Page 28 of The Girl and the Cobra

I do my best to listen to my dad talk about his new job; he’s very chatty, like he’s bottled all this up and was waiting to see me again to tell me all the hot gossip of his warehouse. Now that he’s getting into the groove of things, his coworkers are opening up more to him and he’s already been invited to two Christmas parties.

Yeah, seems a little excessive with how in-advance the invites are, but what do I know?

“So,” my dad abruptly changes the subject, “I’ve talked all about me. What about you? How are things going here?” He probably was dying to ask me the moment he walked into the house. “You okay?”

I give him my best smile, though by now it does feel rehearsed. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s good.”

Wow. Sounds like I’m back in time and I’m answering my dad’s daily question about how school was. Jordan was the only one who really knew how miserable school was for me. I never wanted to talk about it to anyone else.

My dad matches my smile with one of his own. “That’s good. I miss you at home, but… if this is what’s best for you, then that’s what I want.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I pick up my pizza slice to take a bite as my dad goes to get another piece.

And then, what would you know? The man who’s been avoiding me lately walks out of the hallway and into the kitchen, like he’s going to get himself something to eat. Tristan wears a long-sleeve shirt, its sleeves pulled down to his wrists to hide as many scars as possible. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him wearing a color that’s not black.

My dad sees him after glancing over his shoulder, and he drops the new piece of pizza onto his plate, wipes his hands on his pants, and gets up. He meets Tristan halfway between the dining room and kitchen, and he offers him his hand. “I’m Mike, Mabel’s dad.”

Tristan’s brown eyes flick between me and my dad, and he’s slow in shaking my dad’s outstretched hand. “Tristan,” he whispers. I can tell he wants to be anywhere but here; the scars on his skin—on his hands, on his face, on his neck—are individual slices of shame, and he doesn’t like people looking at him.

My dad is the welcoming sort. Even though he doesn’t think Tristan and I should hang out together, he’s still nice enough to invite him over. “Did you eat dinner already?” Tristan’s silence is his answer, causing my dad to add, “Grab a plate. Come on over. Eat with us. I brought two pizzas. Now, I can eat a lot, but there’sno way I can eat that much.” He returns to the table and gestures for Tristan to follow him.

I’m torn between being hurt that Tristan has ignored me the past few days and excited that I finally have an excuse to talk to him again.

I look over my shoulder at Tristan again, and I meet his eyes. I don’t say a single word; I don’t need to. The moment our stares meet, Tristan sighs and says, “Okay.”

After getting a bottle of water and a plate for himself, Tristan joins us. He sits next to me, diagonal from my dad. I bite the inside of my cheek when he brushes against my arm to reach for the nearest pizza box.

My dad watches him with a slightly wary expression. I can tell he’s trying not to stare at the scars on Tristan’s face. “So, Tristan, how long have you been a patient of Dr. Wolf’s?” Trying to make polite conversation, but it comes out sounding awkward.

“A little while,” Tristan says.

“He seems like a good man, a good therapist,” my dad goes on.

A few seconds pass before Tristan mutters, “Yeah, sure.” It’s obvious he’s not feeling very talkative when it comes to my dad, and I can’t blame him. My dad and his awkward questions aren’t helping the situation.

My dad doesn’t seem to realize his questions aren’t too welcome, because he asks, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six” is his answer, and that’s news to me. I knew Tristan was a bit older than me, but I didn’t know he was eight years older. That’s… quite a few—although it’s not his age that should make me pause; it’s what he did, the people he killed.

“Twenty-six,” my dad echoes as he leans back in his chair. His gaze flicks to the ceiling as his eyes cloud over. “I remember when I was twenty-six. I was dating your mother. To this day, Istill feel like she was so out of my league. When I first asked her out, I didn’t think she’d say yes.” He smiles as his eyes fall to me, and I can instantly tell he’s lost in a memory.

He misses Mom. I do, too. Maybe things would be easier if she would have decided to stick around.

But she didn’t. She took the quickest way out when life proved to be too much for her.

The emotions must be too much for him. In the next moment, my dad stands, excuses himself, and hurries to the nearby patio door. He steps outside and shuts the door, giving himself some privacy as he wrangles his inner turmoil back into submission.

And that leaves Tristan and I alone at the table. I want to say it doesn’t feel weird, but it does, and I can’t ignore the fact that Tristan ran away from me the moment I told him about my brother. My feelings are hurt, as childish as it might sound.

I don’t look at him when I say, “You don’t have to be here, you know. You can get up and go. My dad was just being nice.” I try not to sound too upset or bitter, but with each sentence I speak I fail.

Though I don’t stare directly at him, I can see him angle his head toward me, and I feel his scrutiny seconds after. Tristan’s voice is quiet but serious when he says, “You’re upset.”

“No.” I shake my head a bit, but even I can tell the denial is half-hearted.

“You are. You’re upset with me.”

Hearing him say it, I finally turn my head towards him and meet his brown stare. “Fine. I am,” I admit with a shrug. “I thought—I don’t know. We were having a moment or something. I was telling you about my brother and then you… you just ran away.” I swallow hard. “If you didn’t want to hear about it, you could have just told me. Believe it or not, I don’t like talking about Jordan, either.”

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