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Tristan’s lips part slightly, and I wonder if he’s asleep.
“How well do you know the Fishers?” He suddenly asks without opening his eyes.
“Um—” I quickly think of what to say, “—not that well. Why?”
He opens his eyes. His gaze lingers on my lips, and I wet them subconsciously. He wets his, too, and looks out the window.
“They never liked me.” He says, still looking out the window. “They think I’m some drunk who stole their daughter, ruined her, and caused her death.”
His face is expressionless as he speaks. My fingers clutch my glass as I listen. His forehead wrinkles, and his brow furrows like he’s lost in thought.
“I admit, yeah. I had a problem with drinking when Deanna was alive, and after I came back from the military service—”
“I didn’t know you were in the military,” I murmur, batting my lashes.
“You didn’t read the hit pieces?” Tristan turns to look at me, his eyes narrowing.
“I wasn’t sure I could handle reading bad things about you.” I shrug and look down at my glass.
That part is true.
When I look back up at him, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. Our gaze lingers on each other for a moment; then, he returns his gaze to the calming clouds.
“But I cleaned up my act, and I’ve been sober for over two years. All I want is to live peacefully with Ruby and be there for her. That’s all I want, really.”
He sounds like he’s speaking more to himself than me, so I listen.
“Deanna had her issues—” he massages his temple with a long finger—and yes, I wasn’t the perfect husband, but I never meant for what happened to happen. I loved her. I loved Deanna deeply.”
The purr of the engine is all I can hear as Tristan stops speaking.
“She was the most alive person I ever met,” he continues without looking at me. “She made me feel alive.”
Tristan isn’t wrong. To my parents, Deanna was the good kid—the white sheep. I was the bad kid to them. But in truth, Deanna was just better at hiding her antics from our parents. She was the life of every party, and she wasn’t afraid to get down and dirty.
“I think, at that point in my life, when I was a younger man—” he furrows his brows again, “—that was what I wanted—someone to make me feel alive. But now, I think I just—” he turns to look at me—I think I just want peace.”
The hostess suddenly appears, breaking his monologue. She has a tray and sets it on a tiny glass table between us.
“Olive oil pudding,” she says with a wide smile. “Enjoy.”
My gaze drops to the food, and I feel myself getting nauseous. The smell of the pudding must've triggered me because my stomach felt like it was on the verge of being upset. I look away from it and put my hand to my nose.
“Are you fine?” There’s concern in Tristan’s voice.
I nod. Tristan lifts the tray and carries it to the other end of the cabin. He returns and sits, his eyes on me, checking me out. I burp lightly, then remove my hand from my mouth. What is wrong with me?
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Sure you don’t want to try that?” I point to the other end of the room.
“Not if it’s making you sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He tilts his head. “Drink.” He points at the glass of water.
I take a drink and squish it in my mouth a bit before swallowing—Tristan’s right. I actually feel a bit better. Tristan nods slowly, pleased with himself. The vulnerable moment is gone, and he looks down at his phone, his finger scrolling.
“Earlier, you said you wish what happened hadn’t happened.” I set my glass down. “What were you talking about?”
