Page 104 of Cookout Carnage
He looked back at her. ‘It is important. It shaped a large part of my life for better or worse.’
‘It’s your origin story?’
He smiled. ‘If I were a superhero, then definitely yes.’
‘You’re my superhero.’
Something uncertain flickered in his expression. ‘I want to be. I want to be enough for you.’
Was he for real? ‘Enough? You’re perfect.’
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Far from it.’
She snuggled back into his side. Maybe if she wasn’t looking at him, he would feel happier about opening up. His ribcage rose, as if he was about to start the story but wasn’t quite sure how. Eventually he spoke. His voice was quiet.
‘My mum’s parents were snobs. They were a working-class family, but my grandmother in particular always saw herself as above that and brought my mum up to believe the same. When mum was eighteen, she went out in Chumleigh Underbottom with a friend to a pub for the first time and met my dad. He was in his early twenties and had a car and the gift of the gab.’
‘Huh?’
‘He could talk the hind leg off a donkey. Charm the pants off you.’
‘Ah.’
‘Well, he charmed the pants off my mum and she got pregnant with me. That’s when the shit hit the fan.’
He paused.
‘I didn’t know any of this, of course, not for years. But it turned out my dad and his family weren’t from Chumleigh. They were from the worst part of East Underbottom. My mum thought he’d somehow tricked her or lied about who he was. She never even gave him a chance.’
Sherilyn’s blood ran cold.
‘I grew up in my grandparents’ house, not knowing my dad or any of his family, and any questions I had about him were shut down. When I was five, my mum met my stepdad, married him and gave me his surname. Tasha was born when I was seven. Growing up, we were allowed to play pretty much anywhere in the village, but we weren’t allowed to set foot in the council estate. It was on the other side of the park and presented to us as The Badlands – the place of monsters and child molesters. So, I did what I was told until one day when I was fourteen. It was Saturday afternoon and I was hanging out in the park with my mates. This man approached me and told me he was my dad. I saw myself in him, so I knew he was telling me the truth. He told me he was dying and didn’t want to go without knowing me.’
Tristan’s voice cracked and Sherilyn hugged him tighter.
‘I followed him through the park into the council estate. That day I met my other grandparents for the first time. My dad wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he was a good man. My mum and her family were ashamed and embarrassed of him, so they denied his whole existence. He died a month after I met him. My mum took something from me I could never get back.’
She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back her emotion. The high she’d been on had vanished, dropping her into the darkest pit of self-loathing and guilt.
‘So, my name isn’t really Tristan Fawcett-Underwood. It should have been Tristan Jones. I’m not who you think I am.’ He let out a huff of air. ‘But that’s not all. I need to tell you…’ He broke off and sat up. ‘Hot Sauce, are you crying?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ She stumbled off the bed. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. You understand?’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m fine. I’m okay.’ Picking her bikini bottoms off the floor, she ran through to the kitchen, swiping at her wet cheeks. She couldn’t look at him as she dressed.
‘So, you’ll be back tomorrow morning with your parents? Nine-ish?’
She nodded and ran out of the house.
32
Tristan stood in the silence.That went well. He picked up his coffee-covered clothes, put them in the washing machine and chucked on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The soporific euphoria of the ultimate sex high was quickly wearing off, to be replaced with restless anxiety. Was Sherilyn upset by the story or his humble roots? He remembered his last girlfriend, Beatrix. He’d met her in a London bar and she’d been impressed by his suit and double-barrelled surname. They’d dated for as long as it took her to realise the surname didn’t come with family money, high-status connections and a ski chalet in Gstaad.Fuck. He hadn’t even gone to university. He’d been occupied elsewhere in his early twenties. He knew he wasn’t good enough for Sherilyn, but the least he could do was lay his cards on the table and let her decide whether he was worth taking a chance on. He grabbed his keys. He needed to feel the last of the day’s sun on his skin. The walls of the house suddenly too close for comfort.
Outside, he headed in the opposite direction of Main Street. Right now he just wanted to be alone, to walk off his doubts and quieten the demons who told him Sherilyn wouldn’t want him when she knew everything about him. After ten minutes, he found himself at an intersection where the road joined a larger highway. On the corner, set back to allow for parking, was an auto-repair shop. The main doors were open but he couldn’t hear or see any sign of life. Parked outside was the decorated Buick Sherilyn had hidden from the day before. Above the entrance, across the entire expanse of brickwork, up to the apex of the roof, was a mural. Painted in the same style as the car, it was extraordinary. In the middle, a woman with endlessly flowing locks of strawberry blonde hair, dressed in a white toga that had slipped off one shoulder and billowed around her. Surrounding her, as if summoned to life by her beauty itself, were rainbows, flowers and every brightly coloured bird the artist could imagine. One hand was by her side, the palm turned out in welcome, the other was raised, holding a sign that said ‘Bodean’s’.
‘Can I help you?’
