Page 43 of Finding Michael

“Never said she was.” Michael half-smiled. “But now I understand you better. You’re a product of your environment.”

“I guess. If that explains me, then this will probably ruin me in your eyes.” He bowed his head.Christ. Why is being honest was so hard?“My father’s side of the family is rich. Like seventy years of old money rich. Dad spoiled Mom and, in turn, me. If I even considered doing something, I did it. Even if it wasn’t legal, I tried it. I’ve got a record, had a drug and alcohol problem and partied my way through two colleges. I tried to kill myself twice.” He hated admitting that part, but Michael needed to know who he was getting involved with so he could jump ship if that was what he wanted to do.

“Oh my God.” Michael grasped Tristan’s hand. “Tristan.”

“I needed the experience. I thought the world revolved around me. I still think that to a degree. I have a penthouse in New York, a butler named Dennis and used to have a crazy social calendar. Writing started as therapy when I quit drinking and doing cocaine. But I replaced one addiction for another. Writing became my passion.” He finally looked up at Michael. He had no idea how he would react.

“Wow.” Michael stirred the pasta. “How’d you get published?”

“Really? That’s what you want to know? Not why I wanted to screw up my life or that you want to ditch me because I’ve got a past? You’re not afraid of me?” He had no idea what to think.

“We’ve all got things we’ve done that we look back and think…gee, that wasn’t smart.” Michael shrugged. “I had a one-night stand in college with a girl just to see if I could. I didn’t think a woman would want me.”

“Sly dog.”

“The only reason she wanted me was to make her boyfriend jealous.”

“That’s harsh.” Tristan relaxed. Things weren’t going to fall apart like with other boyfriends. Michael wasn’t turned off. He could do this. “Speaking of harsh, you asked how I got published. I had a friend help me, but that was only after I’d sent out forty-eight queries and was rejected forty-eight times.”

“Really?”

“Have you read my books?” Tristan asked. “You’re a librarian.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve read everything that comes through the library. I’d never get anything done.” Michael turned the heat down, then stood beside the stove. “But no, I haven’t read you.”

“You’re not missing much. It’s not great literature that will be recorded in the annals of time,” Tristan said. “What I write are homey stories of real people. At least that’s what I’m told. The closest I’ve ever come to real people was when I was here as a teenager.”

“I see.”

“I pushed a lot of those experiences down, but when I started writing, they came to the surface.” Tristan left the counter and eased up beside Michael. “I tried writing under a pen name. Tate Pullman. He couldn’t write, but, as Tate, I learned. I wrote practice novellas. I took the remarks from the rejections and internalized them, then set out to improve. I learned my craft by writing almost twenty-five currently unpublished works. I doubt they’ll ever see the light of day and I’m fine with it.”

“I never knew that.” Michael returned his attention to the pasta. “You’re more than you give yourself credit for.”

He wound his arms around Michael and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“I love learning the stories of how authors create their works. It’s fascinating. My creativity only goes so far and I respect anyone who is willing to put themselves out there in the form of a book, song or artwork. I can alphabetize a book shelf. That’s about it.” Michael laughed. “Sad, huh?”

“It’s not sad. I bet you’re the best librarian around. You’re dedicated.” He kissed Michael’s bare shoulder. “Writing isn’t easy and it’s not for everyone, despite the prevailing notion it should be. It’s hard and takes dedication. You have to have a thick skin.”

“True.”

“I’m not for everyone, either. I know that sounds blustery, but I’m not. Until I was twenty-eight, I thought the only way anyone would love me was if I threw my money around,” Tristan said. “I didn’t come out until I was done with college. Don’t get me wrong. I explored more than I should’ve.”

“I didn’t.” Michael turned the burner off. “Do you have a colander?”

“Yes.” He’d just seen it. He let go of Michael long enough to retrieve the item, then leaned on the counter beside Michael. Talking to him was so easy. No judgment and they got along so well. He could confess everything to him. A thought occurred to him. Yes, this was happening at warp speed, but could Michael be the one? The possibility was there.

“I’ve got margarine in the bag. Open that container of milk.” Michael drained the pasta. “Hand me the cheese when you’re done. I premeasured everything but the milk.”

“Smart.” Yeah, he was falling for Michael. He didn’t even care if Michael wasn’t falling in return.

“Put the cheese and margarine in the pot. I’ll dole out everything else,” Michael said. He poured the pasta then milk into the saucepan.

“You’re a taskmaster.” He laughed. “It’s a foreign concept for me, but I like it. It’s exciting.” Christ. He felt like a married old man. Where had Michael been all his life? If he’d known he could’ve had this kind of happiness with Michael, he would’ve skipped out of New York years ago and come back to Sullavan. The addictions of his past had nothing on writing and Michael.

“Almost done. Once you stir it all together and everything melts, we can eat.” Michael nudged Tristan. “Keep the cheese moving.”

Tristan did as told. Slowly, the mix came together. “Did Molly teach you how to make this?”

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