Page 104 of Whiskey Kisses

“Call 911,” someone yells, but Owen’s already on his phone, relaying the situation in a calm, brisk manner.

Tristan appears, his face a torrent of rage and tears and heartbreak. For a second I think he’s injured, because there’s blood on him, but he’s moving around okay. A moment later, he sits on the ground behind me, his front to my back as he pushes my hair from my face with a trembling hand. “You’ll be okay,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple. “You’ll be okay.”

“Did he stab me?” I ask, registering the wetness on my arm. I don’t know if it’s shock or I really am injured, but it’s hard to move.

“Yeah,” Tristan says. “But you’ll be okay.” He keeps saying that, saying I’ll be okay, and I realize it’s for himself as much as it is for me.

“Stay awake, Evie,” Sloane says soothingly, wrapping something around my arm. “Keep your eyes open.”

I do, but my vision keeps blurring. I blink, and it goes away, only to return a second later. A dull ache begins to pulsate from my side where Lucky’s holding the t-shirt.He stabbed me, I think dully.Cole stabbed me.

It might be five minutes, it might be thirty, but the paramedics finally show up. A man and a woman. Their faces run together, their calm but urgent voices muffled as my hearing warps their words. I register the cold touch of metal against my skin as they check my vitals. The feel of Tristan’s body curved around mine anchors me in the present, his quiet assurances keeping me tethered to consciousness as thefemale paramedic cuts through my shirt. A bandage is placed tightly around my torso, the pressure both painful and oddly comforting, like it’s holding me together.

“Weak pulse …”

“Hospital ...”

“Please stand back.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Evie …”

The world tilts as they lift me onto a stretcher. Tristan refuses to let go, grasping my hand tightly as they wheel me through the crowd toward the ambulance. So many people, all staring at me, their faces frightened and sympathetic. There’s a shuffle behind me, and suddenly Tristan’s gone, yelling something I can’t make out as Sloane takes his place. The trees overhead open into a bright, blue sky dotted with happy clouds as the paramedics hurry out of the square and onto the street.

I realize suddenly that the music has stopped. The whole parade has stopped. The ambulance is in the middle of the route with a group of police cars, lights flashing silently. Sloane climbs into the ambulance beside me, into a cold, sterile environment where the metallic smell of my blood mingles with her perfume.

The paramedics relay a bunch of numbers I don’t understand, and then we’re moving, the sway of the ambulance finally, blessedly, pulling me under.

I don’t die.I don’t even need surgery. But I come pretty close … my arm’s slashed up and so is my right side. I’m moved from the ER to a room of my own so they can keep an eye on me and make sure that the wound in my side, so close to being deadly, heals.

Maribelle comes to see me at the hospital a few hours after I’m treated. Tristan’s elsewhere, dealing with the cops and a couple of injuries of his own, so it’s just Bria and me when my sister shows up looking more torn up than I’ve ever seen her, even worse than Daddy’s funeral.

“Oh, my God, Evie,” she croaks, walking toward me with halting steps. Her belly’s so big now. She must be due any day.

Bria knows about my relationship with Maribelle because I’ve confided in her. She looks between the two of us now and stands from the chair beside my bed. “I’ll give you two some time,” she says, slipping out of the room before I can protest.

Maribelle stares down at me with puffy, red eyes. I think I’ve seen her cry more over the past six months than I did over the entirety of our relationship. Suddenly the texts she sent while I was at the parade flash through my Vicodin-addled mind. “You knew, didn’t you?”

She sinks into the chair, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “I’d just found out when I texted you.”

I stay silent, waiting for her to go on. I have neither the desire nor the energy to keep up my end of any dialogue.

“You were right,” she says soberly, staring at her lap. “About everything. I’ve been with Cole on and off for nearly five years, but somehow you knew him better than I did.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, though I’m not sure why.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t even know what to think anymore. Was he using me, all this time?”

“It’s his baby, right?” I ask, my voice brittle. I already know it is, but I need her to finally fucking admit it.

And she does, with a slow nod. “He hasn’t been the same since his dad died and he got sick. I mean obviously. He almost died, himself.” Her breath hitches, and she pauses, gathering herself. I close my eyes briefly, grateful for the narcotic fog I’m in. “Anyway, I went to see him today. DJ and Fabien were there, and he was acting really weird with me. Like he didn’t want me there. We had a fight, and they went outside to smoke … so I went through his phone. I could tell he’d been hiding stuff from me, and I wondered if he was seeing someone else.”

I don’t bother to point out the irony of this. Maribelle’s not stupid—she knows. She drags her watery gaze to mine, and the misery I see touches my anger, pain, and fear. “I found a bunch of old pictures, Evie, of y’all back in high school, and some of just you. A couple of them were …” Her eyes harden, and she looks away. “Inappropriate.”

Swallowing, I reach for the water beside the bed. I feel like I might be sick.

Maribelle grabs the cup, bringing it to my lips with a tremblinghand. “I trusted him, Evie. I knew he had a dark side, but I never thought he’d go this far.”

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