Page 66 of Our Elliana

TWENTY-EIGHT: It’s Complicated

NOAH

I never receive the extra minutes I need to find out anything about Tristan. I end up scheduled to work back-to-back shifts—including some night shifts—until Thanksgiving Day, which gives me zero free time. It’s only as I’m packing up my stuff to stay at my parents’ place that I cross paths with Tristan while retrieving my load of laundry from the dryer.

“Sorry. Hope I didn’t hold you up,” I say when I find him there with the washer full of his clean but still damp attire. I know it’s his because everything the man owns is black. During another discussion I might ask him about his dreary garment choices—is it a chef thing or a Tristan thing?—but not with him wearing such a disgruntled expression. Tristan grunts his response without meeting my eye. “You feeling better?”

Another noncommittal grunt. I don’t know if he’s been preparing meals again or not because I haven’t been home.

“Good talk,” Jackson remarks from the doorway, his features in their typical sardonic configuration. I didn’t even hear him come in. “There’s the talkative culinary artist we all know and love.”

I purse my lips at Jackson’s interruption. Any chance I might’ve had for unearthing the truth about Tristan being even more circumspect than normal just flew out the window. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t deal with any drama here. Not when I might have another shovel of it once I get to my folks’ place.

The traffic is a bear. They live about an hour outside of the capital, and due to an accident, I wind up trapped inside the city for a solid hour and a half. But once I arrive, everything with my family is all smiles and hugs. I roughhouse a bit with the twins and even get a chance to play hoops with Aaron. But when our Thanksgiving lunch is ready, Mom starts in with the questions.

“So how come we never ever see you, Noah Spencer?”

Fantastic. She’s middle naming me. Sister Amelia is back.

I take a bite, lengthen out how long I chew and swallow.

“Just super busy.” Then, I make the mistake of thinking about how busy I’ve been with Elle and feel my ridiculous cheeks heat.

And, of course, my mother latches onto this like a frog on a buzzing housefly.

“Busy. I see. Are you dating anyone?”

How on Earth can I answer that? I go with a modified version of the truth.

“Kinda sorta.”

“Kinda sorta, huh?” she echoes with a grin. “That sounds fascinating. Will we ever get to meet her?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Her grin only widens at that. Uh-oh.

“I like the sound of that.”

But I shake my head. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

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