Page 64
“Right. He shot Apollo with gold and Daphne with lead, resulting in Daphne begging her father, Peneus for help. He turned her into a tree. An odd choice.” Tristan shook his head. “But Cupid could grant love too, my . . . passenger cannot.”
“Are you sure?”
He leaned back in his seat. “I am, but go ahead. Tell me why I'm wrong about something I've carried for seventeen hundred years.”
“Ouch, that was aggressive.”
Tristan flashed his palms. “Sorry. I get a little touchy when someone acts as if they know Heartbreak better than me.”
“I'm not saying I know it better than you. I'm trying to offer you a new perspective.”
“Very well.”
“Have you heard the term 'rebound' in relation to dating?”
“Sure.”
“When you create a void in someone, instinct tells them to fill it. You remove love, and they seek love.”
“They're called rebounds because they're usually a mistake.”
“That's not my point.”
“Then what is?”
“People rebound because that's what Heartbreak urges people to do. It's not just grief. It—”
“It's called Heartbreak because it is heartbreak, Destiny. You can't sugar coat it. What people do after Heartbreak tears them apart is their doing, not Heartbreak's. It's why some move on and others don't. Because it depends on the individual.”
I disagreed, but I couldn't find the words to explain why. “Okay.”
“Okay? That doesn't sound like agreement.”
“It's not. It's surrender. I don't want to argue with you about it.”
Tristan sighed. “I don't want to argue with you either.”
The server returned with the dessert menu, and we spent several minutes debating the merits of the chocolate lava cake versus the crème brûlée before getting both and sharing them. When they arrived, we put them in the middle of the table
The crème brûlée, with its accompaniment of fresh fruit, balanced the richness of the chocolate cake perfectly. We took turns feeding each other, the simple intimacy of the act somehow more meaningful than any grand gesture. By the time we finished, the tension from our earlier conversation vanished.
When the check arrived, Tristan had his card on the silver tray before the server even set it down, dismissing my offer to split the bill with an arched brow.
Outside, the temperature had dropped, turning the air crisp and sharp. We strolled through the pedestrian streets, stopping at an art supply shop where I admired a set of Japanese squirrel-hair watercolor brushes. It sparked a discussion about art techniques. With all his portrait commissions, he'd seen the tools and techniques develop across centuries, and hearing him connect my modern conservation methods to Renaissance panel preparations made time feel less like a chasm and more like a bridge between us.
Faint music drifted up to us from a lower-level tavern marked by a weathered wooden sign with the word “Sally's” on it and a glowing neon guitar in the window. The warm resonance of an acoustic guitar cut through the night.
“Live country,” I said, pausing by the brick stairs leading down. “Up for a drink?”
“Lead the way.”
The basement bar was warm and dimly lit, framed with exposed brick, aged timber, and amber string lights, smelling of beer and cheap cologne. On the small wooden riser at the far end, a four-piece band played a slow, soulful ballad. A few couples swayed together on the polished hardwood dance floor near the stage.
Tristan bought two drinks at the bar, handed me my requested hot apple cider with rum, and guided me toward a small high-top table near the wall. He leaned back against the wall, watching the band with open delight.
“Ugh, a sad song.”
“American country music never runs from grief or tries to make heartache sound polite. It simply looks sorrow in the face and gives it a melody.”
