“So Ryan’s into some kinky shit?” Tristan says without preamble.
I shouldn’t feel the rush of relief that I do at hearing his voice.
“Tristan, go away,” I hiss. “Your date is going to get offended.”
There’s a scratching sound and then I hear, “You’re not offended, are you?” and a woman’s tinkling laugh. There’s a scrape of a chair, then Tristan’s warm tones telling her he’ll see her again.
Maybe it’sher. The one he’ll marry.
“Spare me,” I mutter. “Go get it on in private.”
His low laugh into the phone makes me feel like he’s right next to me. “Trust me,” he croons, “I’m way more fun in private.”
I groan, but already I’m forgetting about the platform and the way my stomach sours every time I look at the bridge.
“So, Bailey,” he drawls just seconds later. “How’s it hanging?” There’s a door slam, then a car starting. “Ryan leave you all alone?”
My breath shudders out. “Not exactly. I got competitive. I fucked up.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line, then, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen?” I choke. “You were supposed to be meeting her in Hart’s Hill.”
“I changed locations. I like the lobster rolls better in Newland’s Landing.”
“Did you bring Nour?” I ask suspiciously.
“Nour who?”
Tires squeal on his side of the phone. “Is that you?”
“Is what me?”
“Are you driving dangerously?”
There’s a pause. “Nah,” he finally says. “Must be some other guy.” He hangs up.
I want to laugh. Or cry. Or throw up, maybe.No one is coming.Tristan is, though, and as I lean back against the tree and try to steady my breathing, I order myself not to like it.
19
KATIE
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve made it three steps onto the bridge. It sways with every breeze, and with it, my stomach. I inhale through my nose and out through my mouth.
There’s a crunching of leaves below me, and then Tristan’s sun-streaked hair and broad shoulders come into view.
He tips his head up. I can’t make out his expression, but my phone buzzes just seconds later.
“I told you not to come,” I say. My voice wobbles. I hate that it wobbles. I am not a crier—not in front of others, at least.
Pick yourself up and move onshould be tattooed on my forehead.
“And yet, here I am.” Tristan’s voice warms something inside me through the phone.
“You’re supposed to be on a date.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. Relying on him.
