Only Tristan would think to drive with the roof open in this bitter cold, to wait until this late at night to venture across the Massachusetts countryside for an already-sleeping city, to head without thinking, without warning us beforehand …
Maybe that was the first moment I could appreciate Tristan the way Win seemed to, the quality that made him larger than us somehow: his ability to hurtle full speed where we merely crept, slow and ever-watchful.
I could have driven forever like that, even as my body numbed and my cheeks felt immobile with cold. But evidently Tristan did have a plan, because he pulled up to a curbside in front of the sparkling exterior of a hotel, tossed his keys at the uniformed valet in a movement that looked practiced, and spun around in a whirl of black, his voracious grin bidding us follow him.
We piled into the lobby of the plaza, three of us benumbed teenagers entirely out of our element, Tristan striding in decisively like he owned the whole place.
“We’ve got a hotel suite on the thirty-fifth floor,” he told us, walking backwards so he could encompass us with a theatric sweep of his arm, “And full access to the amenities down here… courtesy of Dad, of course.” He yanked out his shiny black credit card for us, answering all of our questions before we could even ask.