Page 18 of Whiskey Kisses

“Poppy.” I nod at Ms. Judgy, who’s still watching from the window. “And that one over there is Juniper.”

“I’m more of a dog person?—”

“Don’t you dare speak out against my babies,” I warn, pointing at him.

“But I like Poppy,” he finishes loudly, lifting her to his lap. “And she likes me.”

“She likes everybody.”

“Nah, we have something special,” he whispers as she head-butts his chin. “So, what’s the deal with you and Cole?”

“Ah, the real reason you came over.” This makes sense. Of course, he’d be caught up on what went down last night. I’m having a hard time not thinking about it, myself. “And here I thought you just wanted more drama with my dad.”

“You know, I could’ve justtextedyou.” He bends over to release Poppy. “If you’d given me your number when I asked for it.”

I laugh incredulously. “You’re really used to getting your way, aren’t you? When did you get so pushy? The Tristan I knew was so sweet and easygoing.”

“I’m still easygoing, when I want to be,” he says, sipping his sweet tea. “But I was never sweet.”

“Yes, you were?—"

“Maybe with you and your sister.” His eyes twinkle. “How is Maribelle?”

I busy myself with a pile of junk mail, my mood effectively soured. Of course, he’d ask about her. “Married and pregnant with kid number two.”

“Being an aunt is the best, huh?” Tristan leans forward, sniffing the potted mint on the countertop. “I love Lucky’s kid like he’s mine.”

Of course, he does. He and Lucky were always close. “I don’t ever see my niece, to be honest. Maribelle and I barely talk.”

“Huh.” He frowns slightly, pivoting. “So, back to last night. That was some chokehold—were you going to tell me you’d started training?”

“I don’t train, I just … practice.”

“Same thing. You took that guy out like a pro,” he says, giving me a crooked smile. “Kinda gave me a boner.”

“Ew, Tristan!” I groan, covering my face.

“I mean it,” he insists, but he’s laughing now. “That shit was impressive, Evie Knievel.”

“Thanks.” I play it off, but his words hit my heart like an arrow.

Tristan was always about wrestling and jiu jitsu, even when we were pretty young. He talked about it all the time when they came to visit, showing off videos of his matches on his phone. There was already a little bit of hero worship happening on my end, so that just made me like him more. I admired his strength and discipline, the passion he had. Besides a few hobbies, like reading and gardening, I didn’t have anything like that.

Sometimes, after the Kellys went back home, I watched videos of Tristan by myself. I liked seeing him fight. I liked seeing him, period.

After Mama left, I needed something physical, a way to process all the hurt and anger that had been building inside me for years. I was tired of being tired, of being depressed and out of shape. Opal’s brother Eddie encouraged me to try Brazilian jiu jitsu after listening to me complain about my pathetic life for the millionth time, but—deep down—Tristan was the real reason I took him up on it. And Tristan was the reason I stuck it out when I was frustrated, when I felt like I’d always suck.

At the studio I could put it all on the mat. Nobody pitied me, butnobody took it easy on me, either. I didn’t just shed my baby fat. I shed the version of myself I hated—the weak, whiny victim who couldn’t stand up for herself. At the end of the day, it wasn’t even about losing weight. It was about processing my feelings, not hiding them or eating them. It was about being strong—inside and out—and being someone I was proud of. It was about winning.

Needless to say, Tristan doesn’t know any of this. I don’t want him to. He inspired me at a time when I really needed it, and that’s enough.

“Where do you train?” he asks, taking out his phone. “Sorry,practice.”

“Phoenix Rising. It’s a studio across town,” I say. “I go most days after work.”

“Is it just BJJ or do they have punching bags?”

“They have everything.”

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