“You shouldn’t drive back to Columbus in this state. Come in for a breather,” I offer.
“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”
“I might not be a fancy hockey player, but I make enough to move out,” I state haughtily and regret my tone immediately. Sarcasm is my default around Tristan, even when I’m intending to be nice.
“Turn left up the road, please.”
He parks on my driveway, eerily quiet while following me onto the tiny porch of my townhouse.
“Nice place,” he says when we enter. Some might call my home eclectic. That’s a short way of saying my style comprises of colorful thrift store finds and unique restored antiques. The only matching elements are the plants that I stuff into every free corner and onto every surface. I love the warm, quirky enclave I’ve created for myself.
“Have a seat.”
I point to my plush maroon sectional made of velvet so soft it could be butter. This was my big splurge. The fabric, not the sofa. Being a theater junkie exposes you to all kinds of skills, like reupholstering furniture.
Tristan sits down, and I can’t help but notice how his pants are strained by those hockey thighs. God, they’re like tree trunks. I turn to the kitchen to stop myself from gawking.
“Do you want a drink? Tea or coffee?” I say in a rush.
“Water’s fine. Thank you.”
Clipped and tense, Tristan is not himself.
“How about something stronger?”
My offer surprises both of us. I head over to what was once a dining room hutch with bookshelves. It’s fully repurposed to fit my particular needs. Tristan steps closer and peers inside.
“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 moms was active with the parent organization. She’s also 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’t actually 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, 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.”
