Life Interrupted (5 page)

I have to hand it to Katie, Richie
is
hot.  And his name isn’t actually Richie, so he’s even hotter.

I arrived only ten minutes late to find the three of them already in a booth.  Katie took one look at my outfit and sent me her death glare, but I ignored her because, really, what was I going to do about it now?

When she stood in her micro-mini and skyscraper stilettos (which are both a tad too much for a pizza joint if you ask me) to introduce me to Doug (who’s hand I squeezed just a little too tightly, making him wince after his eyes wandered down my figure in an overt display of appreciation) and then to Richie (who is actually Dean), I had to do a double take.  I’d prepared myself for a Doug look-a-like and my strategy was to only glance at him once and then get through the night without doing so again in the hope that his looks wouldn’t matter because his personality would be somewhat engaging, which I knew was a stretch if he was anything like his cousin.  But one look at Dean and I had to look again.  And again.  Personality be damned, I just might stare at him all night.

He may stand eye level with me
, but he certainly weighs more and he definitely does
not
suffer from the same anorexic or emotional tendencies as Doug, since neither is reflected in his attire.  Thank god, Dean is hot.  Like, smoking hot.  Black hair just a little unruly but not beiber-esque, brown eyes and a strong jaw.  Broad shoulders and nice biceps complete the package, and though he’s an inch or two shorter than Tripp, he’s bulkier, like he lifts some serious weights, which kind of makes up for it. 

For once, I fe
el petite, or at least not like I’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting if the night gets scary. 

Now, we are one pizza down (Dean actually eats so I don’t feel the need to hold back either, hooray!) and we’ve almost completely stopped trying to include Katie and Dougie Fresh into the
conversation.  Between their intimate touches and smoldering stares, I decided it was safer all around to just exclude them.

Currently, we are discussing his name. 

“I don’t understand the Richie reference.  Is it a nickname? A play on words? Are you loaded? Spoiled? A Richard Gere fan?”

He laughs and throws his arm over the back of the booth, angling his body so it sits toward mine. 
Not too close, but close enough to show interest and comfort.  Well played, Dean.  “Richard Gere? Aren’t you a little young to know who that is?”

I give him a look.  “Please.  You’re what, nineteen?”

He grins sheepishly.  “But I have a fake I.D. that says I’m twenty-three.”

I want to tell him I have a baby that trumps his fake I.D. but I don’t.  Instead I shake my head.  “
I turned eighteen in October.  We’re practically the same age.”

Doug mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “legal” and I
eye him over my water glass.  “Katie won’t be eighteen until March,” I say lightly, and he freezes for a moment.  I incline my head at him and smile. 
Challenge accepted, Doug, so watch your step.

Dean coughs through a laugh and
I turn my attention back to him, trying not to wince when I hear Doug mumble to Katie “You’re not eighteen?”
She’s definitely going to kill me now,
I think before turning back to my date.  That’s right people, I’m on a date, with a boy, and did I mention he’s hot? And not an idiot.  It’s like I’m Cinderella and my wish really did come true (providing Cinderella’s glass slipper had been a size ten and her dream was about pepperoni pizza and hot boys with washboard abs…and dates that didn’t end in pregnancy tests and tears.  Yikes, that’s a lot for old Cindy).

“So, back to the nickname.  Where did it come from?”

“His real name is Richard,” Doug blurts out and I assume he’s listening to our conversation because he’s no longer sure he should be having one with his underage date.  I watch Dean wince.  Who wouldn’t? Richard? What’s wrong with parents? “Dean is his middle name.”

This makes sense, a lot of people go by their middle names, especially if they have a shared first name or a really bad one.  I think Richard constitutes a
s a really bad one, but even so, all that comes out of my mouth is “Your parents named you Dick Dean?”

I’m not sure why this horrifies me, it’s not like Dean is his last name (I don’t actually know what his last name is yet) and besides, I myself suffer from the double initials game.  Rachel Reynolds.
  R squared. Rae Rae.  Fucking adorable.  And still, all I can focus on is that one fact.  Talk about unfortunate alliteration.

Katie is staring at me with those laser eyes again, the ones that promise pain and suffering
, and for a minute I worry that I’ve just blown this night for both of us.  It’s actually Doug that inadvertently comes to my rescue when he starts laughing. 

Dean follows suit and then we’re all laughing and I’m so relieved I feel like crying. 

When we’re done, or at least settled enough that he can speak, Dean nods.  “Yep.  Which is why I go by Dean and
Douglass
here is the only one who calls me any form of Richard.  Just as a side note, Doug’s full name is spelled with a double s at the end, so inadvertently his parents made him an ass.” 

“It was like a premonition,” I say and Doug, who’s already red, goes from embarrassed to irate in point two.  The purplish shade of his face is actually quite adorable.
  Like a six-year-old throwing a tantrum.

Dean just smiles
and then looks at me.  “Your turn.  Why Flow?”

“Because rhythm was taken?” I venture and he smiles.

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I’d rather be called Dougl
ass.
” Across the table, I’m pretty sure Doug just squeaked.

Dean doesn’t bother to hide his laughter.  Man, he’s hot and he can make fun of his douchebag cousin.  It might be love.
“So, should I just call you Rachel?”

I freeze for a minute and meet his eyes.  I want to nod, but for some reason
I shake my head vigorously, like one of those girls named Chastity or Tiffany or Candi with an i, like I can’t hear my full name without wanting to punch myself for how stupid it is, when the truth is that I don’t mind my name. I mean, Rachel Reynolds isn’t the best name in the world, but it’s not the worst, either.  No, it’s not the name Rachel, it’s the person saying it.

Idiot,
I scold myself. 
This boy is hot.  And he’s here.  And available.  And he’s not afraid of you, or built like a malnourished teenager who’s mom did major drugs when carrying him.  Who cares what he calls you?
I do.  Maybe I
should
punch myself. 

Sucking in a breath, I don’t dare glance at Katie who has stopped
whisper-arguing with Doug to stare at me.  Instead, I smile at Dean.  “Actually, just Rae’s fine.”

~

              Katie and Doug invited us (halfheartedly, I may add as I sensed Doug was still a little miffed over the name game we played…or the fact that his date isn’t as old as she said she was) to see a late movie with them, and I was relieved when it was Dean who declined, explaining that he had a rugby game early the next morning.

             
I’m sorry, rugby? Hot
and
played a college sport? Why the eff was he going out on blind dates with high school girls? When I said this to his face, he laughed and explained the rugby team was club, not varsity, and that Doug had actually begged him to go tonight, saying something about an intimidating best friend who was always trying to sabotage his credit with Katie. 

             
I had to give Dougie Fresh props, he wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t as big an idiot as I thought.  When Dean then asked if he could call me, I said yes—practically shouted it, truth be known—and threw my phone number at him.  Now, driving home, I relive the dinner, making note that since Gracie has arrived, those are the first two hours I’ve really spent just doing what everyone else my age is doing.  It wasn’t practice, it wasn’t a game or work or a night when Katie came over and we hung out at the house so I could be with Gracie.

             
At eighteen I’d just be on my very first date, and it felt really good.

             
There’s still a smile on my face when I pull up to the curb in front of Tripp’s and look at the dash clock.  It’s barely ten o’clock.  Early for most teenagers, and yet, I’m debating whether or not to wake Gracie and take her home or just leave her sleeping and stay here.  Tripp is sure to be out, as he always is on a Saturday.  I try not to get hung up on the fact that it’s probably with Lauren. 

Sundays a
re our thing.  Over the year, we’ve developed an unspoken routine where we go for a run and to the park with Gracie on Sundays, rain or shine.  We never plan it, never make a date or speak about it, but both of us always show at the Starbucks off of campus at eight a.m. 

             
During the week, we still see each other at school or when he needs a ride to or from, and he occasionally comes to my matches, but Sundays are different. They’re our day to laugh and play, to be Tripp and Rachel like we used to be.  Before Lauren, before Marcus and Gracie, before the night when he was mine for a second.

             
Getting out of the car, I click the locks and head up to the front door, rooting around under the mat until I come up with the key that’s been hidden there since we were in elementary school.

             
Jamming it in the lock, I place it back under the mat before stepping inside and locking the door behind me.  The entryway is dark and I can see the blue glow of the television at the end of the hallway.  Wondering if Georgie waited up for me, I follow it and stop when I see Tripp spread out on the couch in sweats and a t-shirt, the remote resting on his belly next to a bag of skittles.  What a girl.  Most guys would have potato chips and Coca-Cola, but Tripp has his fruity candy and a bottle of water.

             
“Gonna use a straw to drink that designer water?” I ask and plop down next to him.  I push at his feet until he swings them up and I can sit deeper into the couch.  When he plops them in my lap, I scowl but make up for it by stealing his candy.  I shovel a handful of sugar into my mouth and he raises and eyebrow.

             
“How was the date?”

             
I nod, chew, swallow.  “Good.  He plays rugby.”

             
I want to say I don’t know why I led with that out of everything else I could have said, or not said, but I do know why.  Tripp’s a guy’s guy.  He’s a two sport athlete who’s not afraid to take a hit or throw a punch.  And still, his sport is basketball.  He’s good at football, good at baseball, but his love lies in basketball, whereas Tanner and Trent were both football boys, just like Jack.  Rugby is like football on steroids, and I know that Tripp will be impressed and just the slightest bit envious.

             
“Is that what he told you?” he says with a smirk.  “No high school here has a rugby team.”

             
And for the gold medal round.  “He’s not in high school.  He plays for the university.”

             
Tripp’s eyes veer from the television to me and I smile before stealing more of his candy.  “He’s in college?” I nod, not even trying to hide my smug smile.  Why should I? I want Tripp to know just how deliriously happy I am after my date with a college boy.  I tune back into him just as he says, “What a loser.”

             
A statement like that should hurt my feelings, piss me off at the very least, but not tonight.  I just went out with a really nice, hot guy, and Tripp’s been at home eating candy and watching television like a schoolgirl.  Nope, sassy comments and snide remarks won’t get me down tonight.

             
“Oh? Last time I checked going to college was what kept one from being a loser.”

             
“Dating a girl who’s in high school when you’re in college is what makes a person a loser.  Jesus, Rachel, why can’t he get a girl his own age?”

             
“Why do you care?”

             
He shrugs and his eyes shift back to the movie.  “I don’t.  I just thought that you’d be more careful now, especially after last time.”

             
“Ah, yes, when Marcus stole my virtue and left me with the scandal of being a pregnant teen.  Well, don’t forget it was you who tried to steel it first, you just weren’t as convincing as the pothead I finally gave it to.”  When my phone vibrates with a text, I’m so pleased with the timing I don’t even wince when I see it’s Katie using shouty caps to yell at me for outing her.  I pat his arm and shove off of the couch, knocking his legs to the ground as I go.  “I’m going to bunk in the guestroom with Gracie.  See you for our run?”

             
He finally snaps his mouth closed and gives one brief nod, saying nothing as I saunter down the hall, texting Katie as I go.  Pressing send, I slip inside of the room and close the door, smiling at the sound of Gracie’s little grunts and groans as she shifts around.  For the first time since it happened, I just mentioned the unmentionable night to Tripp and I’m pleased to say I’ve left him reeling.  It’s about damn time.