Whatever. It was a step up from the budget toilet paper. It would have to do.
One thing I knew for sure. I wasn’t going to be needing a condom tonight.
When at last I emerged from the precipice of disaster, a new one awaited me. Tristan leaned on the counter, chatting with Howard. My stomach clenched at the prospect of them talking about me, of Howard telling Tristan where I’d gone and what had befallen me. It was far-fetched, but within the realm of possibility.
“Hey, Tristan. Funny to run into you here.”
He looked up. “Sara! Hey!” I sighed. We were now outside the borders of when it would be acceptable to correct him on my name. He gestured to Howard. “This is my friend Howard.”
I nodded. “Hey, Howard.”
Howard said, “Yeah, Si-err-a and I go way back.”
I loved him for articulating my name in a singsong voice, but this was a battle I’d lost with teachers and investors and gamers. Tristan had my card. If he were going to notice my name wasn’t Sara, that should have happened already. Some people were oblivious.
I promised myself I’d correct him if we ever got beyond pleasantries, if he ever kissed me. It was an honest mistake, and I wasn’t going to get hung up on it.
Howard gave me his attention, as though we hadn’t just shared an intimate sanitary moment. “Will you be going to Gamescon this year? I understand Marco and Aida will be a bit occupied, eh?”
“That’s the plan,” I said, wishing the logistics had worked out so I could tag along with them and enjoy the event without all the anxiety. “I’m hoping to get a chance to demo the new game.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s it called again?”
“Castle Capture. It’s an MMORPG. A little Final Fantasy, but totally medieval.”
“Sounds badass. Can’t wait to try it.”
“Well, I’d let you test it out right now, but I’m working out the kinks.”
“Is it another martial arts fighting game?”
The first game I’d developed for our company, Roundhouse, was full-on hand-to-hand combat.
“Nuh-uh. It has loads of weapons—broadswords, maces, cannons, even a trebuchet.”
“Shit, no way.”
“The artwork is luscious.” I reached for my nonexistent phone to show him some of Marco’s drawings before I remembered my predicament.
Tristan said, “I’d love to see it.”
I’d gotten so absorbed in the conversation with Howard, I’d kind of forgotten about Tristan, and it was great to know that at least for a moment I could appear confident and knowledgeable without my lizard brain tripping me up.
“Maybe you’ll show me sometime?” He looked into my eyes, and my derpiness returned full force.
The words Come back to my place and I’ll show you right now formed in my mind, but I stuttered out, “W-well, yeah. Sure.”
Tristan seemed unfazed. “You ready to go grab dinner?”
Time to test the waters. “Yeah. It’s just that I left my backpack in my roommates’ car, and I don’t have any way to pay, so—”
“Dude. I’ve totally got this.”
Even Howard glanced up from his comic at the choice of epithet.
Tristan turned toward the door waving me to follow. “Come on. I have something I want to show you.”
I was more confused about the status of this so-called date, but he’d left me intrigued. Plus, I was starving. Aida and Marco would be gone for a couple of hours, so I was stranded until further notice anyway. “Okay. That would be nice.”
As Tristan exited, I turned to Howard and whispered, “Please lend me some more change.”
He smiled. “Sure thing, dude.”
“You’re a saint, Howard.”
He dropped a fistful of dimes and quarters into my hand, and I felt like a real-life Mario collecting coins out in the wild.
Chapter 8
I chased after Tristan and slammed into the glass door that didn’t open. He pushed it inward, toward me. “You okay, there?”
Tristan had a way of turning me into a personification of Murphy’s Law. Maybe the universe was interceding on Aida’s behalf.
We headed to the nearby Mexican restaurant, and Tristan grabbed a table outside. I didn’t think I could handle spicy food, so I ordered a quesadilla and then excused myself to go to the bathroom in the hopes of upgrading to a pad that had been manufactured this century. Of course they didn’t have a feminine products machine. Thankfully, I was still mostly high and dry, but that could change at any minute. I could probably make it through dinner, but after that, I’d have to call it a night and head straight home. No way was I pushing my luck on this museum artifact of feminine hygiene.
I just needed to get through one date without making a fool of myself, and I felt like I was already walking on a tightrope.
If this even was a date. Would Tristan have offered to pay if I’d had money?
I peered around the corner before I went back to our table. Tristan sat in the fading evening light, reading his phone, smirking a little bit, like he’d read a funny meme. I still couldn’t believe it was really him.
Back in college he’d been over-the-top attractive, with his shoulder-length thick blond hair and a near constant bronze coloring. His sparkling blue eyes had dazzled me. And his devastating smile could make me lose my wits every time.
Now, he’d matured, but it suited him. He’d softened up and filled out a bit. His tan had faded, and his hair was trimmed. It was kind of a relief his beauty had descended to the realm of mere mortals. It gave me a boost of relative confidence, like I could talk to this version of him. In video game terms, my heart container lost a quarter of its size, but my power meter increased. I could almost hear the sound effects.
“Behind you.” A waitress passed around me, carrying a tray, and headed toward our table. I followed her and sat across from Tristan as she distributed our plates. Tristan held up a finger, and I thought he was going to insist on a prayer, which seemed peculiar at a restaurant, but he did the next best thing by taking out his phone and snapping a picture of both our plates. Food worship.
Or as he said, “Foodstagram.”
I regretted the lack of my own phone. Not for the food, but for the Tristagram I wanted to take. This moment felt so surreal.
We both dug in. Eating was a social activity I could get behind, even if I didn’t feel the urge to document it.
When his burrito was demolished and I was pushing around the last of my refried beans, he said, “So I wanted to show you something.”
He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a comic book protected by a thick plastic cover. His lips pinched together in a giddy smile, like he had a secret I was going to be delighted to learn.
If he hoped to impress me with some first edition Superman, he was going to be disappointed. It was true a lot of Howard’s comic book customers were my video game customers and vice versa. I, however, fell outside that neat Venn diagram. I did not give two shits about comics.
But when he held the comic up with a hopeful and beautiful smile, I willed my eyes to feign genuine interest.
The cover read Skate Punk and featured what appeared to be an actual skate punk, wearing a hoodie and low-rise jeans fashioned into a casual superhero costume. I was confused until I noticed the byline. Tristan Spencer.