Tripp (21 page)

She stares at me for another few seconds before shrugging my hands off her arm and sighing. “He called a month ago…asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday…talked all about how he wanted to be the one to take me out since my mom’s at a big nature-dinner something-or-other tonight. I told him I wanted to go to the game. He said
perfect
. I ordered the tickets off StubHub, and texted him the time and everything. All he had to do was
show up
,” she says. This time, her voice is low. I look over from where I’d been staring at the ground and see her cheeks are wet—barely, but there’s a definite line of moisture running down her face. I stop because
holy shit
, Rachel’s crying.

Rachel never cries. Ever.

My palms are damp and my throat feels dry. My heart is slamming into my ribs. I can’t find any words, because I’m staring at my best friend—the girl who’s put her fist in my face more than any other person in my life—and she’s crying. More painful than seeing her cry…is watching her try to hold the tears in, like she can’t stand to let even one of them go for him.

“Why can’t he just show up, Tripp? He didn’t even call. I texted him earlier to make sure we were still on, and he didn’t respond. Like a fucking idiot, I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything. I still got ready, still pretended he was coming to get me…even as I sat there for an hour after he was supposed to have picked me up…even after I called and texted him four times without a response.” She wipes at her cheeks only to have two more tears fall from her eyes.

My hand reaches out before I even know what’s going on, catching one of those tears. She stops sniffling long enough to look at me and, for a second, I’m not breathing, only staring at Rachel with her big, wet eyes and her tear on my fingertip. I want to hug her, to tell her what a douche her dad is, and that she shouldn’t cry over him…but I don’t, because I can’t speak. All I can do is stare at her.

She breaks contact first, swiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. “Crap. This is embarrassing. Crying is so girly.”

This breaks through my mute-fog and I laugh, rubbing my fingers together until the moisture from that tear dries up. “I think it’s okay for you to do something girly, considering you
are
a girl.”

“So you
do
notice.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Thanks for letting me get that out. You tell anyone, and I’ll deny it before I beat your ass.”

“So tough,” I say and wait for her to pick up her controller before hitting
START
again. As predicted, her quarterback fails to make the completion even though I was barely pressuring.

“Moron,” she says. I smile because she’s no longer beating her controller into submission.

We play until I beat her, and then we start another game—with the same teams, because she refuses to accept defeat as always. Halfway through, I can’t help but look over at her again, though I do it out of the corner of my eye so she doesn’t catch me and berate me for it. Her tears are gone—thank Jesus—and she seems happier, but I can still tell there’s something off, something that’s weighing on her.

I’ve only met Rachel’s dad a few times. He hasn’t ever really been around. He moved out when she was just a baby, and since then, he’s been absent a lot of her life. I know she pretends not to need him, but every time he makes her a promise he doesn’t keep, she hurts. Regardless of how much of a sissy it makes me, I feel that hurt deep inside, every time. Not that I’ll tell her—she dislikes pity almost as much as she dislikes crying; I’d be sure to get a fist in the face for my troubles.

I pause the game again. She yells, but I ignore her and run into my room, grabbing the package I had my mom wrap last week. I walk back out and throw it at her like it’s no big deal, heading into the kitchen to grab us some chips and water.

When I’m sure she’s had time to open it, I head back into the den. She’s holding the signed Women’s-US-volleyball jersey I found on EBay, staring at it. After I sit, she turns her gaze to me. I want to glance away, but I can’t because looking at those eyes has something rolling in my chest—something big and uncomfortable that’s stealing my air. I feel like I did the last time she punched me in the stomach for hurting Katie’s feelings.

“Happy birthday,” I say and switch back to focusing on the television, the feeling subsiding slightly now that I’m not trapped in those gray eyes.

In my peripheral, I see her nod. “Thank you.”

“Hey Rachel?” I ask after we’ve started playing again.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

She’s quiet for a minute, throwing a pass and actually completing a play. “Me too,” she finally says, and I get it. Then she adds, “Thanks for being here for my birthday, Tripp.”

“Always.” And I mean it.

29

Present

Despite the urge, I don’t chase after Rachel. As much as I resent it, what Tanner said was right. Rachel doesn’t trust me to help her—to be with her when it’s more complicated than laughing and messing around. She doesn’t think I should want to be a part of Gracie’s life, so she won’t let me.

As much as I try to understand why she thinks this, to be calm and levelheaded when I do talk to her, I can’t. I can’t pretend it’s okay that she doesn’t trust me. I can’t pretend it’s okay she won’t lean on me. I’m not her dad; I’m not going to sit by and let her live her life while I only get to be a part of it sometimes. I want it all—the good and the bad—and I’m ready to fight her for it.

Still, I wait. I stay at work past my shift, making an inventoried list of the Jeep that interrupted Rachel and me earlier—noting down all the changes the guy is going to have to make if he has any hope of putting a lift on and actually keeping the car together at the same time. I help Griff close and clean up; Tanner is already long gone to shower and change for his shift at the bar he works at on campus. My brother doesn’t speak until we’re done, and then all he does is say “Video games?”

I nod, walking to the sink to scrub my hands. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs and joins me, scrubbing the dirt from his as well. “Not until later. My roommate and his girlfriend are home, and as much as I think she’s cool, I can’t really stand to be alone in the house with them for too long.”

His statement has me thinking about my own girlfriend and how pissed I am at her, but I laugh. “No romantic streak in you, big brother?”

“There’s romance…and then there’s
these two
. They never use real names—ever. Everything is baby and sweetie and babe. I’m not even sure I know her real name, now that I think about it.”

“Well, G Money, it just so happens I’m free this evening. Madden and mom’s cooking?”

“Deal.” Before I can turn around to go, Griff says my name again. “Hey, Tripp? For what it’s worth, I think she really loves you.”

I nod before walking away. I know what Griff is saying is true. Rachel is tough and she’s cold sometimes, but she’s not a liar. She wouldn’t have told me she loved me if she didn’t. There’s a part of me that wonders if she’s giving me all she’s capable of—and if I can live with it if it turns out she can’t ever give me more.

~

Griff stayed until ten and then made his way home, leaving me eight hours to stew and think. I never called or texted Rachel. However much I disagreed with her decision to shut me out and take care of Gracie on her own—I respected it.

That’s possibly the hardest thing about loving her like this. I can’t fault her for wanting to be strong and independent and in charge of her daughter on her own.

“Sure you can,” my mom tells me as I sit in the kitchen just after five, finally giving up on my attempt to sleep. “Tripp, if you’re as serious about this relationship with her as you seem, then you need to talk to her.
Talk
,” she says with great emphasis. I figure she’s referring to how Rachel and I prefer to yell when we’re trying to make a point.

“What if she tells me she’s never going to change?”

I hate that I have to ask—hate that I’m insecure enough, weak enough, to need reassurance from my mom. It’s like I’m ten instead of eighteen. Mom shrugs. “Then you ask yourself if you can live with it, and if you can, you go on like this. If you can’t, then you walk away.”

The thought of walking away from Rachel makes me hurt everywhere, but when I think of sitting on the sidelines every time something big happens, waiting for her to call and tell me when she’s ready to see me, I don’t feel much better.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and look up at my mom, smiling a little when she stands on her tiptoes to give me a hug while I’m in my seated position on the stool. “Go get dressed. We’ll go grab some coffee and head over there. Leigh called me last night and asked if I would be able to stay with Rachel and Gracie this morning while she was at a meeting with her grad school kids.”

“Does Rachel know Dr. C called you to babysit her?”

“Probably not, but she doesn’t need permission to look out for her daughter, and neither do I.”

“It’s your skin,” I mutter as I stand.

“Just for that, you’re buying coffee.”

I do buy the coffee, getting Rachel her regular latte, no flavor added—even though I have no idea if she’ll even be awake. We knock lightly on the door and Dr. C opens pretty quickly, her hair in a thick braid over her shoulder, her long lean frame covered with black sweats and a hoodie—I stare, surprised at how strong her resemblance is to her youngest daughter. Rachel’s a little darker in her complexion and her hair, and her eyes are a different color, but something about the way Dr. C stands…as if she’s not afraid of anything…reminds me of Rachel.

“Leigh, we brought provisions.”

I follow my mom and head toward the kitchen, glancing briefly at the hallway leading down to Rachel’s room. I lean back against the counter and listen to Dr. C talk about last night, trying not to squeeze through my cup when she mentions that Rachel did most of the rocking and walking with Gracie while she fought her fever.

There’s a movement at the doorway of the kitchen, and I turn to glance at it, making direct eye contact with Rachel. She’s wearing orange and black OSU boxers with a gray sweatshirt that bags on her shoulders. Her hair is down, heavy and dark and thick. I can see the small dark bruises of fatigue marring the skin under her eyes.

We stare at each other, and though I know she didn’t expect me, she doesn’t look upset that I’m here. I might be imagining it, but there’s a part of her that looks happy to see me, almost relieved.

My mom and hers are sitting at the breakfast bar. I know they’ve stopped talking, but I don’t care. I keep my eyes on Rachel as I push away from the counter and step toward her, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the kitchen and down the hallway to her room. I pull the door closed—and before I can stop myself—I’ve got my arms around her, banding her against me. Belatedly, I think how she doesn’t like to be dragged around, and even as my lips find her forehead I wonder if she’s going to punch me.

She’s so tired. I feel her whole body lean against me, instead, and I close my eyes and hold on for a second longer. I’m mad and hurt and confused, but
how right
it feels to hold her puts some of that to the back burner.

“I have some things to say to you, but I need to know how you are first. Your mom said Gracie’s doing better, that she finally broke through the worst of it and is sleeping it off.”

She doesn’t speak, but I feel her head move up and down against my shoulder. Before I ask Rachel how she’s doing, I take a second to be relieved that Gracie appears to be on the mend. “Are you okay? I was worried when I didn’t hear from you again.”

She leans back. I open my eyes and look down at her. “Didn’t you get my text?”

So, here’s the thing. I can see sending a moronic text in the heat of the moment when a person is tired and their daughter is sick. I might not agree with it, but I can see where one might think it’s a good thing to send at the time.
At the time
being the key element in that agreement. Right now, I’m staring at Rachel and I can see that she’s serious when she asks me if I got her text, like a text would keep me from worrying and allow me to go about my business until she gave me the all clear to come see her.

I’ve never thought Rachel was stupid—in fact, I’ve copied her math homework as much as she’s copied my English homework over the years. But right now, I’m wondering if she’s dumber than I thought or really just clueless when it comes to feelings.

Taking a deep breath, I do my best not to yell at her or question her intelligence when I answer. “The one last night that said,
sorry, Gracie okay just fussy now, have fun and I’ll call you later
. That one?” I clarify. She nods and I have to breathe again, this time counting down from ten until I’m sure I won’t explode all over her.

“Rachel, you’ve had a long night and because I can see you’re almost asleep on your feet, I won’t yell at you.” Deep breath. Keep it steady, no word-vomit here. “But if you ever—and I do mean
ever
—send me a text and tell me to
have fun
when I know you’re scared shitless and overwhelmed, you won’t be able to hear for a month after I’m done with you.”

My voice is tight, but I’m pleased I haven’t raised it; I haven’t given myself over to the urge and asked her exactly what she thinks of me if she would expect me to enjoy myself at a party when she’s taking care of her sick daughter. I haven’t let my emotions rule me and spurted out words I can’t take back. Banner. Freaking. Day.

“Tripp, I didn’t want you to worry.”

On second thought...

I release one of my arms from its grip around her and press my fingers to her lips. I know my patience is already at its limit—no matter how good her intentions, what she did was wrong. I can’t get past it, not right now.

I tell her this, watching her face the entire time, steeling myself against the need to cuddle her close when I see her eyes go from confused to devastated as I say, “You were wrong not to trust me to help you last night. And you were wrong to shut me out and make me worry.”