Tristan:Flying back tonight.
Tristan:How did they do?
My thumb hovers over the screen.
But then I remember why I decided to stop this ridiculous back-and-forth. We said one night. One perfect night. There’s no point second-guessing my decision to end things there.
I had asked him where he lived in Columbus, and he had said something about a temporary condo. It was clear he would be returning to Colorado after the season.
Back to his real team.
Back to his real life.
It sucked to be ghosted in high school after a passionate kiss. A fling while Tristan has a foot out the door—out of the city—is going to feel much worse when things inevitably end.
“I invited your hockey crush,” Toby sing-songs, tossing the skull from one hand to the other.
My head snaps up. “You did what?”
“I told Tristan where we’re going.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Because karaoke is about relaxing, and Tristan is the opposite of relaxing.
He is a temporary thrill packaged with permanent regret.
“I’m sure he’s too busy,” I console myself.
“He’s not too busy. He had a game in Columbus tonight, but it just wrapped up.”
“You’re insufferable.” My grumbling has no effect.
“Only when I’m right.”
By the time we make it to Pitch Slapped, the place is semi-packed with familiar faces. Someone is wrapping up a Britney song. Mandi holds a drink the color of antifreeze. I nurse a beer and order food.
Halfway through my fried cheese stick basket, the door swings open. Tristan enters in a sharp suit with an even sharper jaw. His hair is a bit damp like he rushed out of the shower. Everyone at the bar does some comedic variation of the gawk. Heads turn. Jaws slacken. A slow sip of their drink. An unblinking stare.
Tristan’s eyes scan the room before landing on me.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches the table.
“You came.”
“Toby invited me.” He sounds almost accusing. Before I can dwell on it, he continues. “Congrats. I heard the show was amazing.”
“Yeah. The kids were great.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“You’ve got a whole city to play for. Who are we to keep you from the big show?” I sound pathetic and needy. I cover it by offering him a limp cheese stick.
A few songs pass. Someone does “Bohemian Rhapsody” very badly. They really should make Queen songs illegal in karaoke bars. Toby sings “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” unironically, belting each note like someone possessed by the spirit of the great Celine Dion.
Then, the DJ calls out, “Next up—Tristan.”
