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I throw up in my mouth a little. “Tristan, it’s me, Beatrix. Flip’s sister.”
He frowns, and his brows pull together. “Beat?”
I fight a cringe at the horrible nickname he gave me when we were kids. As in: “Beat it. No one wants you around.”
His slightly unfocused gaze rakes over me, assessing. “Shit. You were a gangly, pimple-faced nerd the last time I saw you.”
Ego: minus ten.
Tristan: one.
Turns out, I still really fucking hate Tristan. I cross my arms. “Still the same giant dick, huh?” I glance down for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.
He smirks. “Still interested in finding out, huh?”
“Of course that’s your interpretation, you dirtbag.” I roll my eyes even as my cheeks burst with heat. I may or may not have had a crush on Tristan when I was a freshman. And I may or may not have seen him completely naked once. Mostly, sort of, not even a little not on purpose. “Let me rephrase, still the same giant asshole.”
His smirk grows smirkier. “Sure, that’s what you meant.”
This conversation is stupidly juvenile, and I’m suddenly exhausted beyond belief.
“Look, today has been a giant bag of shit,” I tell him. “I get that it’s been a lot of years since you’ve had the chance to torment me, but do you think you can put a pin in it until tomorrow? I’m wiped, and dealing with your assholery isn’t high on my priority list.”
When I try to slip past him, he blocks my way. “How long have you been here?”
Oh, shit. I bite my lips together and blink up at him. He narrows his eyes and steps forward, forcing me to step back unless I want my chest to brush his. Which, let’s be honest, I kind of do. It’s so stupidly cliché, the whole having a teen crush on my brother’s best friend. But dude was hot, and sometimes, when Flip wasn’t there to witness it, Tristan could be…kind. Soft. Those moments were rare, but they ignited that stupid crush flame and kept it burning throughout freshman year.
Then Tristan was drafted to a farm team out of the province, and his hockey career exploded a few years later.
“I asked you a question, Beat.” He leans in closer, until his warm exhale caresses my cheek and his lips are at my ear. “I expect an answer.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I inhale the scent of cheap perfume. I wonder, briefly, why he didn’t bring home whoever was clearly hanging all over him tonight. Then I remember that as hot as he is, he’s still seventy-five percent asshole. “Not long,” I croak.
He pulls back, and his shrewd gaze locks on mine. “You’re lying.”
My swallow is audible. He’s not wrong.
“Why didn’t you announce yourself when I came home?” His voice is deceptively soft. But I’m not fooled. I remember how he used to cajole when I was a kid, and then he’d trick me into something stupid. Sometimes it was harmless, like telling me he had a chocolate bar, but really he was holding an agitated toad. When I got close enough, he would toss it in my face like an asshole and run away laughing.
Other times, though, he did things out of spite, or anger, or sheer dickish-ness. Like the time I was all dressed up for my best friend Essie’s tenth birthday party and my dad was dropping Flip off at Tristan’s to swim. We were early, so he went in to help Tristan’s dad with some handyman project. I can’t remember exactly how it all went down, but Tristan threw me in the pool fully clothed. My mom had done my hair and even made my dress. I’d been so excited, and he totally ruined it.
I feel like that’s the version of Tristan I’m looking at. That version wasn’t my favorite back then, and I like it even less now.
“First, I was asleep until I heard you come in.” Or I would have liked to have been… “Second, you’re wasted, and you can barely keep yourself from falling over. I wasn’t super interested in dealing with my brother’s drunk-ass best friend at stupid o’clock in the morning after the shitty day I’ve had. Third, what the hell was I supposed to say?” My voice rises with irritation and indignation. “So sorry for interrupting you, Palmela, and Fingerella? Maybe shut the bathroom door next time!”
“I thought I was alone!” he snaps. “You could’ve made yourself known at any point.”
“’Cause that wouldn’t have been awkward at all.”
He leans in again and drops his voice. “Maybe you kept quiet because you liked it. Did you just listen, Beat, or did you watch, too?”
Nothing like being accurately called out by a drunk jerk. Not that I’ll admit it. “Check your ego, Tristan, and back the fuck off.” I shove his chest, and he stumbles back a step, maybe not expecting it. The lights in the kitchen come on.
