Sweet Swell

Chapter 6

It had been three days since I’d accepted Liam’s friend request and I still hadn’t heard a word from him. I was just beginning to come to terms with the idea that he wasn’t interested in knowing me better after all, when Tristan barged into my bedroom late one evening, interrupting my episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. 

“We’re going to a party, get your slut on,” he stated, throwing open the whitewash cream doors to my closet.

“What?” I asked flatly, ignoring him. No way was I going to a party now. I’d just showered and was about to go to bed with a good book. “It’s a little short notice, don’t you think?”

He shook his head. “You’re invited okay, it would be rude,” he stated, casually pushing dress after dress aside, probably looking for something revealing. I sighed deeply, rising off the bed.

“Invited by whom?” I asked, snagging a lacy black negligee out of his palm, “That’s underwear,” I flatly stated, putting it back in its place. Tristan pouted, a disappointed smirk on his face.

“Vera,” he said innocently, eyeing me with a mischievous smile. My eyes widened slightly. 

“Vera Brits?” I double checked.

“Yeah… Vera.The smoking hot girl I’m seeing,” Tristan laughed, shaking my shoulders, “The one whose brother has an eye on you,” he said with a glint in his eye. “So wear something hot, okay?” he repeated, sitting himself down on my bed. “You have twenty minutes,” he said, leaning back. I put my hands on my hips, staring back defiantly for a moment before giving in.

“Fine, I’ll come,” I mumbled.

“Fuck yeah!” Tristan exclaimed, slapping his hands on his lap.

“Now fuck off pretty please with a cherry on top,” I snapped at him, pushing him out my door.

Twenty-five minutes later we were on the highway to Durban in Tristan’s black Nissan 4x4. Tristan had expressed clear disappointment at my appearance several times already. I’d decided on a flowing light blue tie-dye mini-dress that was synched at the waist with a rose-gold belt and beige wedges. I’d left my hair to dry naturally and it was flowing down my back in loose waves. I didn’t have time for lots of makeup so I’d just applied some mascara and eyeliner along with a peachy lipgloss.

Bob Marley was pouring out his soul in song over the radio and Tristan was singing along while bobbing his head to the reggae-beat. I opened my window and stuck my hand outside to feel the warm wind swishing by us at top speed.

“You should have worn that lace thingy,” he nagged again.

“I don’t dress to please you,” I hissed at him, “or any man,” I finished. 

“Spoken like a true lesbo,” he jeered, laughing loudly at his own comment. I shook my head, rolling my eyes at him. Tristan was about as insightful as a clam at the bottom of the ocean. 

After a few minutes of silence between us, Tristan turned down the radio. 

“So the other day…it was the uh…the anniversary,” he spoke, looking for words, “of her death,” he gulped. 

I stared at him incredulously, “Seriously Tristan, you have to bring this up now?” 

“I just…felt like talking a bit,” he said, staring sternly ahead of him. “The other night I…I went by your room and I heard you crying.”

I gasped. This was so typical of Tristan. Nosey, prying Tristan.

“I’m sorry…I know it’s hard for you, but it wasn’t your fault, or anyone else’s. I just wish you’d stop beating yourself up over it, Claire.” He looked at me with concern in his eyes.

“How can I not?” I said flatly, “I was the one who told her to do what she eventually did. I mean I practically murdered her, Tristan!” My voice had risen a few octaves and Tristan turned off the radio completely. He’d gotten a strangely serious expression on his face which was rare for him.

“Claire, I thought you’d made peace with this. She was going insane on you, calling you terrible things, attacking us both. All you did was tell her to cool herself down. She was just crazy enough to take it literally. Personally I wanted to go throw her off that pier myself. A better person would have said something worse to her than you did.” 

I cringed. Images of bloody water were flitting through my mind.

“It’s not like you were even serious. And I mean, jumping off a pier doesn’t kill you, come on. It was completely out of your hands. It was all a freak accident…the sharks-“

“Okay Tristan, thank you. That’s enough,” I interrupted. I was starting to break out in a cold sweat.

“I’m starting to get nervous, you’re not helping okay,” I said, shaking my head as if to try and shake off the memories I was experiencing. 

Tristan shrugged, “I’m just saying, stop blaming yourself. You’re my favourite, sweetest sister, and I don’t want you go through life thinking you have blood on your hands.” 

He squeezed my thigh and smiled sweetly down at me. After a few seconds I frowned and replied, “I’m your only sister, smart-ass,” pushing his hand off my leg. Tristan laughed heartily and turned the radio back on at full volume.

As Danza Kuduro started blaring over the speakers, Tristan began singing along in what he thought the lightning-fast Spanish lyrics were, yelling out only the “oy-oy-oy” part correctly, and confidently as ever. Tristan had this way of diffusing nearly any situation with his sheer shameless idiocy, and I must admit, the combination of the cool night air flying by the car windows, Tristan’s off-key babble, the smell of the fresh post-rain roads, and the latin beat from the radio was getting me in the party mood.