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We walked by another little park by the water, and went in. There was an empty bench
on its own, away from the others. We sat down. I held his hand, examining his fingers,
the calluses from the guitar playing. “I’m still listening.” I didn’t look up.

“Drugs. Drinking. So easy. All that empty space and there they are. You buy them.
For a while, they’re yours. No excuses to be made. The edges get softer. Like the
women. They’re around. So easy. Easy to pretend no one cares.” He crossed one leg
over the other, pulling at his jeans for a moment. “I didn’t care. All that mattered
was how I felt. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not lying either.”

I stretched out on the bench and rested my head on his thigh, and looked up at the
clouds. Anywhere but his face. I had the feeling that if I looked at him, everything
I’d been thinking would betray me, and he’d stop talking. That was the last thing
I wanted.

He rested his hand on my head, and began stroking my hair, tugging a little at it
when he found a tangle from the ride over on the boat. It felt good, so good. I closed
my eyes, and hoped he would start talking again. His hands were soothing, gentle,
yet held so much of me at one time that it was a matter of either fear or surrender.

“AC.” Tristan’s voice was low, but I jumped all the same. I’d been dreaming, dreaming
of everything being ok, of his hands on me, again and again. I tried to smooth out
my breathing before I spooked him. He was going to say something. “AC,” he repeated,
and breathed out heavily. “I’ve hurt him, and I’ve hurt you. And Trevor. “I should
probably just leave.”

I reached up and grabbed the hand that had been stroking my hair. “Don’t stop. Don’t
leave. I don’t want you to. Talk to me.”

“You’re beautiful, Lily. You deserve more.”

I gripped harder. “I don’t want what you think I want. I want you. Talk to me.”

Tristan was silent again, but he left his hand in mine. Finally he started up. “AC.
I…” He pulled his hand away. “I…he’s…he’s my oldest friend, Lily. He’s been there.
Through everything. He stood by me when I fell apart. When I fucked up my life, he
tried to be there. I wasn’t there for him.” He took a deep breath, and I realized
that he was crying. “I love him, Lily. I love you, and I love him, and I just don’t
know how to make it work. I’m sorry. I thought I did.”

My eyes were open now, and I watched him rub the tears away with the back of his hand.
“Tristan. I love you. I’ve been with you now. I know you. Better now. It’s time, that’s
all, it’s time that we need. I need to learn you. You need to trust me. And I’m not
going anywhere. You don’t have to explain. You can. But don’t apologize. Please.”
I swung my legs over and sat up, cross-legged on the bench, my head buried on his
shoulder. “Tristan,” I whispered, “I’m here. I’m not running. Usually I do. This time
I’m not.”

He leaned his head on mine. I played with one of the strands of dark hair that fell
against my skin. “I love you. I’m here. We’re going to change and think and do what
we want. It’s a journey. Give me time. Give me the same time you’ve given AC. I’m
not going to run.” I took a deep breath. “Please.”

He lifted my head, and stared at me, his eyes dark and light and sea-colored and earth-colored.
Then his lips were on mine, gentle, measuring the shape of our mouths together, his
tongue tracing a line at the corner of my mouth, teasing, soft, waiting for me to
ask for more. “I love you,” we both murmured at the same time, and then he took my
mouth, commanding, trembling, both of us soft and hard on each other. He ran his fingers
along my sides, almost ticklish, until he drew a straight line across my stomach to
the center. It was like every nerve ending was concentrated there, fanning out in
a beating pulse that reached to my toes. I felt weak. “Tristan,” I managed to say.
“I think we need to get out of here.”

Tristan laughed, that dark, dirty laugh this time, the one that made me want him more.
He wrapped a long finger around the chain he had given me, and tugged gently. “You
want me,” he smiled. “Still. After everything I’ve said. After all you know about
me.”

I was still faintly trembling from his kiss, and his touch. It seemed a ridiculous
statement to make. But he meant it. He didn’t trust easily, and neither did I, and
that meant I needed to be careful. As careful as I wanted him to be with me. I just
kissed him, and leaned my head on his shoulder. Tristan put his sunglasses back on,
and pulled me up to my feet. “Come on, love, let’s walk around. Otherwise I’m going
to tease you all day.”

I looked up at him. “So we’re together, right?”

Tristan nodded, smiling.

“You’re going to give me time to become an old friend?” I asked.

“Friend. Lover. Girlfriend. Partner. Whatever you want to call it.”

“And AC?”

Tristan smiled. “Can he be all those too?”

“If he wants to be. He can be what he likes. What you like.”

“Ok. That’s ok then.” Tristan studied me. “You mean this, don’t you?”

“You know, I really do. But.”

Tristan stopped, his hand on my cheek, smoothing away the little frown by my eye.
“But?”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean…how.”

His face lit up. “Neither do I, love. As long as we keep reminding each other. But
we seem to pick things up quickly.” He leant down and kissed me, softly breathing
into my mouth, tender and calmer.

Then he wrapped his arm around me, and we strolled down North 7th Street until we
reached Bedford Avenue. It took only a block before there were two girls ten feet
behind us, giggling. The word “autograph” came through the noise of the crowd, along
with a muffled shriek.

Tristan looked at me, and actually rolled his eyes. “Shit. I shouldn’t have come down
this street.” He looked around. “Come on, we’re almost there. There’s a shop I want
to look at. Maybe they won’t follow us in there.” I caught his eye. “I’m not in the
mood. I just want to be with you and remember what’s it’s like to be a person. Or
invent it, possibly. Anyway. It’s just across the street.”

He grabbed my hand, and we crossed over, in between the cars waiting at the light,
and after another look around to see if anyone else was following us, ducked into
the little store. The musty smell of old belongings and the half-light reflected off
the dark wooden floors filled the small space. Tristan was looking at a vintage typewriter.
I gazed surreptitiously through the curtains and plant stands in the window. Sure
enough, the two girls were still out there, phones in hand. One of them spotted me,
and raised her camera to take a picture. I swung away, trying to look as though I’d
just seen something I wanted to look at. I didn’t want to make it obvious that neither
one of us were in the mood to deal with the fans. We’d been lucky to have an hour
or two where no one paid attention. Now, I felt like I was back in the zoo. I couldn’t
imagine how Tristan must feel—never having a moment away from being on display, his
every action scrutinized for signs of debauchery or headline-worthy notice. The constant
observation would make anyone crazy. I watched Tristan as he carefully picked up a
Tiffany style lamp as though it weighed nothing. That got the shop owner’s attention.
The one constant in trendy neighborhoods was for shop assistants to ignore anyone
who came in. I watched as the woman approached him, shoulders back for a confrontation,
recoiling slightly in shock when she realized who it was, then softening, as Tristan
turned his warm smile in her direction. Charm was supposed to be the ability to get
yes before you even asked the question. If that was true, he was nothing but. A vague
sense of protectiveness overcame me, and I couldn’t resist. I wandered up and stood
nearby, just managing to keep myself from threading my arm through his, possessive
and visible. She gave me a brief once-over and carried on.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see you when you came in! It’s been so busy in here today.”
Tristan smiled at her.

“No problem, no problem at all. I’m just browsing. Looking for some rad stuff for
gifts, you know?” He rested his hand on the old wooden and glass display case, looking
down at the trinkets cradled in silk on the glass shelf within.

She stumbled for a moment, then regained her composure. “Can I help you find something?
Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Tristan didn’t respond, but was staring intently at a group of necklaces. He glanced
over at me, then went back to studying the jewelry. Without looking up at the shop
keeper, his voice rang out. “Those three. Could you take them out. Thank you.” It
wasn’t a request. She opened the back and taking out each one individually, she laid
them out on the glass. She rested her hand nearby, but Tristan just looked at them,
and waited for her to retreat slightly. Then he reached out, and with a crazy delicacy,
lifted up each one, and held them up to the light. They were old—enameled silver pendants
surrounded a flower-like shape of what looked like sapphires and pearls. The two others
had no stones, but continued the shapes on tiny drops of silver. They were beautiful.
I stood there, admiring the beauty of the two together, his strong sculptural features
intent on his examination of the finely worked pieces. I couldn’t imagine how he had
spotted them, in the midst of all the mid-century modern bric-a-brac and tables that
filled the store.

“When did you get these?” Tristan asked. There was a certain tension in his voice
that surprised me.

“Last night actually. A box of things I had been promised finally turned up.” She
looked apologetic. “Another store closed, down in Bed-Stuy. They’d promised me first
rights on their antiques.”

Tristan said nothing, but turned the necklaces in his hands. I noticed he was holding
all three at once, as though he was reluctant to put them down. Finally he spoke.
“How much?”

“For one?” she asked, rather stupidly I thought.

“No, for all of them. All three. What do you want for them?” Tristan looked out the
window. The girls were still there. A flash from a cell phone camera broke the dusty
light in the shop. Tristan glanced over at me, and I gave him a quick nod. He turned
back to the woman, and waited for her answer.

“They are beautiful pieces, aren’t they? Art Nouveau, I believe.” She hesitated. Tristan
pulled himself up and looked down at her.

“Don’t sell me. Just tell me. Then I’ll tell you. Yes or no. How much?”

She turned and opened a ledger she had by the cash register. I felt certain that she
already had a price in mind but was buying time. She spoke in to the book. “I have
them down for, all of them, would add up to 6, but seeing as you are you,” she turned
back to face him, “let’s say 5800.”

Tristan smiled. I knew that smile. She obviously didn’t. His voice was a slow drip.
“Did you know these were stolen?”

She went pale and looked at the floor before she could stop herself. “I never know
where things come from. By the time they get to me they’ve been through several people.”

Tristan simply looked at her. “I imagine that’s true. I also imagine you know some
of these people. Let’s say 3000, and you tell me some names—before someone comes along
with a warrant.”

She turned back to the book. I felt Tristan go rigid next to me. “I won’t be…”

He interrupted her. “You will be. You ought to learn to lie better if you’re going
to be in the stolen goods trade. But…if you don’t think that’s fair, let me just call
my bodyguard who’s circling round in the car. Do you know he’s an off-duty cop? Old
friend. I’m sure he’ll be able to advise us on a good price. Maybe he can ask one
of his friends who’s on duty to help. But that seems like a lot of trouble, doesn’t
it?”

She slammed the ledger shut and I stepped back, startled, into the rack of dusty sports
jackets and dinner jackets behind me. I flinched at the touch of the scratchy wool
on the back of my neck. She thought I was backing off. That wouldn’t work. I walked
over, very precisely, to stand by the display case, my arms crossed. She glared at
both of us.

I looked over at Tristan, a question on my face. He inclined his head, ever so slightly,
and stood up a little taller, one hand behind his back. I knew it was clenched tight,
ready to fight, wanting to, holding back. I caught the woman’s eye. “Money is money.
And this is going to be a great part of the article I’m finishing up.” She ignored
me. “For
The Core
.” That got her attention. “I’m sure everyone will see it as human interest. I’m sure
no other reporter will be interested in a hipster joint fencing stolen goods. It makes
a good headline, doesn’t it? ‘Vintage Turns to Violence,’ or ‘Hipster Hung Out to
Dry.’ Of course, ‘Bitch Should’ve Known Better’ works for me, but…”

Suddenly the woman was in my face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tristan was there in an instant, looming over us. His expression was volcanic; there
was a dry violence crackling through him like a fuse ready to ignite. “Bring it on,
doll. Not a problem. Assault and theft go together. But if I were you—I’d take the
money and forget about all this. Just like we’re going to.” He pulled out a wad of
money from his front pocket, and peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. “I’ll send
someone around with the rest. You might want to have some names for him—he’ll be expecting
some information in return for the rest of the cash.” She didn’t move. “Good. It’s
a deal then.” He looked out the window, and spotted the small crowd outside. Then
he turned back, and gave her a big air kiss on each cheek, visible to everyone watching.
He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned across the counter again, and spoke very
slowly. She blushed in spite of herself at his proximity. He gave her a cold smile.
“There. We’re friends now. I’m going to tell my fans outside with their cameras what
a great place this is. You’ll be in all the blogs. What great publicity.”

He gave me the necklaces. I wrapped them in some tissues that I had, and pushed them
down carefully to the bottom of my bag. Tristan turned back to the woman, who was
now angrily pulling out a small box and a receipt book. “No, we don’t need a box,
but thanks for asking. A receipt though. That will be great. Be sure to date it.”
He watched her. “And stamp it, that’s right, name of the shop. Your name at the bottom.
No point lying,” he shrugged towards the window, “they’ve been photographing us the
whole time.” She finished writing and pushed the receipt over to him. “What, no phone
number? Darling, don’t forget to add that. And your personal cell.” He winked at her.
“I might need to get in touch.” He pocketed the receipt and put his arm around me.
“Thanks again.” His grip around my shoulders was firm, bordering on painful.