Page 68 of Trust Again

My new story was titledAbout Us, because nothing better came to mind. By now I’d gotten used to it—even liked it, because it was so concise and meaningful.

Spencer was the inspiration forAbout Us. This was different from my past projects. Usually, I invented everything in my stories. But this story was… special. Less sexy. Deeper. More honest. It reflected my own feelings and almost functioned as a diary for me.

The main character was Mackenzie, a literature student, and her best friend Tristan, a freelance artist. Their story takes place over a decade, during which time their friendship is tested repeatedly. Eventually it turns into something more, but it takes a while for Mackenzie to give in to the electricity between her and Tristan. She’s afraid, scarred by her past, and has forgotten how to trust other people. Until Tristan slowly teaches her again.

It was good that we didn’t have any Internet at the weekend house. Usually I would post something for my readers, a taste of what I was working on, but this time it was different. I felt vulnerable. Perhaps because this narrative voice was totally new for me. I didn’t yet know whether I would ever publish this story. I wanted to keep Mackenzie and Tristan for myself as long as possible.

Which is why I didn’t take Watson out until I was sure everyone else had turned in for the night.

A loud ringtone interrupted my concentration. I took Watson off my lap and set him on the coffee table, and looked around for the source of the ringing.

Right next to the side table where Ethan had left some of his things, a smartphone display was flashing, casting a faint, bluish light against the wall. I moved Ethan’s stuff and immediately felt the urge to cover my ears. The ringing was much too loud, and I tapped around the display for a way to turn it down. I must’ve pushed the wrong button.

“Hello?” I heard a voice.

“Shit,” I hissed and raised the phone to my ear. “Um… hello?”

“Who’s this?” asked a woman who sounded vaguely familiar. A loud crashing sound came from her end of the line.

The next second the phone was ripped from my hand. I nearly had a heart attack.

Spencer looked at me angrily, then took a deep breath and lifted the phone to his ear. “Mom?”

Of course: it was Mrs. Cosgrove.

“Do you want me to come home?”

His mother’s voice was fast and piercing; I could hear it even as Spencer moved farther away.

“Okay. Put me on speaker. No, not where she can reach it.” His tone became authoritative. It sounded like he’d done this many times before. His back and shoulders looked stiff. He was only wearing his boxer shorts and his black hair was mussed—he must’ve already been asleep.

“Hello, little Olive.” Now he was speaking softly. As if speaking to a shy animal. Soft and deep and warm.

Again I heard crashing and rattling sounds through the phone. And another voice, but I didn’t understand anything. Just shrill noises.

“Olivia, calm down. You don’t have to say anything. Take it easy.” Spencer’s tone became urgent. His body was still tense. I just stood by the side table, feeling completely useless.

“Don’t you remember? I told you yesterday that I’m out of town this week. With friends, at Coos Bay. We visited the State Park today, and in the end we were thrown out. Should I tell you why?”

This time no sound came out of the phone. So Spencer started to talk about the trip, how Monica and Ethan were making out in the backseat; he added some descriptive sounds. He described the house and the room he’d chosen. And then described our afternoon at the park.

“And then I wanted to throw Dawn into the water, but she tried to wimp out.” He looked over his shoulder at me, his expression unreadable. “No, actually she’s not a coward.”

If he only knew.

“I can understand why she didn’t want to go into the fountain. The water was green and icky; when I took a shower little bits of algae came out of my hair.” He gave a little shiver, and I thought I could hear Olivia’s voice in response.

But I still couldn’t make out what she said.

“Someday I’ll take you there and show you the fountain. And the flowers. It was so colorful there; it was impossible to take it all in.”

There was a pause, during which Spencer waited patiently, drawing deep and steady breaths.

“No. We’ll leave Dad at home.” He laughed, but it didn’t sound wholehearted. “Mom sent me a picture of the painting you did at school. It really turned out great.”

His shoulders were still hunched, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. Slowly I stepped behind him. Hesitating for a moment, I then wrapped my arms around his belly from behind. I pressed my cheek against his taut back muscles and breathed deeply. He smelled of sleep and traces of botanical garden.

At first nothing changed, but then he put his free hand on my arms and leaned back against me.

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