Page 33 of Where She Belongs
Tristy doesn’t look convinced, but her personal crisis quickly overrides her interest in our sleeping arrangements. Fresh tears spill over as she continues, “I’m sorry, I just... I can’t reach Tyler and I’m freaking out because Kitty said?—”
“What did Kitty say?” Andrea’s voice turns sharp, and I feel a matching surge of irritation.
“She said that it’s normal for guys to... that Tyler might... you know, hire strippers and all that.”
“That is not true,” I say with more force than intended, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. Leave it to Kitty to plant seeds of doubt in a bride’s mind the night before her wedding. I’ve seen Tyler with Tristy—the kid is head over heels, has been since they met.
“So why isn’t he answering my texts?” Tristy sobs, her voice cracking. “He always answers my texts and suddenly he isn’t.”
As Andrea pulls her daughter close, I catch her eye over Tristy’s head—a silent communication passing between us. I nod slightlyand move toward the kitchenette. Tea. That’s what Tristy needs. Specifically, the chamomile blend she’s favored since her college days when exam stress would hit. I remember seeing a few packets in the suite kitchenette.
While the water heats, I listen to Tristy’s fears spilling out—the pressure of millions of followers watching, waiting for the perfect wedding, the fear that Tyler might realize she’s not perfect. It’s heartbreaking to hear. This side of influencer life—the constant scrutiny, the unrelenting expectation of perfection—is the part Tristy rarely shows, but I’ve heard Andrea worry about it often enough.
“Everyone’s watching,” she hiccups. “All my followers, waiting for the perfect wedding. But what if it’s not perfect? What if Tyler realizes I’m not perfect?”
I return with the steaming mug, offering it to her as Andrea wipes tears from her daughter’s cheeks with the same gentle touch I’ve seen her use with frightened children at the clinic.
“For what it’s worth,” I say as Tristy accepts the tea with shaking hands, “I was with Tyler earlier. He was talking about how he can’t wait to marry you. How he wants to get the gaming thing done so he can focus on just being with you.”
It’s the absolute truth, though I leave out the part where Tyler had three beers and waxed poetic about Tristy’s eyes for a solid fifteen minutes, making Dax and me exchange amused glances over our drinks.
Her tears continue, but a watery smile breaks through. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm, settling on her other side. “The guy’s crazy about you, kiddo. No stripper could change that.”
As Tristy curls into her mother’s side, sipping her tea and gradually calming, I catch Andrea watching me. There’s something in her expression—a warmth, an appreciation, maybe something more—that makes my pulse quicken. For a moment, everything else fades away—the wedding chaos, the suite, even Tristy’s presence. It’s just Andrea, looking at me like I’ve done something extraordinary when all I’ve done is what comes naturally—support her, support Tristy, be the person they can count on.
“And what if the first dance is a disaster?” Tristy’s voice breaks the moment, pulling us back to her wedding anxieties. “Tyler’s been so busy with gaming competitions, we barely practiced. What if I step on his feet? What if?—”
Her phone buzzes, cutting off what would undoubtedly have been another spiral of wedding fears. Her eyes widen as she reads the screen.
“It’s Tyler!” She sits up straight, frantically wiping at her mascara-stained cheeks. “They got a flat tire on the way to town and ended up in some dead zone. He says they’re back at the hotel now.”
“See?” Andrea says, smoothing Tristy’s hair back from her face in that motherly gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. “No strippers in sight.”
“Just bad luck with tires,” I add, offering a reassuring smile. “And probably worse luck with cell reception on this side of the island.”
The relief on Tristy’s face is palpable, her laugh still watery but genuine. “I feel so stupid now.” She stands, pulling Tyler’s hoodie tighter around her body. “I should go. He says he’s heading to our suite.”
“Good,” Andrea says, walking her to the door for one final hug. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“Thanks, Mom.” She squeezes Andrea tight, then turns to include me in her grateful look. “Sorry for interrupting your... um, night.”
After she leaves, Andrea leans against the closed door, exhaling a long breath that seems to release the tension we’ve both been holding. “That was close. With the sofa bed, I mean.”
“Too close,” I agree, running a hand through my already disheveled hair as I glance at the innocent-looking couch that would have completely blown our cover if Tristy had arrived just five minutes earlier.
“Maybe...” she starts.
“We should...” I say simultaneously.
“Share the bed,” we finish in unison, the synchronicity making us both smile despite the tension lingering in the air.
“Just in case,” she adds quickly, like she needs to justify what we’re both thinking.
“Right,” I nod, relieved she’s reached the same practical conclusion. “In case there’s another emergency.”
“Exactly. We can’t risk...” She gestures vaguely toward the couch, her usual eloquence failing her.
