Page 15 of Perfectly Wrong

I close my eyes for a moment. “I promised him too.”

“Okay then.”

“Just… one thing. If I wasn’t his son, if I was just some guy you met, would you see me again?” He’s silent for so long I check if he’s there. “Bishop?”

“Yeah, Tristan. If you weren’t his son, I would definitely see you again.”

Smiling, I nod. “Okay then. Thanks for saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“After you left, I lied in my bed and I remembered all of it. I wrapped your scent around me and got myself off.” I hear him exhale slowly. “It was awesome. I won’t ever forget it.”

“I should go.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you ever forget what we did last night?”

“No, Tristan, I won’t.”

“Good.”

“You, uh, you take care.”

“You too, Bishop.”

I hang up, gazing out at the pool. At least I know last night was something to him too. Maybe I can’t have him, but that won’t stop me from thinking of him.

Sitting in class on campus,I stare out the window daydreaming about my life just a few weeks ago. In the time I’ve been here, I feel like the biggest misfit. Everyone wants to party and get drunk, but I want to go home. I want to call Bishop. I want to be in his arms again. I sigh. I knew missing him would suck.

When I shift my attention to the front again, listening to the professor drone on about antiquities in ancient Macedonia, a girl catches my eye. She keeps twisting in her seat to look at me. Oh great. Another chick I gotta shake off. There must be something about me that makes the girls think I’m an option, but I’m far from it. Never been one. Never will be.

I look down at my computer and pretend to type some notes even though I’m not listening. When class is over, I grab my stuff, shove it in my messenger bag and make my way throughthe crowded auditorium, but pause when I feel a hand on my arm. I glance back and it’s her. The girl staring at me all class.

She smiles. “Hi.”

”Hey.”

”Is your name Tristan by chance?”

”Yeah.”

”Perfect. I snuck a peek at the class list.” She opens her bag and digs out two pieces of mail. “These are yours.”

I take them from her. “How did you get these?”

“Instructor sent them the first week, but I think because our names are similar, whoever put them in the boxes got us mixed up.”

“Oh. What’s your name?”

“Trinity.”

“Cool. Thanks for finding me.”

“Sure.”