Tripp (27 page)

When I ask her why Gracie needs a journal since she can’t even color, her cheeks flame in embarrassment. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s not for her to write in, it’s for her to read someday. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Rachel swings her feet to the ground ready to stand, but I stop her with a hand on her leg. When she refuses to look at me, I feel a stab of guilt for teasing her into telling me something that was obviously private. Because I can’t go back and un-ask, I put my hand under her chin until she turns her head and looks at me. “Rachel, I was joking. Whatever it is, of course it’s not stupid. Tell me.”

It takes her a second, and though I don’t think she knows it, she pulls away from me enough to tuck her hands under her thighs. I try to remind myself this is Rachel—no matter how far we’ve come together, she’s always going to stand on her own for some things. I try not to resent that.

“After I finally held Gracie…after I realized how much I loved her…I had a hard time forgiving myself for not loving her. If you understand—”

“Rachel, Jesus, you can’t blame yourself—”

“Let me finish, okay?” she interrupts. I have to pause and check myself. I hate that she feels any kind of guilt over what happened after she had Gracie; even more, I hate that I can’t fix it. But, this isn’t about me, so I put my hand on her knee as silent encouragement to go on.

She tells me about researching post-partum depression, about how she knew in her head she wasn’t in control over her emotions or her body’s reaction, and still, even after she started seeing a counselor—she had a hard time forgiving herself for resenting Gracie and the change she signified when she was born.

She pauses for a minute. I watch her battle for control. I want to tell her it’s okay, she can stop, because no one would ever blame her for being angry, but I think she actually needs to get this out.

“When I finally told Ms. Flynn that I was scared to move on with my life…that I wasn’t playing volleyball yet…that I wasn’t sure I was ever going to again—she sat me down and told me I had to forgive myself, and then she started helping me try and do that. She’s said a lot of things since, mainly all having to do with the fact that people think they have to sacrifice or sabotage their own happiness as some sort of payment for a wrong they’ve done. A type of sacrifice to even the scales, I guess.”

She shifts, uncomfortable with the admission. I stay still, my hand on her knee, making that tactile connection for the both of us. “When she told me that’s what I was doing, I denied it. I told her it wasn’t like that. I knew how lucky I was to have a family who was always going to help—always going to love me and support me. I just didn’t know if I wanted to play volleyball. She listened…but in the end, she made me see I didn’t want volleyball, because I didn’t think I
deserved
it…just like I didn’t think about my future because I didn’t think I deserved one.”

I think back to the summer and the day she and I talked about volleyball, and a new piece falls into place. It never occurred to me she was sabotaging her own future because she felt guilty about her depression and inability to love Gracie. I had assumed she was quitting because she was overwhelmed and unable to ask for help from people. It hurts, deep inside me, as I watch her admit she was wracked with enough guilt to give up the only thing she ever wanted for herself in order to pay some sort of invisible penance.

I know she wants to stand alone, but I can’t stop myself from reaching out and tracing my fingers over her cheek, absorbing the small jolt that hits me at contact. I follow the line of her face into her hair and back to her chin, stopping when I’ve cupped her head in my palm.

She finishes her story by explaining that Mrs. Flynn told her to keep a journal for Gracie—small notes or entries from Rachel to her daughter on days when she was feeling low or like she wasn’t enough. This type of reflection is supposed to clarify her fear, and in turn, keep her from losing herself again.

“So you write to her,” I say and she nods.

“So I write to her. Not every day, because well, I fucking hate writing and writing about my feelings is twice as bad. But at least once a week, sometimes just to tell her I love her, sometimes to say I’m sorry if I’ve messed up—even though she doesn’t know it. Sometimes to tell her a funny joke or leave her with a piece of advice. Sometimes to ask rhetorical questions like
why do you eat your cheerios like a puppy right now
? Or
why can’t you stay asleep past six a.m.
?”

I keep my hand on the back of her neck, listening as she reads a few entries to me—both of us laughing as she goes through them. When she finishes, I tease her about whether or not she’s written something about me. She comes back with a smartass retort, but I see her cheeks flush a little, and I know there’s more.

“What did you say to her today?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but that flush in her cheeks is getting brighter. “Um, nothing really. I told her the future was scary, but it had to be worth it…and I can’t wait to share hers.”

“And?”

I know I’m pushing, but I need to hear her say the words. I need her to give me what I can’t hold back from her, and that’s everything. She’s everything. The more I’m with her, the more I learn about the best friend I thought I knew—the more in love with her I am. My feelings get stronger every day, to the point where they threaten to consume me. She’s it, my all, and I need her to tell me the same.

She clears her throat and stares straight at me, those eyes steady and sure as she speaks. “And that …no matter how scary it might be, to let herself love someone. And to tell them, every day, just how much she loves them…so they never doubt it.”

My heart is raging, beating hard enough it feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest and into her hand. Her words have done something to me. Now all I can think about is having my hands on her. I grip her hair for a minute, and release it to take the computer from her lap and set it on the ground. “Do you know how much I love you, Rachel?” I ask.

She nods, and I hear the unsteady breath she sucks in when I shift closer on the couch.

“Does it scare you?” Another nod. “Why?” I lift her into my lap, sliding my left arm around her waist and using my right hand to cup her face and bring it toward me.

“Do you—” she starts and stops. A deep breath in, and she tries again. “Do you know how much I love you, Tripp?” I shake my head. “Too much,” is her response and she’s lowering her head to my shoulder, breathing me in, and holding onto me. I want to tell her it can’t be too much…there’s no way she could ever feel too much, because I’ll always have more to give her. I know for Rachel that what we have, who we are together, is overwhelming. She doesn’t have to tell me she never expected to be able to trust someone and lean on anyone. I know it every time she forgets, or just outright refuses to ask me for help or support.

“It feels like it’s too much,” she says again. “It gets bigger every day, and I’m scared of what it will be like, what I’ll be like, if you’re not here.”

I stop her there, unable to hold back, unable to let her doubt me—us—ever again. “I’m not going anywhere, Rachel.” My lips find hers, and even though I want to devour her, to push her back into the couch and cover her body with my own, I keep the kiss gentle, our lips meeting and brushing lightly before I pull away and say the words again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then I do what my body’s craving. I take her lips harder, my desire flamed when her arms tighten around my neck, her tongue seeking mine.

Her mom is in the next room, and could walk out at any minute, but I still can’t keep myself from slipping my hands beneath her shirt and feeling her skin. I can’t keep myself from snaking my hand between us and feeling her, touching her, until she’s breathless and arching against me while I swallow the cries that are all for me.

37

Present

Rachel: So, my dad’s new babymama is three years younger than Stacy.

Me: Your dad’s girlfriend is pregnant?

Rachel: Yep. Didn’t I tell you?

Me: No. We need to work on your sharing.

Rachel: Well, she’s his fiancé now. How’s that for sharing?

Me: When did that happen?

Rachel: I found out two months ago.

Me: No, that doesn’t qualify as sharing. It qualifies as forgetting to share.

Rachel: You’re kind of prickly.

Me: You’re kind of closed off.

Rachel. Whatever, Dr. Phil. There’s a point to my telling you this in the first place.

Me: …?

Rachel: My soon-to-be step-mommy is the daughter of a really important lawyer. He’s going to help me with the Kash family. He’s coming over today.

Me: I’ll be there.

Rachel: I was counting on it:)

Rachel: Btw, I think this counts as sharing.

~

The early-morning May sunshine is hotter than usual, but that might be because we’ve been running for almost four miles now. Since I want to prove I’m as in shape as my girl, I refuse to reach for the water bottle that’s tucked into the stroller.

Even though my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and my throat scrapes like keys on metal when I breathe, I’m not backing down.

I always forget that Rachel can run. I mean, she plays volleyball—since they don’t do a lot more than a few steps and jump, plus the occasional roll when they reach for a ball—I assume I’m in better shape than she is.

It takes one Sunday run for her to prove that I’m an idiot.

My girlfriend has a sadistic streak. She can tell she has me on the ropes, and she’s been sprinting for the past half mile. I think my lungs might explode. When we finally get to the park, I’m so grateful—I don’t even try to hide it. I put the brake on the stroller, and flop on my back in the grass that’s still a little damp from the early morning dew. A second later, I
whoosh
out a breath as I feel the water bottle land in the middle of my stomach.

“Drink that. You sound like a steam engine the way you’re puffing.”

“You try pushing the stroller.” It’s a lame comeback, and an even lamer excuse as to why I’m so tired, but it’s all I have. I can’t tell her I’m most likely tired because I’m barely sleeping, worrying over her and Gracie and what’s going to happen.

Last week, Rachel’s soon-to-be step-grandpa made a deal with the Kash family. They dropped the custody suit they were filing in order to stop a slander-and-intimidation suit from being filed by Rachel. In return, Rachel signed papers releasing them of any financial obligation in the future. This came about after Rachel and I ran into Mrs. Kash at our coffee shop where she “coincidentally” bumped into Rachel and asked her for a moment of her time.

Rachel refused, and then I refused. In the end, Mrs. Kash left, but not without warning Rachel men
always leave
. I understood exactly what Marcus’s mom had wanted—someone to replace the son she’d somehow lost.

Rachel and everyone else is now acting like things are taken care of—like things are normal—but I still can’t shake the feeling that it’s not done. A family like that doesn’t back down just because they’re asked. Part of the information Rachel’s lawyer brought forth was evidence that Marcus is engaged in illegal activity. That, along with the restraining order Rachel placed on him, has been a black mark on the family. That mark surely got taken out on someone. My fear is that eventually, that same person is going to come full circle and decide Rachel’s the one who should pay for it.

So, no, I can’t keep up with my girlfriend on our Sunday run, because I can’t keep her out of my head at night. Something’s wrong, but I don’t want to say that and worry her. For the first time in a long time, she seems pretty confident about the way things are going to work out.

We talked a few days ago. She decided no matter what kind of offers do—or don’t—come in for volleyball, she’s staying close to home to go to school. A part of me worried she would regret that. She’s gotten offers from schools up and down the west coast and a few others in the south and Midwest—offers that would pay for her college.

When we talked about it, though, she told me this is where she wanted to be no matter what. She wants Gracie to grow up with her cousin; Stacy is due in November, and she doesn’t want to leave her here with her mom and only see her on breaks.

“I want to be close to home so she can have everything she needs.”

I was so grateful, I even offered to let Katie live with us wherever we end up. Clearly, I’m in love. Though, Tanner is also thinking of moving out of his fraternity and living with us. When I let it slip that he might be interested in living with Katie, Rachel promised pain and punishment if he hurt her. I don’t think that will stop him, but I appeased her and told her I’d pass the message along.

Now, we’re spending a Sunday morning at the park and I want so badly to enjoy the sunshine and the feel of having everything I’ve ever wanted. My future with Rachel is falling into place—she’s got the date for walk-on tryouts at Oregon State, along with a few other offers from small schools around the area. Graduation is around the corner. No matter what happens for our future, Rachel and I have decided to stay together, to make this work. Everything I’ve ever wanted is here with me right now, but I can’t shake this feeling—whatever was started when Marcus Kash first cornered Rachel in that bathroom and told her to get rid of the baby all those months ago…is about to come to an end.

“Tripp?”

“Hmm?” I turn my head on the grass and watch as she puts Gracie in a swing and starts pushing her.

“I know you’re worried. But don’t be, okay? Things are good. Really good.”

I stand up and walk over, wrapping her in a sweaty hug. Instead of squealing, she hugs me back, snaking her own sweaty arms around me and offering comfort. “I know they are. I guess that’s why I’m so worried. Promise you still won’t walk out of school by yourself? No morning practices alone, no grocery store or gas station…or anything else.”