|
Second Impressions 2
AUTHOR: The Corrupter
His father, tall and stately, came to an abrupt stop just as Tristan walked through the front door. Following his father’s lead, Tristan also stopped in mid-stride and stared back. The driver hovered behind him, dragging the suitcase. The dainty clicks of heels against the marble foyer floor announced his mother’s entrance.
“You’re home early,” his father stated, not sounding at all surprised.
Tristan didn’t comment, knowing it was useless to point out that his father had been the one to book his flight back to Hartford. He took in his parents’ semi-formal wear, suddenly aware that they were heading out for the evening. The fact that they were barely staying long enough to welcome him back home did not surprise him. The minor detail that did amuse him was the observation that they weren’t headed out the door amidst a flurry of heated debate and antagonism. Maybe things had improved while he had been secreted away on Eton grounds.
His father turned to his mother. “Let’s go,” he said, brusquely.
Or maybe not.
His father brushed past him on his way out the door, managing to pause only to give a satisfied nod at Tristan’s well-kempt appearance. “Son,” he greeted.
His mother followed his father, slipping by him, her expression slightly more welcoming than her husband’s. “Don’t stay out too late, and don’t slouch,” she tsked, giving him a critical once-over. Tristan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his mother’s attempt to be somewhat maternal, but he offered her a half-hearted attempt to stand straighter. “Don’t forget,” she continued, absently, “Both your father and grandfather are expecting you to attend the holiday functions this year. We do not want a repeat of last year.” She reached out and straightened his collar with a perfunctory wave of her perfectly manicured fingers. Then, placing a careless kiss on his cheek, she breezed past him.
Tristan waited until his parents and the driver left before resuming his slouched posture. He glanced disdainfully at his suitcase, left by the foot of the grand spiral staircase. Leave it to his father to treat him more like a third mouth than a son, and leave it to his mother to remind him of his social obligations. As the only grandson of Janlen DuGrey, he wasn’t merely asked to attend; it was required of him. Not that he would opt to skip this year’s grand festivities. After all, he had returned home primarily for this reason, mind set on the one self-assigned mission he had yet to complete. If he didn’t do something soon, his self-imposed mantra of time, space, and distance would become not only reality, but also an impenetrable barrier, resulting in the definitive division between what might have been, and what should have been. Although he would never publicly admit them, there were already too many things in his young life that he regretted. At some point in his life, he realized that he had to stop coasting through life and actually begin living it. Now, after two years, he was no longer willing to accept failure.
Not like last year.
“Are you coming?”
His mother glided by him in a cloud of lush fur and expensive perfume. He played with his watch, twisting the band painfully around his wrist in a nervous gesture. He didn’t know where he had picked up the odd quirk, but the pinch of skin allowed his mind to focus on the matter at hand rather than aimlessly drifting off to where his heart would inevitably experience the dreaded heaviness he was all too familiar with whenever he was back in Hartford. He contemplated his mother’s offhand question. Did he want to go? Of course. Was he going to go?
He had debated with himself all week, ever since he had first returned home after starting at Eton. Just when he had been on the verge of definitively making up his mind, but his old friends had managed to distract him with a well-timed phone call. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to hanging out with his friends. Spending the evening leering at girls dressed in skimpy outfits, and generally wreaking havoc in ways that they were often predisposed to, had suddenly seemed pointless to him at that moment. But given the choice of being forced to attend a lavish party thrown by his grandfather’s old friends, or mindlessly passing a night in the drunken stupidity of his Chilton friends, he chose the path leading fastest away from her.
It had always been the easiest choice. Had she remained a mere object of potential conquest, he might have felt differently, but there was no denying it. Somewhere along the line, she had stopped being that, and even he had a difficult time explaining why, how, and when that event had occurred. He supposed a confession of his true feelings -- if whatever those tumultuous and confusing thoughts banging around in his head could be called that -- would most likely elicit pity rather than affection. Especially now that he knew exactly how she felt about him. Turning the other way as quickly as humanly possible, without running the risk of emotionally and mentally hurting himself any more than was necessary, had become the simplest solution. He hated it, and consequently himself, knowing that on some level, when it came to her, he had been easily converted into a cowardly pile of mush.
He hadn’t been ready to see her, even though it had been months since they had last come face to face. Plenty of times that week, he had sat dazedly behind the wheel of his car, forgetting exactly why he had placed himself there, before flashing onto the memory of thick brown silky hair, pale ceramic complexion, and piercing blue eyes. With these angelic visions floating through his head, his mind naturally wandered back in time to the day she had spurned him, running back to her asinine boyfriend. The action had ultimately resulted in his decision to flee the potential suffocation he would have undoubtedly faced if forced to share the same Chilton hallways with her. Instead of facing her again on those premises, he had chosen the much more pragmatic option of distancing himself from her, especially when he had nothing to do with her happiness. And as much as he wished to erase that second image of her rejection of him from the inner recesses of his mind, it was indelibly blazoned there. Unfortunately, the two memories went hand in hand.
It was too soon to even dare ask her forgiveness for the ills he had showered on her. And rather than stand there lost and helpless at a party thrown by her grandparents, under the scrutiny of her ever-disdainful watch, he spent the night with his friends, patrolling their old haunts, partying with other friends, and reliving his old carefree and conceited lifestyle. He needed time. More time. Even though he had initially believed that one year away from the source of his heartache might have been enough to stem it. He was wrong. Always, it seemed, when she had anything to do with it. But through desperation, he was willing to give her space, even if she didn’t know he had returned to Hartford, and probably wouldn’t even care if she had been aware of it.
At the appointed time, the radio turned on by itself, blaring the newest overplayed hit single of the month. It was such a routine morning wake-up call that he didn’t even bother to roll over in bed, preferring to wait patiently for his roommate to take care of the offensive device. Only after a few minutes, nothing happened and Tristan groaned, ears ringing with the frivolous song lyrics and the tip of his tongue prepping an insulting slur to sling at Simon. As he rolled over, his head peeking out from under the dark blue comforter, a ray of cheerful winter sunlight assaulted his senses, bathing the delicate membrane of his closed eyelids in a sea of blood red. He had forgotten to pull the curtains before bed.
Grumbling, he slowly opened one eye, squinting into the relentless sunlight. Happy sunlight. Mocking sunlight. And he remembered where he was. There was no Simon. There was no Eton. There was no blissful isolation. It was four days before Christmas. Two days before the highly anticipated Gilmore holiday bash. He was back home in the safety and comfort of Hartford, Connecticut – just an easy half-hour drive from…
The radio continued into another annoying song, blasting a cacophony of drums and guitar riffs. Tristan blinked and stared at it. How many times had he woken up in this very manner? Before grudgingly getting dressed and heading for the sanctity of Chilton halls, prepared to rule over his dominion with an easy wink and charming smile. When was the last time he had been able to do that without experiencing a foreign pang of wistfulness and despair, while simultaneously attempting to search -- no, practically begging -- for a glimpse of Rory’s head in the crowded halls? Exactly when had the familiar become so heartbreakingly desolate?
Not wanting to dwell on any past, nausea-inducing thoughts before getting out of the cozy comfort of bed, he flicked a quick finger out to shut off the radio. Then groaning one more time, he shimmied off the bed and headed for the shower, shedding the thin white T-shirt he had slipped on the night before, and shuffling off to his private bathroom, mindless of the overhanging length of his navy pajama bottoms.
He would have liked to have news of her from his grandfather or parents, but none was forthcoming. They didn’t know her, not really. And they didn’t know he cared, enough for them to bother paying attention to the Gilmore granddaughter. Not that he would have asked. To do so would have drawn undue and unwanted attention to himself, and knowing his father’s temperament and mother’s disposition, it would not have fared well. He might have gotten away with prying at his grandfather’s keen sense of perception and observation, but again, the endless teasing sure to come from that sector, not to mention the possibility of leaks to random Gilmore members, was an unpleasant risk. It would do him no good for anyone to know that he had been clandestinely asking about Rory. While he would have liked Rory to know that he was back in Hartford again, there was something distasteful about her discovering that he wanted her to know.
Yet, he was curious for information. Up to the point where he had, on the way back from their carousing, stopped the car across the street from the Gilmore party and stared glumly at the festive lights. As his engine idled, he wondered whether Rory was in the great house and if Dean was standing beside her. Did he have his arm around her? Was he kissing her under conveniently placed mistletoe? Did he really need these disgusting visions running through his head? It finally took his friends’ sharp remonstrance to break his reverie. And as he sped back down the street, it took superhuman effort to erase the gut-wrenching image of Dean and Rory, deliriously happy together.
His parents had gone out again, leaving him to his own devices. He normally wouldn’t have minded, rushing out himself to seek out his own friends. But things had changed. After more than a year away at school, he had discovered that while he still enjoyed the company of his childhood friends, he couldn’t quite seem to fall back into his old wanton ways. There was something discomfiting about that inability to revert back to the Tristan he used to be, and he wasn’t sure if all the blame could be placed on Rory. He imagined that being abroad might have changed him, and hopefully for the better. Simon, if it was possible, was even more of a cad than he was, and somehow over the past year or so of knowing him, Tristan had found himself in the inexplicable position of having to keep his roommate grounded. The experience only hinted at the natural progression of developing maturity in him. Not that it mattered. For some reason, it was disheartening to think that if his parents didn’t even bother to make note of it, why would Rory even care. And if Rory didn’t care, what was the point anyway.
The shrill ring of the hall phone cut into his thoughts, unpleasantly reminding him that he was standing like an idiot in the middle of the foyer. Muttering to himself, he snuck a look around to make sure no one had caught him standing there before reaching for the phone. He immediately recognized the voice as belonging to one of those friends he would have called as soon as he returned home, ready to wreak havoc – had it been another time, in what felt like so long ago. Only now, he didn’t think he had the heart or the patience to revel in his friend’s base idea of fun. It wasn’t that he had turned into a serious-minded scholar. He was far from that, but his entire week had been spent planning on what he would say, what he would do, and how he would react when he finally came face to face with Rory. For some unfathomable reason, he felt spent, exhausted, with the strange urge to repent for his old deeds. And if he didn’t stay focus, allowed himself to be dragged into whatever his friends’ ideas of fun were, it would be all too easy to do exactly what he had done the year before – lose his nerve and run away.
There was something pathetic about hiding away in the sterile atmosphere of the large, empty house. Tristan wasn’t used to not being the center of attention; people normally gravitated towards him, unconsciously appointing him their leader or icon of worship. And despite his reluctance to fully re-ensconce himself back into his old ways, he wouldn’t have minded hanging out with his friends again. Even though there was no little degree of backstabbing inherent in such a social circle, there was also a persistent degree of loyalty in these tenuous relationships. After all, who else could they relate to except another who had been raised in the same environ. Before he knew it, he had agreed to tour Hartford and its vicinities with his friend.
He didn’t know how they ended up there. He supposed it was similar to how he would inexplicably find himself in his car, pulling out of the driveway and heading in the general direction his heart knew best, only to turn around before he could get very far. At his most absentminded best, he had gotten halfway there, retracing the path he knew so well even though he had only traveled it once before – when he had gone directly to Rory, hoping for a glimpse of her before he left for his cross-Atlantic trip. That day, years ago, he had been under some strange and peculiar spell, desperately hoping that if he did happen to run into her, she might have had the foresight to run up to him and ask him to stay. If she had, he would not have hesitated to do what she asked of him. Tristan, however, did not believe in miracles, and the event he had scripted in his head never came to fruition. He had left Stars Hollow, dejected. A few days later, he had been on that damn plane to Eton. It was inevitable that no matter how close he got to her, he would turn back or go another way. That time, and all the times since he had returned to Hartford, had not occurred any differently. Until now.
After picking up his friend, they had driven aimlessly around Hartford, revisiting their familiar haunts, from back when Tristan had practically been the poster child of elite Hartford society. Somehow, without knowing it, they had emerged onto the highway and heedlessly let the road take them where it would. His friend had no idea that Tristan had been driving under another’s influence, and had Tristan known ahead of time that he would end up where they did, he would have taken the effort to stay well within Hartford boundaries.
“What are we doing here?” his friend asked, slumped in the passenger seat. He fiddled with the radio dials, bored.
“Just getting some coffee,” Tristan informed, under his breath. While he had been at school, he had started drinking gallons of the addictive beverage. It seemed right, and oddly, an indirect way to connect with Rory on some transient, superficial level. The aroma of a fresh brew now worked wonders to calm him. Still, his hands currently gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white under the exertion, even as his palms grew damp with nervousness. He wasn’t sure whether it was the overload of caffeine ingestion or the anticipation of perhaps catching a glimpse of Rory that made his body react in this manner.
As he slowly steered the car down the main street, eyes flickering around as if searching for a parking space, he scanned the immediate region for Rory’s familiar figure. Annoyed, he punched the radio off, hoping that if his eyes managed to deceive him that he would be able to at least catch a note of Rory’s light musical voice or playful laughter. He had only been to Stars Hollow once before, but there was a familiarity to it as if he had lived there his entire life. His only trip there had been short, lasting only long enough for him to see Rory hurrying down the street with a friend. Two days after that, he had found himself strapped into a first class seat on the way to London. Yet, he recognized the dance studio, the grocery store… even the hardware store that wasn’t a hardware store. All these he took in once more, their quaint quirks and small town whimsies breathing life back into him. Perhaps if he stared long enough, or wished hard enough, Rory would come around the corner and…
“There’s a spot over there.”
His friend’s jaded voice jarred Tristan back to the present moment. Tristan stared briefly at his friend, and then at the vacant spot his friend had been kind enough to point out. It was tempting to park and roam around Stars Hollow looking for her, but he didn’t think she would believe his innocent explanation for why he was there in the first place, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate being caught off guard. He himself didn’t want their first meeting since he left to be cast under such suspicions. Had he been by himself, he might have chosen differently, but there was no way he could make his friend understand his motives. Despite the fact that he no longer considered himself an active member of Hartford circles, and even though he no longer attended Chilton, he was acutely aware of the gossip that would persist behind his back in his absence.
He stared forlornly out the window for another minute. “Let’s just go,” Tristan sighed, feeling defeated. Jaw clenched and face staring fixedly straight ahead, he pulled out into the flow of traffic.
His friend noticed the change in his demeanor and tone of voice, but did not comment on the obvious. “I thought you wanted coffee,” he reminded, eyebrow raised in a quizzical expression.
Tristan only frowned and shook his head. “Forget it.” Deftly maneuvering the compact sports car through the maze of roads, he floored the gas pedal as soon as they entered the highway and joined the rush of traffic heading away from Stars Hollow.
His friend rolled his eyes. “Man, DuGrey, what’s wrong with you? Ever since you left and came back, you’ve become weirder.”
Tristan didn’t bother to meet his friend’s accusing look, instead muttering, “Shut up.”
“It’s not like you have another appointment or something,” his friend shot back.
“I don’t have an appointment, but I heard you might be free…”
The man glanced up from his large hardcover book, startled. Immediately, a welcoming grin replaced the look of surprise. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” It was meant as a friendly reminder of Tristan’s past insistence that the transfer to a different school was the best possible decision he could make – a decision the man had vehemently disagreed with.
The boy wisely chose not to respond to the teasing jab. They had gone over all the pros and cons years ago, and he was not about to concede defeat, especially when there was none to admit to. Yet. And hopefully never. He entered the room, every step a haunting reminder of all the emotional turmoil he had experienced within those four walls not too long ago. While his tread was decidedly much lighter this time around, he was heedful of the fact that none of those issues had actually been resolved. Returning to the scene of his confessions was opening himself to all sorts of retrospective berating and regrets, but it was a chance he was willing to take. Out of all the people he had spoken to about his growing feelings for Rory, unexplainable as he believed they were, this man was the only one who had tried to understand him and help him. It was a pointless concession, however, when Tristan allowed himself to remember that this man was in fact, the only one he had opened himself to.
“Your secretary said you’d be free for a little bit, so I thought I’d drop by and let you know that not everything was a loss.” He plopped down onto the sofa without ceremony, slumping into the cushions with a confident smirk. At the moment, he was a perfect facsimile of that Tristan DuGrey the man was originally introduced to – the one who had willfully participated in a face-off before permitting any insight into his thought processes.
“I always have time for a friend,” the man informed, cheerfully.
Tristan chuckled. How many times had they debated the use of that word? “You’re my therapist,” he remarked, just as charmingly.
“Are you paying for this visit?”
“No,” Tristan answered, without missing a beat.
“Then you’re a friend.” The man met Tristan’s twinkling blue eyes, daring him to challenge him. He didn’t, and they shared a knowing look. It was easier to maintain the lighthearted rhythm of the conversation as long as they didn’t question Tristan’s real intention for unexpectedly showing up. It was better to pretend that Tristan had merely stopped by to visit with his former therapist. It was better if they didn’t touch on the reasons why he had needed a therapist in the first place. “So how is your self-imposed exile? Has it been everything you hoped it would be?” The man raised a brow, playing with his choice of words.
Tristan cracked a grin and shrugged, cavalierly. “I’m having a good time. The weather’s nice. The people are friendly. The girls are pretty. But the Eton curriculum is a challenge.”
“And without the same Chilton…distractions.” The man paused to gauge Tristan’s reaction.
As always, Tristan was aware of the underhanded action. “You can say that,” he replied, flippantly.
“And is it still a… distraction?”
Tristan flustered at the continued use of that particular word to refer to the one person who had managed to flip his world upside-down. And even though he objected to the word, it described her perfectly. Until they managed to actually speak and confront each other… until he actually managed to make public his feelings for her, she would always remain a distraction in his life. He had not come prepared to discuss Rory, even though he subconsciously knew the topic would surface during his visit. And in a way, his decision to check up on this man had been based on the secret hope that the man would bring up the subject and in some trivial manner, reassure him that he would be all right. He needed to hear it. Especially now.
“I… uh… I don’t know.” It was the truth, and he knew it was pointless to even try to lie.
“Are you happy not knowing?”
Tristan bit his lower lip, the good-natured flow of the conversation immediately burdened with unresolved issues. He had wanted to avoid rehashing history, but he was afraid to admit that had he truly felt that way, he would have skipped this impromptu meeting all together. Similar to the way Rory unknowingly kept intriguing him and pulling him back in, he was also under this man’s spell. He was drawn by this man’s unique ability to make him face whatever unknown territory he was reluctant to enter, yet powerless to turn away from.
He shrugged again. “My grandfather wants us to go to the holiday party her grandparents are throwing.”
“And?”
“And what?” Tristan asked, unable to hide the defensive edge in his voice. Realizing the betrayal of his carefully regulated emotions, he licked his lips slowly, affecting a lazy smile to cover up his slip.
“Will you be conveniently busy that night? Or… perhaps, just maybe… will you see if the past few months have been beneficial or a huge cowardly exercise in wasting time?”
Tristan threw him a dirty look, but did not answer the question. “You make an awful therapist,” he noted, wryly.
The man only smiled. “I’m speaking as a friend.”
The statement elicited an eye-roll from Tristan, who glanced around the room in an attempt to escape the man’s intense scrutiny. The man hadn’t altered a thing in his office. It was comforting in a way, although Tristan didn’t know if he was upset that the only two things to remain constant in his life was Rory’s affect on him, and this man. The fact that he could still recall every object in the room in relation to the time spent hashing out his problems with this man – there was the window he had stood at when he confessed that he had used Paris, and there was the book that he had stared at, pretending not to hear when the man had questioned his feelings for Rory -- jarred him, breaking his train of thought. Or perhaps, he was just stalling, trying to figure out whether to lie or to tell the truth, and whether he himself would be able to differentiate between the two.
“I’m going… to… go.” Even he could do nothing to hide the doubt and uncertainty inherent in his voice. Truth? Lie? There was no way of knowing for certain until he was actually there at the party. Or not.
“Are you?” The man raised a disbelieving brow, remembering how much the tick irritated Tristan.
“Don’t believe me?” Tristan mocked, returning the look of wry amusement.
The other man shrugged. “Not until you’re actually there.”
Tristan blinked, blankly. The man had always had the unnerving ability to voice out loud Tristan’s own conflicting thoughts. “I’m going.” It was said with a firm conviction he wasn’t exactly sure he felt.
“Okay.”
Tristan glared at him for his dismissive tone. Then after some consideration, his face softened with a relenting sigh. “It’s not like I can get away with never seeing her again. Our grandparents are friends. Even if I don’t go to their party, my grandfather is also throwing a New Year’s bash, and her grandparents always come.” He paused, then after a slight hesitation, continued. “And they’ll probably bring her,” he added, including an offhand wave of his hand, a gesture meant to offset the gravity of his statement.
“But it’s not certain,” the man prodded.
Tristan smirked, as if he were dealing with a child. “Nothing’s ever guaranteed.”
His look of pleased triumph was soon deflated by the man’s response. “Much like you showing up at her party.”
“It’s not her party,” Tristan managed to correct, without stumbling around his words. “But I think it’ll be good.”
“What?”
“To see her again…” Tristan paused and chewed on his lip, a worried expression beginning to spread across his youthful features. He glanced up and met the man’s eyes. “Don’t you?” He wished the question had left his lips with the prerequisite sarcasm, but instead, he only came off sounding like a little child needing reassurance.
The man pondered the question for a brief minute, before carefully voicing his opinion. “I thought it would have been good for you to see her before you left.”
Tristan shook his head, dismissively, ignoring that old conversation. “I’m talking about now, not ancient history.” Another pause before repeating his initial statement to himself. “I think it’ll be good.”
“If you think so,” the man answered, dubiously.
“I do.” Tristan nodded to himself, reassuring himself that his own assessment of the situation was correct. When he saw the man looking at him contemplatively and unsure, he felt the need to explain his rationalization. “I’ll see her, and that’ll be it. It was just a phase. A lack of better judgment. A momentary case of boredom. A fleeting, loss of sanity,” he insisted. “When I see her, she’ll know it; I’ll know it. And that’ll be it. She’ll go back to her boyfriend…” He faltered over the word, but gracefully caught himself and continued without missing a beat. “Then I’ll get on the plane and go back to school. If we ever meet again in a few years, we’ll have a good laugh over it, and that’ll…”
“Be it?” Another lifting of the brow. He didn’t mention how it sounded more like a desperate attempt for Tristan to convince himself than an offer of explanation for his reasoning.
Tristan winced, then glared at him. “No need to mock,” he informed, acerbically.
The man was a picture of innocence, even as he ignored the glare. “I’m not. You do realize that in order for it to happen the way you’ve envisioned it, you’ll actually have to see her again. By nature of the fact that you will both be at the same party, at the same time, you won’t be able to avoid that first meeting where you renew your acquaintances.”
Tristan sniffed, slightly offended. “I’m not going to avoid her.”
The man nodded, casually, as if in agreement. “It sounds like you might. What are you afraid of? You just run into her, say ‘hi, remember me… the guy who made your life a living hell?’ Then you turn on your heels and run out of the room.”
Tristan rolled his eyes at the man. “Very funny. I think you missed your calling. You should have been a comedian.”
The man chuckled. “You are afraid of seeing her again. Don’t even try to deny it, because when I called you on it, you didn’t even bother to defend yourself. You merely responded by lashing out at me with sarcasm.”
“Seriously. You can make a killing on the stand-up circuit.” Tristan glared at him. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to come by, after all.
“What are you afraid of?” the man asked again, voice lowered, informing Tristan that this time he was not teasing.
Tristan squirmed in his seat. “Nothing,” he mumbled, not sounding at all convincing.
The other man nodded to himself. “You’re afraid that she still hates you,” he prompted.
“She doesn’t hate me,” Tristan corrected, even though there was no way for him to know for sure. “She just doesn’t… like me much… and I’m afraid that she didn’t even realize that I was gone for over a year. That’s about how high I rate on her register.” Tristan frowned.
The man made a noise, but refrained from commenting immediately. Seeing the crestfallen expression on his charge’s face, he tried to provide some hope to the glum teenager. “All right, so the last time the two of you spoke, you made a mess of things.” The reminder, spoken so inconsiderately, elicited a flash of irritation in Tristan’s eyes. “Maybe she forgot.”
A humorless chuckle escaped from between Tristan’s lips. “Doubtful. Rory might forgive, but she never forgets. She’ll remember my wonderful personality once she sees me again, and then where do I go from there?”
“It’s never too late to make a first impression,” the man offered, helpfully.
Tristan snorted. “What? Are you auditioning for some shampoo commercial?”
“I’m just saying. It’s never too late,” he repeated, chuckling.
But Tristan’s smile had lost its humor. “And if it is?” he asked, earnestly.
There was the slightest of pauses. “Then you work on the second impression.”
He considered visiting, or at least calling, the man who had seen him through much of his trials and tribulations his last year at Chilton – Rory’s first. But the last time he had done that, the man had perceived that Tristan would back out of his vow to see Rory again. And even though Tristan swore he wouldn’t… he had. Now, he didn’t want to hear the gloating in the man’s voice. After all, he had seen the folly of Tristan’s choice in going off to school, away from Rory. At the time, he hadn’t listened to the advice, set in his own ways, too scared to acknowledge that the man might have been right. Often at strange hours of the day, while studying in his dorm room or sitting in an Eton classroom, he would find himself wondering whether it would have been better to have stayed and confronted the consequences of his actions. Even if it meant having to face Rory everyday, not knowing whether that day’s expression would be one of pity, disdain, or indifference.
In the end, despite all the assurances and everything he had told him, Tristan had skipped the Gilmore holiday party. Yet, he wanted nothing more than to hear at least something about Rory. Had she been there? Had she been alone? How did she look? Had anyone informed her that he was back in town? Was she disappointed when he hadn’t shown? Did she even care?
He had promised himself that he would assuage his curiosity by going to his grandfather’s New Year party even though he had usually found ways to be excused from attending. This year, however doubtful it might be, there was an off chance that Rory would be present. Still, there was safety in that doubt. As long as there was a possibility that she wouldn’t be there, he found that it made him stress less about the impending meeting. Especially since he had managed to skip the holiday party when he had explicitly promised both himself and his therapist that he would be in attendance. He would have preferred to remain ignorant as to whether she would be there. Only by chance did he overhear his grandfather and father mentioning Richard Gilmore and his prodigious granddaughter. His grandfather had mentioned looking forward to seeing the remarkable young lady at the New Year’s party. The elder DuGrey had also expressed the hope of Tristan becoming acquainted with her, a sentiment to which his father had scoffed at. Tristan was capable of finding his own girlfriends without his grandfather’s aid. Tristan, who had been passing the door of his father’s study, had overheard everything, and it had taken extreme effort, in a somewhat startling second of impulsive behavior, to keep from inserting himself into the private conversation and soliciting his grandfather’s help. He managed not to make a spectacle out of himself in front of his father, already determined to face her at his grandfather’s party.
Except when the week passed, Tristan had begged out of going, citing unrest and illness. His mother had been displeased, but he hadn’t cared. His father had been furious at his unwillingness to fulfill his DuGrey social obligations, and yet, he still hadn’t cared. His grandfather had been disappointed, resulting in a momentary pang of guilt. Still, it was not enough to get him out the door and to his grandfather’s manor. For some reason, it didn’t seem right that after so long, his first meeting with Rory should occur in the middle of a party, under a hundred watchful eyes.
He was more than willing to spend the night by himself, but being alone with his thoughts had been more unpleasant than he anticipated. Before he could change his mind and rush after his parents, his friends had shown up, ready to initiate Tristan back into his old ways, reintroducing him to the rules of that familiar game he had mastered long ago. Before she had unknowingly encouraged him to change, to want more than superficial rewards. Except, without her guidance, invisible and tenuous as it was, he was helplessly lost. So when the clock struck midnight, he invariably found himself wrenched into two slender arms that did not belong to Rory, lips attached to a girl who could never be Rory, and his body and mind still clinging to the idea that it could have been Rory. The act made his stomach roll afterwards, his body reacting with a retching sensation that made him think that maybe he hadn’t been stretching the truth after all when he had originally feigned illness.
In the end, he had returned across the span of an ocean, still longing, still pained, still scared. On the flight back, he had been sullen and regretful, upset with himself and treating those around him with a petulant air of self-loathing. But as soon as he stepped foot on Eton soil once again, the heavy heart lessened to the point where he could carry the burden without taking it out on everyone around him, becoming once again, self-contained. Without any reminders of her at school or even anyone who knew about her, he could at least pretend that he wasn’t still preoccupied with her.
Tristan glanced briefly, almost shyly, at his reflection in the mirror. Had he changed? He didn’t think so, yet his grandfather had seemed mildly amused when he had first seen him the other day. As if Tristan had undergone a transformation of some sort that only he was aware of. The startled gleam in his grandfather’s eyes had then been instantly replaced by a teasing sparkle and confident suggestion that Tristan feel well enough this year to attend his friend’s long held Christmas party, and possibly grace his own guests at the New Year’s bash. Ashamed, Tristan had muttered a few incomprehensible words before escaping out the door.
Even though he still felt unready to meet her again, he had sworn that this was the year. After all, there was only so much time he could give himself to prepare for the inevitable. And it wasn’t just inevitable, an event that he would be forced to undergo. He actually wanted it to happen. Underneath the anxiety that more than a year away had not changed things and he would irrevocably revert back to the behavior of the consummate jackass, once again reminding her of how miserable he made her, he was actually looking forward to seeing her again. Matching wits with her always excited him, and even if things did not work out the way he frantically hoped they would, at least that one thing would stay constant and wholly theirs. Besides, who knew? He couldn’t even be sure he felt the same towards her, or if she still wielded the same power over him. It had been over a year, and he was afraid that his feelings were still founded on first impressions on his part, and nothing more. Absence made the heart grow fonder, and without contact in so long, though a few times so close in proximity, he might have foolishly attributed to her even more influence than was her due.
Sighing, Tristan stared at the mirror, deciding he did not like the young man who stared listlessly back at him. His reflection was pitiable. Gone was the debonair, confident, and charming young man he had once been able to invoke so effortlessly. Here was the pining, brooding version, lost in a haze of doubt and longing. Trying to inject some of his old self into the reflection, he cocked a grin, erasing the pitiful image before him. Feeling somewhat better, he tugged on his tie, the suit fitting him like a second skin.
“Are you coming?” His mother, hidden under a thick velvet wrap, paused at his door and eyed him. The faint quirk of her lips indicated that she was pleased at how he would look in front of all their friends and acquaintances.
Tristan threw himself one last look. Deciding that even Rory would have to admit that he didn’t look too shabby, he felt the comforting and familiar smirk reawaken on his lips. Much better. Even as the cheerful grin was tempered by a worried sheen in his clouded blue eyes. “Yeah,” he sighed, following his mother down the hall and outside to the waiting car.
By the time they pulled past the Gilmore gates, the valets were already busy parking the array of expensive cars that had arrived before them. Tristan held back as his parents preceded him towards the house. If he made a run for it, his parents would have no way of stopping him. There would also be no way to erase the humiliation he would undoubtedly experience if anyone caught him reacting in such a cowardly manner. With his feet dragging, he faced the house, staying steps behind his parents. They entered first, under the sparkling glint of the foyer’s crystal chandelier. Tristan hesitated at the doorway, recalling the last time he had been within the confines of the house. It had been Rory’s birthday party, and things had not gone well between them. What evidence did he have that tonight would be any better?
The thought gnawed at him, leaving an unpleasant acidic feeling in the pit of his stomach. Gathering some inner strength, he took a deep shaky breath before taking the final step into the cozy glow of the Gilmore manor. His eyes immediately went up and out, taking in the expensive chandeliers and the romantic glow of scattered candles. Focusing into the distance, his eyes attempted to search for the face that had been indelibly burned into his memory. It had been so long. Could he even be sure he remembered her correctly? Absently, he slipped out of his coat and handed it to the help standing by the door. As he did so, his mind ran through all of Rory’s qualities. The creamy complexion, cheeks tinted with the rosiest of blushes. Vibrant blue eyes, sparkling with quick-witted intelligence. Long chestnut brown hair, cascading around her shoulders. Full pink lips, ready with a dry, biting retort.
Tristan finally glanced down in his immediate area. And there they were. All those beautiful, heart-stopping features wrapped up in one package, embodied by the person standing before him, her mouth hanging open in quite an unlady-like manner. He would have teased her, already sensing his playful nature surfacing as a result of her presence, but rather, flinched under the stare, conscious that even as he did so, the ever-faithful DuGrey smirk had returned dutifully to grace his lips. Rory flushed, bright red from embarrassment or anger or both, before her mouth snapped shut. She was visibly shaken as she struggled to regain her composure. And when she met his eyes once more, all he saw was fire and heat.
“You.”
|