Page 223 of The Professor's Wife

“My friend Angela said you pulled off an impressive rendition of Jeff Buckley. That was a mighty compliment from her. She’s prickly when it comes to buskers, but good or bad, I think it takes a confident, self-assured being to put themselves out there to the public. You must be fearless.”

Between nerves and fear, I hurried to process his words. Angela had left the table once, but I hadn’t paid attention to where she’d gone. Still, even if she had seen Tristan play, she had relayed that information to Oliver. Maybe they had both caught me interacting with him just now.

Shit.

But I could play that off as something small and innocent, and it was.

Nothing really happened.

Or maybe everything happened, and the latter was why I felt this heavy wariness.

Tristan, on the other hand, held Oliver’s stare and said, “We suffer more in imagination than reality.”

Oliver chuckled, looking surprised. “The words of Seneca.”

“Was that his name?” Tristan looked like he didn’t give a fuck. “They blur together after a while.”

Oliver grinned, but there was a bite in his next words. “Let me guess, you found the quote on a fancy pin.”

Tristan smiled back, unperturbed. “Close. I wrote an essay once on Lucius Annaeus Seneca.”

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen Oliver truly speechless. He blinked several times at Tristan, processing his words. I felt so much elation at the look on his face, it took everything in me to fight back a smile.

“You know, I thought you looked familiar,” Oliver finally remarked. “Did you study at the university here?”

“No.”

He didn’t follow that up with where he had studied or where he was from.

Oliver didn’t know what to make of him, which only made him more interested.

“Well, thank you for being a good citizen, but I really must do something to pay you back. I have a barbecue next Saturday.It starts at noon, and I’d love to have some entertainment there. My companions are charitable, and I’ll pay you well.”

Tristan took his time answering. To my relief, he didn’t look at me.

“I’ll think about it.”

Oliver looked pleased by that. He offered his hand. “I’m Oliver Black, by the way. In case my wife didn’t introduce herself, she’s Daisy.”

Tristan kept his focus on Oliver. “Tristan.”

He didn’t let him know I’d already told him my name. I felt another hit of relief at that. There was a lot I could deny in case Oliver interrogated me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tristan.”

Oliver pulled a card from his wallet, wrote our address on the back, and handed it to him.

When it was clear Tristan wasn’t in a social mood, Oliver took me by the hand and we walked away.

Every step away from Tristan felt colder. I wanted so badly to look back at him because I might never see him again, but I refused, listening to my gut as it told me to keep walking.

To get far enough away.

By the time we slipped into the car, I held back tears, swamped with emotion and a heavy sadness.

I felt as though I had come close to something immense. Something I wanted to reach for before I even understood what it was.

But it was over and gone, and I was alone again.