Page 66 of The Man I Love

A woman with long white hair stepped out onto the porch as they pulled in front of the house. She had on a pink terry-cloth robe tied at her waist and furry mismatched slippers. “I’m guessing that’s Gloria,” Samantha whispered.

“Stay here,” Tristan said as he hopped out to the dirt covered driveway. “I’ll be right back.”

He bound up the steps two at a time, using his phone to illuminate his path, then stopped at the landing in front of her. Next to Tristan, the woman appeared to be four feet tall. Tiny as a button, and possibly about seventy-five years old—yet, she seemed bashful at the mere sight of him. Samantha shook her head, slightly amused, as she wrapped her hoodie a little tighter around her shoulders.

The two carried on with an easy conversation as though old friends, even though Samantha was positive they’d never met before in their lives. Tristan was good at that. He made people feel safe; listened to, and apparently little old women weren’t even immune from his charms.

Soon Gloria’s eyes shifted to the truck, and Samantha sat up a little straighter, meeting her eyes through the windshield. Then her attention drifted to Tristan, and something about the way he smiled at her caused heat to spread over her entire body. Her eyes shifted toward the passenger window, and Sam wondered what they were talking about while simultaneously contemplating what was happening to her body. She’d read about women having an increased libido late in pregnancy, but one look from Tristan made her body forget they were actually broken up.

She tried to gather her thoughts, but who the fuck was she kidding? Her heart was racing a mile a minute. All he’d done was look at her—no—she was lying to herself. It was so much more than that. He’d found her almost naked in a gas station bathroom, swooped her up as though he were Prince Charming without making her feel like a fool.

He was her knight in shining armor in the doctor’s office too, and although he was silent, she felt safe because he was with her. Now he charmed the panties off the little old woman so they would have a place to sleep tonight. So yeah, her body wasmelting as though she’d just entered puberty, and she had no control over it.

A minute later, before she had time to fully calm down, Tristan was back at the truck, climbing in beside her. Every cell in her body felt his presence. Every hair on her arms and legs stood on end.

“Does she have a room?” Samantha asked, hesitantly turning to face him again.

Tristan nodded, “Yep.” Then he shifted todriveand pulled the truck to the side of the driveway. Gloria then came out of the garage a moment later in a light pink golf cart, and they followed her up a hill—passing corn fields which seemed to travel to the ends of earth and orchards that smelled of orange blossoms. Finally, they stopped at a small green cabin a couple miles away, where Gloria hopped out to the dirt-covered path and unlocked the door.

“It’s not much,” she said when they joined her on the small wooden deck, “but the bed is comfortable, and you have your own bathroom.”

She pushed open the door and turned on the light. True to her word, it wasn’t much. Maybe a ten-by-ten room, with a bed in the center that took up almost the entire space. The woman scrunched up her nose and addressed the table, dusting it off with her sleeve. “Sorry.” She coughed. “We don’t have visitors this late in the summer, so I haven’t been out here to clean in quite some time.”

“Thank you, Gloria,” Tristan said, his tone soft and genuine. “It’s perfect.”

Gloria’s cheeks flushed as she angled herself toward the wall. She produced a set of sheets from a cupboard and set them on the mattress. “I did wash the bedding last week,” she told them, then instructed them on how to work the faucet in the bathroomand mentioned the herd of cattle a mile away that sometimes got loose from the neighboring ranch.

She was gone within minutes, leaving Tristan to gather their belongings from the truck. Samantha acquainted herself with the cabin, sure it wasn’t big enough for the both of them. All she could focus on was the single bed in the center of the room. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Bunk beds perhaps. Heat rose up to her cheeks and she forced her attention in the opposite direction.

Tristan was standing behind her, and from the look on his face, he’d been watching her for a while. He placed her toiletry bag on the bed without saying a word, then turned to go out to the truck again––possibly to give her more time, probably because he needed some of his own.

Deciding this was as good a time as any to get ready for bed, she picked up her bag and locked herself into the closet-sized bathroom. She plopped her stuff on the counter, gave herself a little pep talk in the tiny mirror, then washed her face, brushed her teeth, and swept her hair into a ponytail. The shot the doctor had given her earlier had already begun to work. The rash, although still tender, was almost undetectable when she applied the ointment he prescribed.

She unzipped her overnight bag and froze when Tristan’s old T-shirt ended up clenched in her fist. She’d been sleeping in his shirts for nearly a year, but somehow, wearing one tonight felt inappropriate. Digging through her bag, she searched for something else to wear, but aside from her too-short T-shirts, there was nothing. What would he think if he saw her wearing this tonight?

She’d made countless excuses over the past nine months to keep wearing his shirts, but the truth was, they felt like home. This one had been washed so many times that the Nirvana logo was faded—barely visible.

Maybe he wouldn’t even remember it was his to begin with.

“It’s fine,” she whispered to herself, even as her heart began to race as she slipped it over her head. Maybe he wouldn’t pay attention. Maybe it would be too dark––maybe...but she stopped herself, determined not to fret any longer. “It’s only a damned T-shirt,” she mumbled.

When she opened the door a moment later, Tristan was making the bed. He glanced up, paused, then moved to the next corner without saying a word. Sam marveled at how different he was from his sister. Renee couldn’t make a bed to save her life, yet Tristan’s corners could go head-to-head with Martha Stewart’s.

When he stood up, Sam noticed his cheeks were red as he grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his chin. He shimmied the pillowcase up, his jaw tight, as his eyes raked down her entire body.

He recognized the shirt.

She wasn’t sure if he was angry, upset, or something else, but she pretended not to notice as she picked up the quilt and fanned it out over the mattress.

She knew it was a full-sized bed, but somehow knowing she would have to share it with him made it feel minuscule. She worked the sheet up toward the head of the mattress, folded back the edge, then repeated it on the other side.

“Don’t worry,” he said, placing one pillow on her side of the bed. “I’ll sleep in the truck.”

She spun around to face him, but he didn’t say anything more.

“That’s silly,” she finally stated, forcing her shoulders down and back to appear more confident.

His eyes raked over her, and she couldn’t help feeling exposed. “I think it will be better that way,” he finally stated.

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