Page 75 of Hockey Halloween
Ligaya
“He, what, walked out the door?” Toby keeps his mouth open in a pose of disbelief.
“Ran out the door. I doubt he’ll show up.”
Tonight is our annual Halloween bash wherein Toby provides the house and some booze while I prep all the food.
It doesn’t matter if Tristan shows up. The Bad Decisions theme will be a blast with our friends.
Toby is reliving his cringy 2010s by wearing cargo shorts with too many pockets and multiple Monster Energy drinks stuffed in them.
I, on the other hand, am less elaborate.
My bad decision is a tattoo on my lower back. That’s right, I have a tramp stamp.
To be fair, I was at a friend’s bachelorette party in Maui. I am not above peer pressure, it must be said. A tattoo party can seem rational with enough daiquiris in one’s bloodstream.
We all chose slightly different patterns of seashells, honoring the event and the symbolism of experiencing the ocean together. I happen to find it adorable, but it fits the Bad Decisions theme after Toby scripted the words “Seas The Day” over my seashell using liquid eyeliner.
I’m wearing one of those shirts that covers the front but has three ties at the back, like a hospital gown but, hopefully, a tad sexier.
Finger foods are arranged on Toby’s kitchen island, ready to be served.
Halloween brings out my theatrical impulse to take themes too far.
There’s mummy dogs wrapped in flaky pastry, deviled eggs with olive slices for eerie eyeballs, and a bubbling cauldron of witch’s brew punch.
Brownie tombstones lean against piles of candy bones, and my personal favorite—“severed fingers,” aka breadsticks with almond sliver nails—are artfully staged like crime scene charcuterie.
“You’re truly unwell,” Toby says, eyeing the severed fingers.
“Thanks, babe,” I chirp, popping a candy eyeball into my mouth.
Our friends arrive, each one making me cackle.
Anna has her ex’s name badly scribbled in Sharpie across a white T-shirt.
Sydney is proudly sporting a neon orange tan.
Kai has stuffed his shirt with fake dollar bills and a sign that says, “Ask me about financial freedom!” He’s a pyramid scheme victim.
Meanwhile, Quinn has duct-taped an entire Ikea instruction manual to his shirt.
“Something is glowing out there,” Kai yells over the chatter and music.
Heads swivel toward the window. My eyes narrow at the neon flicker in the yard.
And then, stepping into full view, is Tristan.
Six-foot, broad-shouldered, mega-watt-smile Tristan, wearing a set of fairy wings.
Not just any fairy wings. They’re oversized and blinking with white and blue Christmas lights.
Laughter and cheers burst when Tristan enters with his confident gait. I’m clapping along with everyone else, but there’s another sensation percolating under my skin.
Something suspiciously like moved.
I’m touched by the effort and the apology at the core of this ridiculous costume. Tristan’s “bad decision” was hurting me all those years ago by ruining the wings I made with my sister.
We were clueless teenagers who went out of our way to magnify the ordinary cruelties of life. But somehow, Tristan converts those unpleasant memories into something sweet and private and profound. I have no idea what to do with that.
Kai pokes a wing. “You made these? How?”
“Not from scratch but I added the glitter and lights,” Tristan answers. “What do you think of the glitter, Ligaya?”
I think it’s the exact shade of pink as my old wings .
Before I can question him further, the room erupts with avid introductions. Tristan is subjected to Quinn’s disastrous encounter with an Ikea shelf and Sydney’s tirade about the harms of tanning beds.
“So? Why the wings? Wait, let me guess,” Toby says, swirling his glass before taking a dainty sip. “You lost a bet with a fairy drag queen!”
“I wish,” Tristan says with a chuckle. “I’m not that cool.”
“You wanted to be the tooth fairy as a kid but went into hockey instead,” Anna guesses.
“Guys, leave him alone,” I interject. “Remember we are not required to elaborate on our mistakes.”
“I don’t mind answering.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
“I clipped a person’s wings once,” he states.
“Oh my god, you mean it’s a metaphor ?” Toby exclaims with his hand on his heart.
I’m drawn to Tristan’s steady gaze as he observes my reaction. I’m the first to look away, flustered.
After a beat, Tristan clears his throat and rasps, “Yeah. Something like that.”