Page 8 of Love in the Dark
Yesterday, I’d kissed my mum on the cheek, hugged Tess, and said my goodbyes. I’d arrived in Switzerland and, still in denial over being banished to what was essentially the countryside, I’d decided I’d stay in Geneva until the night before classes started.
Today, I’d ventured into Aubonne to meet Thornton and to take care of a few administrative tasks. The place was as expected. A beautiful, historic building, but in the middle of nowhere. I was going to be surrounded by obnoxious, entitled, posh secondary school assholes – I knew for a fact because I’d been one of them – with no escape.
I was going to need to stock up on liquor to even make it through the fucking year with my sanity intact.
I down my whiskey and stand, buttoning the jacket of my tailored suit and quickly appraising the half empty bar as I do so. Pointing down at my empty glass, I motion for the bartender to get me a fresh drink.
My phone rings as I head across the bar towards the smoking area. I pull it out of my suit pocket and see Tess’ name splashed across the screen.
“Hey–,” I start, reaching into my pocket again and pulling out the joint I rolled before coming down to the bar.
“If you call me Tessticles again, Tristan,” she interrupts, cutting me off. “I’ll come over there and murder you myself,” she pledges. “Women don’t statistically go for manual strangulation but I’m more than happy to bump up our group average if you test me.”
I chuckle with the joint between my lips and light it. A couple sharing a cigarette at the other end of the area give me a disapproving look. I flip them off.
“I know how much you care about statistics. If they say you shouldn’t kill me, I say you listen to them.” I reply, taking a drag and pulling the smoke deep into my lungs.
“It’s not that Iwon’tkill you, it’s that, historically, I’m much more likely to poison you.”
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes as I feel the tension leave my shoulders.
“Can’t do that from a distance.”
She’s quiet for a second and I know she’s choosing her words carefully. “How are you?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“You should come home. You can stay with me, we can split my trust–”
“No,” I cut in, “I need to do this.” I’m talking about more than just the year in Switzerland. I’ve started to resign myself to the fact that the office threesome was my last stand in this short-lived war against my father. “There are worse fates than taking over a billion-dollar company,” I joke, grasping for traces of mirth in my tone.
She’s silent again, but it’s different than the first time. This silence hides something, I know her well enough to know that.
“What?” I ask.
“Speaking of worse fates,” she starts, before audibly swallowing, “Dad brought up marriage today.”
My blood freezes in my veins. It’s been the unacknowledged elephant in the room this year that my sister is approaching arranged marriage age, at least in our world. I don’t want her meeting a fate like our mother’s.
“I hope you told him to fuck off,” I growl.
“Those weren’t my exact words, no,” she says, and I hear the hint of a smile in her voice. “But I told him I’m busy with the merger and that we’d need to revisit.”
I grin at that. Classic Tess to be levelheaded and rational in the face of a potential crisis.
“Listen, I have to run. The negotiations took a major step back this morning so it’s pandemonium over here. I’ll be right there, Julie,” she tells her assistant before coming back on the phone. “I just wanted to wish you good luck and tell you I’m going to miss you. I’ll see you in a year I guess.” Her voice pitches down an octave in energy on her last sentence.
“Never thought I’d say this to anyone but have fun with the merger. I’ll see you soon.” I go to hang up but add, “Hey, don’t be in an arranged marriage to some stuffy prick when I get back, okay?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” she promises darkly, and the determination in her voice is almost enough to make me wish our father would betroth her to someone just so I can watch her run circles around her future husband.
I crush the butt of my joint with my heel and head back in, crossing the bar to my waiting drink with purposeful steps. I sit, wrap my fingers around the glass and take a sip.
One year.
One year with a fake name. Tristan Novak, the International Business teacher.
One year without my friends, sister, or mother. One year without wealth, in the middle of nowhere in a country where nothing ever fucking happens.