His Purple Heart

24 - Heartbroken again

When I woke up the next morning I was a tad bit disappointed to find the space next to me still cold and empty, but at the same time I was relieved. I sat up in bed in a strange room, in a strange country, with bruises on on my neck as I wondered about the man who had put them there.

As if on cue, the door opened and Trystan strolled in, wide shoulders filling up the space, several cups of coffee at hand. He wasn't alone.

Holding his other hand was little Antonio, and right behind him was Marisol. She didn't look happy and she seemed to be following Trystan because he hadn't given her much of a choice.

Being the typical woman, I couldn't help but notice how picture perfect the three of them were. Marisol was a classic beauty with her oval face, bright eyes, and straight long hair. Antonio was a true Pampers toddler with adorable cheeks, and Trystan was a wild fantasy and the hero of a badass Steven Spielberg movie, because how else had he gotten those bruises on his face?

Had I done that to him?

I pulled up last night's memory on a projector in my mind, keeping my distance from the violence of it, and I couldn't recall hitting Trystan in the face. It hadn't even occurred to me to. It was a beautiful face, and I was a little sad to see it so bruised up.

The three of them were just standing there staring at me like I was a misplaced ornament on a Christmas tree. Maybe I was. Trystan's wary gaze and Marisol's watchful eyes were focused on my neck. I pulled the sheet higher, trying to disappear. I'd gotten up to pee while Trystan was gone and I'd seen the ugly marks there.

"I'd hoped you would still be asleep," Trystan said.

"What in the world happened to your face?" I asked, clutching the sheet to my body, while feeling fully exposed.

"That would be me," Marisol said in an unbelievably sultry accent. "I managed to hit him real good with a frying pan. He howled like a baby in distress."

Marisol didn't only look like a goddess, she sounded like a siren as well. I couldn't imagine why a man in his right mind would want to cheat on a woman like that. But then again, if Jay-Z could supposedly cheat on Beyoncé, then mere mortals like me and Marisol didn't stand a chance.

"I'm sure you had a good reason," I said.

Trystan looked at me sternly. "Debra, this is Marisol. Marisol, Debra, a friend."

I swallowed, a little offended by the way Trystan said the word friend. After everything we'd done last night, it felt a little demeaning.

"Hello," Marisol said.

"Nice to meet you, Marisol. Trystan's been getting himself into trouble a lot lately. I too may have bruised him up, but in a less obvious way." I smirked, needing to get back at him for his we're-just-friends comment.

"Did you kick him in the balls?"

"You're a smart woman," I said.

Trystan shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I would prefer it if my balls weren't the topic of conversation."

"Balls! I like balls," Little Antonio said from behind his mother.

Marisol chuckled and turned around to look at her son before turning back to hug Trystan. The years of friendship between the two was palpable.

Trystan glanced at me, green eyes searching. "I brought you coffee," he said, approaching me with the steaming cup. "I wasn't sure how you liked it. There's cream in there and a little bit of sugar."