Page 129 of Hockey Halloween
“How about something stronger?”
My offer surprises both of us. I head over to what was once a dining room hutch, fully repurposed to suit my particular needs. Tristan steps closer.
“I did not expect this.” He gestures at the shelves stocked with wine bottles featuring weird labels. “Is this a liquor store or a cry for help?”
“This,” I answer, waving at my collection of PTA-sponsored booze, “is my real teacher’s pension.”
He reaches for a bottle of Merlot, turning it in his hands. “Wait. Is yourfaceon the label?”
I squint in semi-embarrassment. “Yup.”
He reads the label out loud. “Miss T’s Emotional Support Juice—Pairs Well with Standardized Testing.” Tristan snorts. “Ligaya, how did this happen?”
“One of the very involved moms is a wine distributor. All three of her kids went through the drama club after I took over six years ago. Another PTA member started the label swapping as a joke. It’s gotten out of hand, with parents outdoing each other. I don’tactually drink much, as you can tell, but I appreciate their support of the arts.”
I point to another bottle, a chardonnay with an unflattering picture of me wincing. “That one is calledSip Happens.”
Tristan grins. “Jesus, that picture.”
“Oh, we’re not done.” I grab another bottle and place it in his hands. “Feast your eyes on this one.”
He turns it and reads the label pasted over the vodka bottle. Tristan practically chokes at the ridiculousness of the label:99% Proof That You’re Underpaid.
He holds the bottle to his chest. “I don’t know if I should laugh or cry at the truth of that statement.”
“Definitely cry.”
Tristan puts the vodka back on the shelf. “Thanks, I needed a laugh.”
“Glad my PTA-funded revelry is entertaining.”
We’re standing too close. Tristan’s hazel eyes lower to my lips while his clenched jaw turns to granite. Looking away, I grab a bottle along with two wine glasses.
“Let’s toast to the life you saved today.”
Tristan puts his hand over mine to stop the motion.
“Don’t open it for me. I, um, I don’t need a drink,” he says, fingers lingering over mine.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, mesmerized by his darkened eyes, “Whatdoyou need, Tristan?”
Tristan
What do I need?
I need to breathe.
A deep, oxygen-rich inhale.
Unfortunately, my lungs forgot how to do their one job. It’s not a physical sensation, exactly. It’s more an overall ailment that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
It’s a toxic mix of panic and grief.
Tonight, a woman collapsed in my arms, slumping to dead weight. For a split second, I was fifteen again. Helplessly watching my sister’s life slip away, unable to do a damn thing about it.
The way the woman in the restaurant slackened in my arms, the way people shouted, the chaos of it…
“I thought she was gonna die,” I whisper. “Right there, in my arms.”
