Just before eleven o’clock in the evening, Tristan turned down the long driveway lined by hundred-year-old oak trees draped with Spanish moss. His nerves got the better of him and he wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his jeans. His pulse quickened, and he struggled to understand why anxiety was plaguing him. Then it occurred to him—he was afraid of rejection.
He parked behind his father’s car and killed the headlights. For a full two minutes he sat there debating whether to back out and find a hotel in the city. It was then that the old, familiar tree came into focus. Sitting at the edge of their property, it was barely visible with no moonlight filtering through the cloudy night sky. It sent a warm feeling through his chest, and he remembered that he’d come here for Josie above all else.
“Stop being such a pussy. Rejection is to discard as defective or useless. They wouldn’t do that,” he told himself.
Tristan shook his head, threw his bag over his shoulder, and decided to leave his pistol beneath the driver’s seat. He climbed the steps to the front door and took a deep breath before ringing the bell. It felt odd, considering he’d never rung the bell at his own house before.
Time passed slowly, each second exponentially increasing his unease. He rang the bell again and exhaled, needing to get this part over with so he could focus on Josie. A few seconds later, he heard shuffling feet and whispered conversation on the other side of the door. The red door creaked open and both of his parents stood there gawking. Tristan squared his shoulders and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, waiting for the moment of recognition.
They looked tired and weary. His mother was as beautiful as ever. Even huddled behind her husband in her nightclothes, not a hair was out of place. Tristan’s father looked a bit older, the graying hair at his temples giving him away. Their eyes started at his feet and did a synchronized dance up his frame, lingering on the art on his skin and finally reaching his face. His mother gasped aloud, her trembling hand flying to her open mouth.
“Tristan?” Daniel’s crackling voice barely got out.
“Hi,” Tristan answered, shuffling his feet while one hand rubbed at the back of his neck.
Bitsy pushed her husband aside, no longer frozen from shock. With tears in her eyes, she threw herself at Tristan, burying her face in his chest. Tristan wrapped his mother in a firm embrace.
“You’re here? You’re really here?” she whispered between sniffles.
“Yeah, Ma. I’m here.”
Tristan placed a kiss on top of her head just as she released him and took a step back. Daniel watched the reunion with conflicting emotions. Elation, concern, and relief billowed around his head, making a conscious decision impossible. Instinctively, he held out his hand and hoped it would convey his forgiveness.
“Son,” Daniel said.
“Dad,” Tristan answered, taking his father’s hand and shaking it.
Without letting go, Daniel pulled him in for a hug. Despite their disagreements in the past, this was his child, his flesh and blood, and he loved him unconditionally.
Bitsy ushered them inside, immediately assuming her motherly responsibilities again. She felt so first-rate in that role, so fulfilled. Tears filled her eyes as she watched Tristan sit at the bar practically inhaling the sandwich she’d made. Her boy had become a man. He looked different, so grown up. He looked like a stranger sitting in her kitchen.
Daniel joined his wife and watched their son in fascination. Of all the paths he’d imagined for Tristan, he wondered which one the boy had ventured down. He wondered which one had led him to become this man, the one with cropped hair and tattoos.
“Tristan, it’s really good to see you.” Daniel spoke softly, not knowing how to broach the subject of Tristan’s motives. “What brought you back to us?”
Tristan stopped midchew and stared at his father. Of course they deserved an explanation of his sudden arrival, but he couldn’t bring himself to share the entire story just yet. He threw the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and swallowed quickly.
“Can we talk tomorrow? I just drove for three days. I really need to crash.”
“Of course,” his mother answered, a sad smile pulling at her lips.
“We will talk in the morning,” his father said, daring Tristan to refuse.
Without another word, Bitsy led Tristan up to his old room, where he discovered that they hadn’t changed a thing. His eyes scanned the room and he smiled at all the memories he found there. Each shelf was still filled with his book and music collections, not a speck of dust covering them. Too tired to explore, he fell onto his bed, face first.
“Do you need anything, baby?” his mother asked.
“No, I’m good. Just tired. So tired,” he mumbled into the mattress.
“Okay, well, you know where we are if you need anything. Throw a rock.”
Bitsy smiled at the sight of his large frame sprawled out across the bed. His feet hung over the edge and his spread arms touched each edge. She wanted to go to him, tuck herself in beside him, and hold him, but she knew he’d have none of that. She resisted the urge to kiss him good night and quietly closed the door behind her.
That night, as they all slept the deepest of slumbers, the Fallbrook house, made of brick and mortar, magically transformed back into a home.
Feeling like a hostage, Josie paced the perimeter of her apartment for the twentieth time. She’d never had a problem with confinement before. She’d spent so much time in small spaces, so much time alone that she should be used to this. She knew it had everything to do with the fact that both Tristan and Alex had forbidden her to leave the apartment. Solitude was okay only when it was on her terms.
This was the third morning she’d endured since Tristan had left. While she tried to remember what her life was like before she’d found him, she couldn’t. All she knew was that she wanted him here. She wanted him safe and happy. She just wanted him.
A bang at the door jarred her from her inner ramblings. She flew across the living room to open it. She had two of the locks undone before she remembered to ask who it was.
“Alex, mami,” he shouted.
Josie let him in the apartment, along with the delicious-smelling breakfast calling to her from a Styrofoam container.
“Ohhh, what’s that?” she asked, holding out her hands.
He gave her the food, took a seat on her couch, and propped his large boots up on her coffee table.
“A breakfast burrito from Sombrero. De nada.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled with a mouth full of food.
Alex nodded and flipped on her television, grumbling about her lack of channels.
“Maybe you should come stay at my place. At least I have cable.”
“No way. The fact that I’m stuck inside till further notice is enough of a punishment.”
“Fine, whatever. You heard from ya boy?”
“He sent me a text last night, telling me that he made it to his parents’ house, but that’s it,” she answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“No worries, Jo. He’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
But she didn’t really know, she only hoped. Josie had never been one to pray, but the last two nights she’d found herself pleading for his safe return. She tried to reason with herself, knowing that he was intelligent and had been hardened by the streets, but it offered little solace.