Page 39 of The Parent Trap
And now Thai Bristow is behind me, watching me walk.
And I’m deeply, intensely aware that the spandex is so tight it’s a second skin and they’re so short the bottom curve of my ass cheeks is visible. Especially now—they hiked up while I was sitting and I don’t dare pick the wedge out while he’s watching. But then, which is worse: having a wedgie while he’s behind me, or picking it out while he’s watching?
I can’t let him know how miserably self-conscious I am. He can’t know.
I’ve worked hard on this body, and I am genuinely proud of it. Of myself. Of how I look.
But this is Matthais Bristow.
His very name, in my mind, is a harbinger of torture and torment and misery.
Don’t let on. I hold my head high and walk as if I don’t have a care in the world. Even put a little swagger in my step, faking a confident pride I don’t really feel.
I feel him behind me, and ignore him. As if his presence in my home isn’t throwing me for a loop. Thai Bristow is in myhouse.
Suddenly, it seems like a small space. Filled with him.
He looks around while I pull mugs from my open-face cabinets, and I try to see my kitchen from his eyes: white subway tiles, poured concrete countertops, natural oak shelves with industrial pipes for braces. Exposed oak beams overhead—actual antiques sourced from a local two-hundred-year-old barn. Dark, polished walnut floors. There’s a little island in the kitchen, just big enough for three stools. Porcelain farmhouse sink. Mustard yellow Smeg appliances for a pop of color.
The living room is open to the kitchen, flooring and beams carrying through. Thick white shag rug, overstuffed leather couch, flat-screen TV over a German smear brick fireplace with a floating mantle made from the same antique oak beams as the ceiling.
“This is…” He spins, taking it all in. “Truly incredible, Delia.”
My cheeks burn. “Thanks. I’m pretty proud of it.”
“You should be.”
I hand him a mug of coffee. I know he drinks it black—he was at our house most mornings, and Dad would offer him coffee, and he always took it straight black. Still does.
He takes the mug from me, but stares into it suspiciously. Sniffs it.
I cackle. “It’s not poisoned, Thai.”
That eyebrow goes up. “How can I be sure?”
I reach out, take it from him, sip, hand it back. “There.”
He nods, apparently satisfied. Takes a sip. “Mm. Good coffee.”
“Life is too short for crappy coffee,” I say.
Awkward silence.
It’s weird, being in a room with him and not wanting to verbally eviscerate him. I wonder if this truce will last—if this is actually the real Thai, or if this is some long con he’s pulling on me.
“Why’d you come back, Thai?”
He drinks his coffee, considers the question for quite a long time, actually. “The truth is, I’m still not…I’m not entirely sure. Part of it is that I was just…bored. But…this isn’t a dig, truly, but it’s just something I don’t think you can understand. You’ve always had a purpose, a…araison d’être.” He shrugs. “I haven’t. I honestly went to college only because it was something todo. I got into things and found out I actually enjoyed business—or some aspects of it, I guess. I discovered I had more of a capacity for…” A sigh, which seems more of a self-effacing laugh than anything. “For doing stuff, I guess, then I’d ever really considered. Growing up, Mom and Dad didn’t expect anything of me. I didn’t really try, in school. I was just…I dunno. Salutatorian by virtue of just…not being into sports and it was just easy.”
“Why didn’t you play football?” I ask, something I’d always wondered about.
He laughs. “It was too much fuckin’ work. All that running, all that gear to put on and lug around. I was more interested in partying and girls.”
I cackle. “Well, that’s an honest answer for you.”
He looks around at my living room again, and his eyes go to my built-in bookshelf stuffed full with books. Stands up, wanders over to the shelf and scans the titles—mostly romances, some thrillers, some murder mysteries. A collection of books from my youth, near the top—battered, dog-eared copies ofTwilightandHarry Potter. His gaze goes to the top row, the books that harken back to our shared youth. I have the complete Harry Potter series, there, the original hardcovers I’d bought as they came out. There’s one missing, though.
“You’re missing one,” he says.