Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Until the champagne bottle becomes two, then three, the lighting in the limo glows brilliantly bright and begins waltzing around him, and he decides quite suddenly to lay back his head.
∙∙∙
The next thing Kyle knows is silk.
Silk sheets beneath him. A firm mattress. Scent of lavender and oak hanging in the air. Warm, amber lighting.
He sits up with a start. A bedroom, Victorian vibe, much like Markadian’s office—one of the only rooms in the House of Vegasyn Kyle remembers in vivid detail. Spacious and clean. He’s on a large bed, fingers curling around silk sheets. He rises, bare feet finding hardwood flooring that creaks softly. His eyes search around, blinking, as he takes in the room. He’s alone.
He spots a bronze clothing rack. Hanging from it: a suit. Black pants, white shirt, black vest, black bowtie, black jacket. After a quick moment of rubbing his eyes, he pads over to the clothing rack, fighting off drowsiness. He touches the material of the shirt. Surprisingly soft, luxurious, expensive.
He peers over his shoulder, spots a door. Next to it, a large archway leading into a bathroom. He stumbles there with his clothes in hand, squinting against his confusion, is startled to discover his reflection in a big mirror over the sink.
And he only now realizes he’s naked.
He tries not to wonder who undressed him. George. The driver. Someone else. He even smells fresh, like he was bathed. Again, tries not to overthink who possibly bathed him. Maybe some other terrified, brainwashed servant of this place.
Or Tristan.
Could it have been Tristan?
The prospect of Tristan bathing him isn’t so bad. After all, they bathed together for decades. They were intimate lovers, a married couple without the trouble of paperwork. Just two men in a secluded cabin, only trees for neighbors, only squirrels.
Kyle puts on the shirt. It fits perfectly, as if stitched to his precise size. The vest, too, hugging him exquisitely. He’s never worn or tied a bowtie, and after only four attempts, he gives up and sets it aside. After running water through his hair and fixing it as nicely as he can, he stands before the mirror and studies his striking new look.
Has he ever truly dressed up like this?
Not since he was a mortal, perhaps. The old days. School dances. A couple of his brother’s violin recitals. A neighbor’s wedding they went to once, the whole street so happy that she found herself another husband after the passing of her previous one, and Kyle’s mom made a fuss about her kids looking totally adorable in matching little suits. He was seven, maybe eight.
No reason to look fancy anymore, it seems.
But why not? He and Elias should do this sometime. Get dressed up. Go out to dinner. Do those gross couples things, feed each other bites of buttered linguini, clink pretty glasses of champagne that hasn’t been tampered with by chemistry.
It’s an emotional reaction, a strong one, standing here and studying his own reflection, like he forgot how fancy he can get with a little effort. How careless he’s been with his appearance over the years. How little love he’s shown himself.
You look beautiful.
Kyle turns. In the middle of the room, Tristan stands in a fine suit of his own, much like Kyle’s, only his shirt seems puffier, the sleeves lined with lace. His blond hair is swept upward, styled in such a way Kyle has never seen before, which shows his cute ears, both of them dressed with a sparkling stud earring. Tristan looks so different, yet totally himself. Kyle doesn’t know what to say.
Tristan smiles. May I?
Kyle lifts his eyebrows. “May you what?”
Your bowtie.
“Oh.” Kyle nearly forgot about it. “I was trying, but …”
Tristan approaches, takes the bowtie from the counter. He faces Kyle, then seems unsure whether he ought to proceed. I’ll do it from the back, he decides. Face the mirror, will you? This can become a lesson. The next time, you will be able to do it yourself.
“Thanks, Dad,” says Kyle.
An unnecessary but welcomed jab at my literal age, says Tristan with a smile. With Kyle facing the mirror, Tristan approaches from behind, brings the bowtie to his neck, and begins calmly tying it. Like this … and then around like this. With each gentle instruction, Kyle pays little attention in truth, his gaze lost on Tristan’s face and the memories just being in his presence calls back. It isn’t easy to resist them. Around this way. See? Simple.
When the bowtie is finished, the two remain in place for some time, quiet, watching each other’s reflections.
Kyle meets Tristan’s eyes in the mirror. “Why am I here?”
Tristan lingers by the mirror a moment, then steps away. I have been worried about you. For a while. Since your departure from this very place, actually.
“So you invite me back?” Kyle turns. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Last time you said … what did you say? … ‘This is a place of endings’ … that I should never come back here.”