Under the Table Page 6

  Zoey smiled and shook her head. “No, it’s the style of jeans. Skinny jeans. Check the tag yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh!” He tapped his forehead with three fingertips in a mock effort to turn on his brain. “Got it. I hope I don’t have to bend over to pick anything up. They feel like they would take my underwear with them.”

  It took real effort to strive for casual and keep her eyes above his neck. “They look pretty good. They’ll get softer. You’ll get used to them. And we’ll pick you out the right kind of belt.”

  Like leather. And long. Long enough to wrap around my wrists and then tie me to a bedpost, with those jeans slipping lower and lower as he does so, until he unzips them. . . .

  Without realizing it, Zoey started biting down on her lower lip.

  “What are you thinking about?” Tristan asked innocently.

  “Um.” Zoey turned her focus back to the racks to hide the telltale blush. “Shirts that will go with it. Why don’t you go try on another pair?”

  He came back out a few minutes later. “I think somebody already wore these and returned them.”

  She bit back a giggle. “Those are what is called the distressed look.”

  “Why? Because you feel dirty and uncomfortable wearing them?”

  “No, silly. The denim is distressed. It’s a process they put the material through to make them appear faded and worn. That’s why it’s mostly on the knees and thighs. Just think of it as the manufacturer breaking them in for you.”

  “If you say so. They are comfy though.”

  This time, Zoey was able to watch him walk back to the dressing room without fear of him catching her.

  They spent the majority of the afternoon in Barneys. Tristan was the ultimate shopping companion. He didn’t balk at any price tag and was willing to try on anything, even the garments he viewed skeptically, such as pants covered in studs or obvious bleach stains. And he was correct in his assessments: the more outrageous things didn’t work for him.

  “I don’t mind distressed, as you call it. I just don’t like sloppy,” he told her, and Zoey agreed. Threadbare patches and strategically placed holes or tears were a little too much fashion for him to handle. Excessively baggy was a no-go as well, and Zoey was fine with that. He had hidden that spectacular physique long enough. Tristan fell in love with long shorts after telling her that all the shorts he owned fell above his knees.

  “You mean like Bermuda shorts?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied seriously. “We got them right in St. Croix. But I don’t know, maybe they were imported.”

  His adorable innocence was endless. In all, he ended up purchasing five pairs of jeans, three pairs of other pants that didn’t settle under his armpits, six pairs of shorts, at least a dozen button-down shirts in various colors and patterns, and a slew of pullovers, polos, and sweaters. She picked out both brown and black leather belts but had no idea how to approach him about underwear, so she didn’t. He even unwittingly indulged her fantasy by letting her pick out a leather jacket for him. They both agreed on a hooded bomber style after he complained about the other ones having too many zippers. Zoey didn’t bother mentioning the other style made him look like a frightened Harley rider . . . or Fonzie. The jokes would likely have been wasted anyway. Zoey courteously stepped away and wandered the racks as he paid the exorbitant Barneys bill, telling him she’d meet him at the men’s fragrance counter.

  “How about an update to your cologne or aftershave?” Zoey asked when he met up with her, both his hands full of shopping bags.

  Tristan grimaced. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to smell like a lady.”

  Zoey smiled to herself, thinking, Baby steps. She was able to talk him into a pomade though, for when he wanted a more updated look to his hair.

  “It’s time to ditch the part down the middle, dude,” she suggested.

  “Do you want to look for anything for yourself?” he asked, adding, “My treat, to thank you for all your help.”

  She could’ve told him a hundred things. Like friends don’t have to reciprocate all the time, and just dressing him was all the treat she should be allowed for one day. Or that what he had paid her the night before was thanks enough. Or that she would rather be dragged behind a cross-town bus than have to model whatever she took into the dressing room, an exercise that would make her more distressed than the jeans he had to be talked into buying. She settled on, “Thanks, but I think I’m all shopped out.”

  “Then can I make you dinner? If you don’t have any other plans, that is.”

  There was such a hopefulness to his voice. Luckily, she didn’t have a job booked.

  “That sounds awesome. I’d love to.”

  “Let’s call my car service. These bags are weighing me down,” he suggested.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Can I borrow your phone? Or maybe Barneys will let me use theirs?”

  “You forgot your phone?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He had just spent so much money that someone from Barneys would’ve been willing to call them a car. Maybe even carry them both home on the salesman’s back. Instead she handed Tristan her phone and thought, This throwback-to-a-simpler-time stuff is getting ridiculous.

  Chapter 7

  If Zoey lived to be a hundred, she doubted she would ever meet someone as courteous as Tristan. With him it wasn’t an act or something he turned on and off. His grandparents had raised him well. He loaded the bags into the car himself and refused help from the doorman when they returned to his apartment.

  Zoey sat on a stool at the island in the kitchen pondering her dilemma while he took his new clothes to his bedroom. When would she tell him about Derek? Should she just spit it out, or mention it in passing? Would he be disappointed in her? Would he put the instant kibosh on their friendship and ask her to leave? Things that others took for granted in this day and age were monumental to him. It wasn’t like neglecting to tell him she got suspended from school for pot smoking or about having her tonsils taken out. She couldn’t even say she was divorced. Whatever the outcome, she would have to face it then come to terms with it. The longer she waited, the worse it would be in the end. If he cooled off their friendship after hearing the news, it would sting. If they truly bonded, it would be heartbreaking, for both of them.

  Music started playing from the overhead speakers. This time it was reggae. Just when Zoey thought she was on the verge of figuring him out, he threw her another surprise.

  When Tristan returned, it was with a bottle of white wine and two long-stem wineglasses.

  “How do you feel about Italian?” He opened a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew, driving the pointy end into the top of the bottle.

  She watched him opening the liquid courage. “Always delicious. Tristan . . .”

  The cork released with a resounding pop. He began to pour half glasses. “It’s just a little glass of wine. I wanted to use it in the recipe tonight. It’s too good to go to waste.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She was grateful for him presenting his back to put the bottle opener away. “Look, Tristan, there’s something you should know. Not that I think it’s a big deal, but I’m technically married.”

  She saw him stiffen again and he slowly closed the drawer before turning back to her. The expression on his face was new to her, tight-lipped anger.

  “It’s a very big deal. The word technically is just semantics. You’re either married or you aren’t.”

  The heat of his stare was enough to burn a hole right through her. “We’re separated.”

  “Technically separated? Such as, I’m in Tristan’s apartment and can’t see my husband right now?”

  If she wasn’t feeling so awful about this latest misunderstanding, she would be able to appreciate the fire in his eyes. It was nice to know he wasn’t a total pushover.

  “My husband is back in Ohio and if I had my way, we would already be divorced. But I agreed to wait a year
before filing. I thought it was ludicrous then and I think it still is now. But I agreed to it. I don’t want to go back on my word.”

  She blinked back the tears that were burning her eyelids, furious that she couldn’t stop the reaction or the shakiness in her voice.

  “Did you run away from him because he abused you?”

  His follow-up question was fraught with a different kind of anger, the chivalrous kind. The way all his muscles tensed in the too-small velour shirt, he looked perfectly capable of holding his own in a fight.

  “He wasn’t physically abusive,” she said, forcing her gaze away from the sight of him. “But there’s a lot of ways to abuse someone, you know?”

  She stared at the white swirls in the black granite countertop until he slowly pushed her wineglass into her line of vision.

  “It’s going to be all right, Zoey,” he said quietly. “I apologize for my initial overreaction. Thank you for being honest with me.”

  She looked back up into his eyes. All the kindness was back in them, and she was relieved. He had no interest in berating or casting judgment on her. “I’m never quite sure how to work it into conversation. ‘Hi, my name is Zoey and I’m counting down the days till I can get a divorce’ seems like overkill.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Tristan repeated the same question she had posed to him the night before. It was an open-ended invitation, not an interrogation.

  She felt the lump in her throat starting to form. “There are so many ways my marriage went wrong, I don’t know where to start.”

  He had gone back to puttering about the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans, going to the fridge to remove chicken, mushrooms, and eggs. He balanced all the items in his hands and plopped them down on the counter. Then he held up a stick of butter. He said very matter-of-factly, “I hope you’re not one of those zealots who hates butter. Olive oil has its place too, but I prefer to use butter when I can.”

  “Do I look like I hate butter? Sometimes I use both. Everything’s better with butter and batter.”

  Tristan picked up his wineglass and leaned against the counter. He extended it in a toast. “To new beginnings. All kinds.”

  Zoey picked up her glass as well, and from across the center island, they tapped them lightly together with a ping. “I think Derek was cheating on me. Plus he didn’t fulfill one promise he made me before we married.”

  He quirked an eyebrow and chuckled. “I’m used to saying ‘cheers,’ but I guess that works too.” Then he took a more serious tone. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I don’t think a lot of people realize going in just how hard being married is.”

  “My parents made it look easy,” she replied.

  “My grandparents did too. They only talked about how hard it was.”

  Tristan was starting to assemble all the things he would need to make what Zoey guessed was Chicken Marsala. She felt so comfortable with him. The more they got to know each other, the more they seemed to have in common. He set up his work area the same way she did. And for the first time she was content to sit back and watch, instead of trying to jump in and actively participate. She wasn’t sure how long being a spectator would last. He was still wearing the same clothes as when she picked him up that morning, despite now having a king’s ransom’s worth of new duds. She got the distinct impression that material things didn’t really matter to him; people did. It likely made his self-imposed solitude all the more frustrating, even if he didn’t show it. He was a fascinating specimen.

  “Derek kept saying he wants to start a family.” Zoey said the words for the first time out loud. Ruth was the only one who knew about Derek’s pressure of trying to get her to conceive.

  Tristan turned around from the counter. “And you don’t?”

  She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “Even when I believed our marriage was on solid ground, every time someone asked me when I’m going to have a baby, I wanted to scream. Does that make me a horrible person?”

  “Certainly not. It’s your body, you call the shots.”

  In one sentence, the man who knew her just over twenty-four hours was able to break it down to its most basic principle. He got it.

  “I have nothing against kids, but I had four younger siblings,” she continued to explain, because she wanted to, not because she felt she had to justify. “Not that my parents were lying down on the job, but Ruth and I were expected to help out. Ruth was . . . is . . . the fun one. I’m the conscientious one, the worrier, the perfectionist. Ruth fought for her right to party, which gave me one more person to worry about and have to take care of. I put in my time changing diapers and warming bottles and chasing after toddlers.”

  He was studying her, listening to her, periodically nodding in agreement but saying nothing.

  “And I know that no matter what he says, deep down inside he only wants to start a family to keep me under his thumb. So he can be free to go and do what he likes while I’m stuck at home being responsible for the life we created. He never talked about wanting children while we were dating.”

  Tristan finally spoke. “He wants to take advantage of all your best qualities. That’s not right.”

  “To be fair, I’m not much better than he is. We’d been together on and off since eighth grade. He played sports, was popular, didn’t go to college because he thought he already knew everything there was to know. I bought into all of that. Derek had a real take-on-the-world attitude. But it was all puffing. He’s lazy and always looking for the easiest way to do things instead of the right way. I never in my wildest dreams thought I was settling for someone who peaked in high school. I wanted to move away and try new things, but he was content to stay right where he was. By the time I figured it out, it was too late.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Zoey. You’re not only a thinker, you’re also willing to take some responsibility for your situation. And take it from one who knows, it’s never too late to make a change.”

  He went back to making dinner and she went back to sipping her wine.

  “For what it’s worth, babies seem like a lot of hard work. They’re not toys, they’re people. And this world is a dangerous place. If you can’t commit, you shouldn’t.”

  They were silent for a spell, lost in their own thoughts. But it wasn’t long before Tristan shifted his eyes up from what he was doing with a small knowing grin.

  “You’re just dying to do something, aren’t you?”

  She smiled back with a little roll of her eyes. “This is the sort of kitchen that inspires cheffery.”

  “Chef-fer-y? That’s a new one.”

  “I made it up,” Zoey said brightly, getting up off her barstool to join him. He tossed her an onion and she pulled out a knife from the drawer where she knew he kept them. He handed her a small plastic cutting board. They were back to working in unison and the mood became lighter. It wasn’t long before Zoey was jammin’ to the music.

  “This music is awesome,” she commented, stepping away from her task to fight back onion tears. He picked up a mallet with spikes on one side.

  “I discovered the radio station that played it in St. Croix,” he said, banging on the chicken breasts to flatten them. “It was during my teenage rebel years. My grandparents knew eventually I would get sick of listening to all their Perry Como and Frank Sinatra records. Still, they checked my eyes for months to see if I was smoking ‘the funny stuff.’”

  “Were you?”

  Zoey was nearly floored when he gave a careless shrug and replied, “A couple of times.”

  She stepped away from the onion again, this time to stare at him, aghast.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” he protested. “The island is full of it. They did fire the landscaper once they found out he was the one I was smoking it with.”

  “I used to love smoking pot,” Zoey said wistfully.

  “Did you want me to try and get you some?” Tristan asked, clearly disappointed in her statement. “Those pharmaceutical people
from last night told me they could get me almost anything. Come to think of it, so did one of the overnight doormen when I first moved in.”

  “Oh no.” Zoey was quick with her reply, although she would’ve given her eyeteeth to see what he would be like after a bong hit or two. “I should clarify. I wanted to be a pot smoker but I was never able to make an exact connection. I would watch movies and TV shows where people made one call and it was delivered right to their door. I was always having to go through like two or three people to score any. It got to be a hassle. It felt like begging. I took it as a sign that it wasn’t supposed to be my vice, so I just got over it.”

  “I like you much better virtuous,” he said with relief.

  “Don’t get carried away.”

  Together they playfully finished making dinner. Zoey minced cloves of fresh garlic and tossed some into the spinach Tristan was sautéing. She filled a large pot with water and went to search the pantry for some penne she remembered seeing. He was going back to the fridge for some fresh mozzarella and they banged into each other. For Zoey, it was like smacking into a wall. So much unexpected muscle to come up against, she nearly bounced off him.

  “Whoa there,” he said after the contact, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. His grip was firm, his hands large. Nobody had touched her in almost a year, and her response was like a jolt of electricity coursing through her. She could smell his sweet wine-tinged breath and fought off a head rush.

  “Sorry.” She ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her visceral reaction. After that, it was Zoey’s turn to make sure there was adequate space between them.

  Tristan had created a most delicious dish. After lightly frying the chicken, he topped it with the spinach and cheese and put it in the oven with a mushroom and white wine sauce to finish up. They carried their plates and what remained of the wine into the dining room. Then they both ate like they were going to the electric chair, devouring every morsel.

  “I’m glad we decided against a salad or bread,” Zoey said after the last bite was consumed and she was wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin, feeling not an ounce of regret for her part in polishing off her half of a box of pasta. “This dish was amazing.”