded, leaving a beat of silence in case she wanted to continue. She didn’t.

“You drew these?”

Josie nodded.

“You don’t know who they are, do you?” he asked.

Her scowl disappeared as she shifted from foot to foot. She refused to meet his eyes.

“No, but I dream about them. I see nothing else when I sleep. Just these faces,” she
answered, pressing her palm to her forehead.

Tristan walked to her and pulled her inside the room. He placed Josie in front of
his body, facing the middle of the largest wall.

“This,” he said, pointing to the wild-haired boy, “is me.” Josie gasped, her hand
flying to cover her mouth. “Your shading is amazing, you even included my eyebrow
scar.” Tristan took a step sideways and brought Josie with him. “This one here is
your mom. She was always laughing like that. The one above her is your dad. He was
the chief of police in Gretna.”

Tristan glanced over her shoulder to see her trembling fingers still covering her
mouth and her other arm wrapped around her waist. He slid his hands around her, holding
Josie to his chest for support. Even though she had no conscious recollection of her
childhood, she’d always had these faces with her. After a minute of silence and stuttered
breaths, she finally spoke.

“She was beautiful,” Josie said, running her fingers over her mother’s face.

“Yes, she was.”

“I can’t believe my dad had that beard,” she said finally, smiling as her eyes scanned
the drawings. “I look like him.”

Tristan squeezed her tighter in confirmation. Josie took a step closer to Tristan’s
sketch now, scrutinizing the curve of his chin and weight of his smile.

“I should have seen it sooner. Your smile is just the same,” she whispered.

Tristan kissed the side of her neck and she hummed in satisfaction. Josie spun in
his arms and kissed his lips. She lacked the verbal ability to thank him otherwise,
so she stuck to what she was good at, pouring all of herself into that kiss.

It had never felt like this for either of them, and somehow they knew that it never
would again. When the intensity became overwhelming, they pulled away.

“Tell me about the rest of them,” she said.

He nodded and pointed her back toward the wall.

An hour later, after each drawing had been identified, they emerged. Josie felt lighter,
like her shoulders could stand a little taller now. These faces had haunted her for
so long she’d begun to resent them. But not anymore. Now she knew these were the people
who had been most important to her. These had been the ones to love her, to mold her
and, in Tristan’s case, eventually to mourn her. It had always felt like Josie versus
the world, but in reality she’d never been alone.

They huddled around the room-temperature pizza and ate until they were satisfied.
Josie led Tristan back to the couch, where she curled her knees up to her chest and
tucked her toes beneath his thigh.

“This is a first, you know,” Josie said.

“What?”

“Having someone sleep at my place, and,” she paused, feeling a bit embarrassed by
her lifestyle for the first time, “waking up with someone I didn’t have sex with.”

“Well, I’ve read that cuddling is more important than the act of sex. It’s more intimate
and relaxing, opening people up for more honest bonding.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, I don’t buy it either,” Tristan said, smiling at her.

“We could change that, you know,” she suggested.

She ran her hand up his thigh with a feather-light touch. Scratching her nails up
the seam of his zipper, Josie was pleased with the deep moan Tristan let out.

“Josie.”

“I want you, Tristan,” she purred.

His hand clamped over hers when she reached for his belt buckle. Tristan surprised
himself with the amount of restraint he possessed.

“I want you too. I do. But not until you’re ready.”

Josie frowned at him.

“Oh, I’m ready. I’m always ready.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m not going to let you use sex to distract from
what is really happening here.”

“What exactly is happening here?”

Tristan didn’t answer her with words. He simply smiled and laced his fingers through
hers. He knew she couldn’t handle any big declarations or stark truths.

Josie released his hand and scraped around her cuticles, trying to remove the charcoal
dust. She ignored the paint flecks dotting her nails.

“Tell me something that only I would know,” she demanded.

Tristan knew exactly what she meant. He looked into her shining eyes and thought it
over. Memories flooded his mind and he scrolled through them quickly, finding the
perfect one to share.

“I saved you from drowning once.”

“What?” Her eyes grew large and she gestured wildly for him to continue.

“We were at the lake behind my house, walking on the pier, when you tripped and fell
in. You must have hit your head or something, because you didn’t come up. I panicked
and jumped in, somehow finding your arm beneath the water. It was freezing and I struggled
for a few minutes to drag you out. You weren’t breathing. So I started CPR. After
a few forced breaths, you started choking and sputtering water. I carried you back
to my house and gave you some of my clothes while I threw yours in the dryer. We never
told anyone.”

Josie wiggled her toes beneath the weight of his leg and smiled.

“How did you know CPR?” she asked.

“My father’s a doctor. Dr. Daniel Fallbrook always liked to make me a shining example
of his abilities.”

“Lucky me,” she said.

“Lucky me,” he repeated.

Silence enveloped them as they sat in the afterglow of bygone days. Tristan loved
how it was so quiet here, nothing to distract them from each other. Josie sighed and
looked at the clock on her wall, wondering how much longer she could have him.

“We got into a fight the next day because you considered the CPR your first kiss and
I argued that it was only a medical procedure,” Tristan continued, laughing at the
memory. “You were so stubborn. I shut you up.”

“How?”

“I kissed you and told you that was your real first kiss. You didn’t argue.”

Josie ducked her head, blushing at his devilish smirk. Tristan had a way of dissolving
her tough exterior, revealing glimpses of the adolescent girl inside.

She started at his wrist and traced a line up his arm until the art disappeared beneath
his sleeve. She loved following the paths across his skin, wondering where she’d end
up. Her fingers ghosted over traditional tattoo flash such as spider webs and harsh
red flames before tracing the gray bark of a large oak tree.

“What is this one for?” she asked, pointing to the image on the inside of his forearm.

“It’s a tree in my yard back home that you and I practically lived in. It was always
where we’d go to play and hang out. Later, we would climb up there to spy on my neighbors
or make out.”

Josie’s fingertip moved over the twisting limbs as though she could feel the scratchy
bark beneath her touch.

“This was for us,” Josie stated, gesturing toward the art.

“For you,” Tristan corrected, picturing her laughing face covered with dots of light
and shadows beneath the branches of their tree.

She lay her head down on her knees. Josie knew that she was venturing into unknown
territory with Tristan. She felt the kindness in his eyes. The way he offered himself
up made her want to fall apart with unworthiness. Wrapped in the cocoon of her apartment,
it would be easy to get lost in his memories

7. Eclipse

A partial or total obscuring of one celestial body by another.

Rob pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. It was rare to find a spot
so close to home. He grabbed the four bags of groceries and walked the half block
to his door. The sun was shining and the air was cool and salty. When all was quiet,
he could even hear the waves against the shore. Beach life was good.

“Hey, man. How’s it going?” his neighbor asked.

The man stood in the shade of a palm tree waving at him. He wore board shorts and
no shirt, standard dress code for these parts. Rob’s neighbors were pleasant enough,
old hippies who made a living painting murals and teaching tourists how to surf.

“Good, thanks,” he answered.

He put the bags down on his front porch while fumbling with his keys. He could feel
his neighbor’s eyes on him.

“Groceries?” the guy asked. “Man, I’m starving.”

Rob nodded and slid his key into the lock. Was he supposed to offer him some groceries
or invite him over for dinner? He didn’t know protocol for curing the munchies of
your stoner neighbor. Once inside, he found comfort in the distance between them,
no longer responsible for his side of their awkward conversation.

New to the city, and the West Coast, Rob Nettles found himself out of sorts. He had
moved for work, transferred for a more advantageous position. He hadn’t thought twice
about leaving his former home behind.

He’d settled himself into a small beach neighborhood within the city, trying to mingle
among the locals. The community was home to free spirits who supported only local
businesses and were sympathetic to its large vagrant population. In the four weeks
he’d been there, he’d become addicted to authentic Mexican food and learned to identify
the best places for imported beer. That was the extent of his adaptation.

At sunset, he walked the short block to the beach. Content to just sit in the sand
and watch the sun drop into the water, Rob knew he had it good. He wondered if the
people who had been here for years still felt the appreciation he did. He couldn’t
imagine ever taking this for granted. This city felt alive, like the thriving metropolis
knew him and welcomed him.

He’d called some of the biggest cities in the country home, but this place was different.
The Pacific Ocean calmed him, and the energy of the city fed him. He knew it wouldn’t
be long until he assumed the way of life here. With its laissez-faire attitude and
persuasive charm, he’d be a fool not to.

Mississippi, the place of Rob’s childhood, was an alternate universe compared to the
white sand beaches of California. Back home, the oppressive summer’s heat and humidity
could melt you to the sidewalk. Meanwhile, San Diego always offered a cool breeze
and moderate temperatures. Rob had traded his boots for flip-flops, his hat for a
messy haircut, and his bluegrass for reggae. Still, each day he returned home to the
empty apartment, he felt like he hadn’t exactly found where he fit in.

That was, until he’d found a woman by the name of Monica Templeton. Within a matter
of minutes, she’d turned his world upside down, making him abandon all reason. He
let down his guard and pulled her inside. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This doesn’t
happen in real life, not this fast.

Twenty-four hours after their first encounter, he knew he’d never been more wrong.
It happens. And it had happened to him.

*   *   *

After spending that first night on the couch with Josie, Tristan hadn’t stepped foot
outside her apartment. He’d called work, citing a family emergency, and stayed for
two more days. They did nothing more than talk and sleep, and sometimes he’d watch
her sketch things in her notebook while he read. Most of their time together had been
spent telling stories of their past. For so long those memories had been pushed into
the background of his mind. It invigorated him to relive those happy scenes, playing
them out for Josie to hear.