Tripp (3 page)

“Exactly. So, just be forewarned that when she mentions Walter, you should tune her out because it’s gonna get ugly.”

I know Rachel’s family as well as I know my own, and her grandmother is no exception. Though Rachel always says she takes after her mom—who still managed to raise two little girls and teach biology at the university after her husband left her to “find himself”—I think she’s a lot like G too, the strong, independent female personality who pulls no punches and shows no fear. G is in her mid-seventies. She’s been watching Gracie every day for the past five months, ever since that first day of school in September when Rachel made the decision to go back for her senior year and be more than the label society had given her.

Music floats out of the television speakers as we enter the wreckage of the kitchen, but it’s not the noise or the scattering of toys that shock me to a stop. It’s the sight of G in heels, stretchy pants, and a matching stretchy tank top, swiveling her hips and dancing around while Gracie squeals.

Abort, abort
.

I avert my eyes, but it’s too late. The image of Rachel’s grandmother dancing—while parts moved in their too-tight clothing—is now permanently ingrained in my brain. My gaze meets Rachel’s; the incredulous look on her face tells me she’s as horrified and unprepared for the sight before us as I am. I don’t know if she or I begin laughing first, but soon we’re both laughing—or I
think
I’m laughing. The image is still pretty fresh, I’m not certain there isn’t an actual sob of horror coming out of my mouth.

Rachel pulls herself together enough to speak. Though I try to follow suit, I don’t look directly at G or anywhere she can get caught in my peripherals. Better safe than sorry.

What I don’t expect is for Rachel to abandon me while she goes to free Gracie from her high chair—leaving me helpless, unable to avoid the hug G gives me. She wraps around and squeezes tighter than appropriate every time. I’m always at a loss over where to put my hands. I pat her back lightly as I throw death glares at Rachel.

“Let’s dance, you handsome man,” G says. I swear my heart freezes in terror when I feel her wiggle against me.
Oh, god
. I hold myself still while G continues to move. My eyes blaze into Rachel’s back until she finally turns and looks at me.

When she sees me, I swear an evil glint of appreciation crosses her features. I’m half terrified she’s going to leave me to get myself out of G’s surprisingly strong grip. I keep my eyes on hers, and though I mean to glare, I can’t. She walks over with Gracie—the blonde-haired angel with her mama’s eyes—already babbling a mile a minute.

The terror in me is replaced with joy, and not just because G releases me when I reach for Gracie. For a brief second, Rachel and I are looking at each other as we pass the baby, and there’s a yearning inside of me that’s so deep I feel it pulse all the way to my core.

Then Rachel’s eyes are off me. She’s talking to her grandmother, leaving me to play with Gracie. I set her on her feet after tickling her, amused as always at the way her tiny fist wraps around my finger and tugs me from one place to another. At one point, G shimmies and shakes again as she mentions her hot date with Walter. I have to breathe deeply or risk losing my lunch.

I gently tug Gracie’s hand until we’re facing away from her mama and great grandmother. She reveals a toothy grin, and I smile back, grazing a hand down her perfect cheek, her skin already hinting at a golden tone.

Unlike her mother—whose expressions I can hardly, if ever, read—Gracie always shows me a smile and what she wants. While Rachel and G talk about Gracie’s day and pick up the toys scattered everywhere, Gracie and I play. I scoop her up and pretend to fly her around the room. She pulls me over to show me all of her treasures.

When Rachel packs Gracie’s Lovey and blanket into her bag, I make my way over to her to take it. That’s when I hear her ask G if she can take Gracie this Saturday night.

“Hot date?” G asks with a small eyebrow wiggle that makes me want to laugh until Rachel answers in the affirmative.

“A date, at least.”

I stop in my tracks, causing Gracie to stumble and look up at me with a frown. Whether Rachel purposely looks at me or our eyes meet because she’s avoiding looking at G—who is now shaking those hips again,
dear god, does she ever stop moving?—
I don’t know. But I do know my face must convey my shock, because she stares at me and raises her brow when all I can do is gape back at her.

“What?” she finally asks.

I try my best to keep my voice even, uninterested, instead of tense like I feel. “Who are you going out with?”
Because we go to the same school, and I sure as shit would have heard if you were going out with someone from there
.

She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and then practically makes my heart stop when she adds, “A guy. You don’t know him. He’s older.”

Older?
I want to yell. Older like last time—when you let someone take advantage of you and left you to pick up the pieces? I don’t say any of this, mostly because I still have my wits about me enough that I know it’s not my place. Still, I can’t help but ask her another question.

“Where did you meet him?”

When she hesitates, I go from wondering if she’s even met him to knowing full well she hasn’t.
Goddamn you, Rachel, don’t do this. Don’t go out with someone you don’t know; don’t go out with someone who could hurt you.

My subconscious adds: don’t go out with someone who isn’t me.

Not yours
, I remind myself,
not yours
.

“Around,” she finally says as I talk myself away from the ledge. “What’s with the third degree?”

I shrug and before I grab the baby’s bag from her, I mumble something about the fact that she doesn’t usually go out.

“Things change,” she says, her voice sharp enough I understand she’s telling me to back off.

I want to tell her
no
, but because I can’t tell her what I was thinking a moment ago—I can’t tell her the minute she mentioned going on a date, the only recall I had was the one time I took her home and she was mine—I nod and pick up Gracie and her bag. “Guess so.”

That’s the last thing I’ve learned to compartmentalize in my relationship with Rachel: those feelings that sneak up every now and then, the ones I have no right to feel. I call them lapses, little memories sneaking in to blindside me. When a lapse occurs, like right now—when all I can think about is the night we were together and everything was right—I remind myself that she’s my best friend. When that doesn’t work, I remind myself she’s a mom. That usually brings me back from the ledge, not because I don’t love Gracie; when Rachel got pregnant and her life became about so much more, I promised myself I would do everything I could to make her life easier, not harder. Part of that meant just being her friend, the one stable thing in her life she could count on.

I remind myself that a date is just that, a date. I’ll still be here—the one helping her and supporting her, long after her date is just a memory.

I comfort myself with this knowledge as I take Gracie out to the car and click her into her car seat. When she looks up at me and smiles, my heart breaks a little, and another lapse occurs. No matter how many times I tell myself Rachel isn’t mine, I can’t help remember just how good it felt to be with her the one and only time we ever crossed the friendship line into something more.

3

Past

I’m drunk—there’s no getting around it, but rather than the celebration buzz I had going an hour ago, I’m now the drunk of someone who’s been drinking because facing the reality I live isn’t all that awesome.

Lauren showed up sixty-five minutes ago. Coincidence? God, I hope so.

My tongue is a little thick, my speech a little slow, but no other major effects. Which means I’m only really buzzed, so the rest of this exhaustion is coming solely from the fact that the girl I’m trying to please is constantly displeased.

One more time
, I think, and stand to go find her. It’s my night and my celebration, because goddamn we won—more than that, I played out of my mind and earned myself a starting position for next year. A sophomore with a state championship under his belt—
that’s
a big deal, but to Lauren, the party was bigger, and being drunk before she arrived was a violation of our boyfriend-girlfriend pact to do these things together.

Shit. I just wanted a night. One night.

But since she’s right—I broke the code of changing plans the night of—I walk to the dance floor and try to find her, ready to make amends so this feeling will go away and I can return to my celebration. I’m looking around, wondering if she got mad enough she left, when I see her.

She’s got her strawberry-blonde hair pulled over one pale, bare shoulder, and her back pressed against the front of Henry—a second-string JV guard whose greatest skill is taking a charge, which is not as tough as it sounds. You plant your feet and let someone ram into you—enough said. I smile for a second at that thought, and then I watch Henry’s hands slide to Lauren’s hips and my amusement fades.

Anger is a familiar sensation, but the reason for it right now makes no sense. Henry is grinding with a girl who should be mine—but instead of being pissed at him, I’m pissed that Lauren’s allowing it; she won’t man up and fight with me.

Walking toward them, I grab Henry by the neck of the shirt, which isn’t difficult since I’m an easy four inches taller than he is, and yank him back with enough force to have him stumbling a bit. I barely acknowledge him as I face off with Lauren, and though I feel more tired than angry, I cross my arms over my chest.

“I’d have danced with you if you wanted to dance.”

She flips her hair back and looks up at me out of those perfectly-lined eyes with sculpted lashes. The eyes inside are foggy and unfocused. She weaves a little, which tells me two things: she’s not quite sober, and this isn’t going to end well.

“I thought you wanted to be with your friends. And you looked pretty cozy with those junior girls over there, pouring drinks and laughing. I didn’t want to interrupt you, and since Henry had the time for me…” she trails off. I have to clench my fists to keep myself from reaching back and grabbing the guy I know is hovering a few feet behind me, waiting to swoop in because he can’t get a girl without someone else warming her up first.

“Lauren, I said I was sorry for showing up without you, and as for the girls, those are girlfriends of the other players. They showed up before you and joined us. I wasn’t flirting with anyone; I wanted a night to celebrate—and maybe I got carried away before you got here, but I’m here to dance with you now.”

“I don’t want to dance with you now, Tripp, not when you’re like this. In fact, I’m not sure I want anything from you anymore. So, maybe you should go.”

It’s a challenge; I can see it even through the haze of anger and beer. Lauren loves to have me become possessive over her—loves to watch me want her more than anyone else, loves to watch me squirm as I wonder what she’s going to do. And I always have before, because there’s something about her that I wanted at the beginning, something I can’t quite let go of.

Right now, though, it’s easy enough to let go, because I’m done. I don’t want to fight with her, don’t want to fight
for
her. I just want to be done.

“Forget it,” I say, turning my back on her to walk out, shouldering by Henry with enough force to send him stumbling backward. He says something, but I don’t acknowledge it. I keep moving until I’m out of the crowd and in the fresh air. It’s raining out, but I barely feel it as I sit down and pull out my phone, hitting
DIAL
on the number I know by heart.

When she answers, relief pours over me and I latch onto it. God, it feels good knowing the person I’m talking to on the other end isn’t going to talk in riddles and sub text.

“Rachel, I’m outside.”

Even as I talk to her, I know this is part of the reason Lauren’s pissed at me tonight—it’s the same reason she’s always pissed at me. My best friend’s a girl, and she’s nothing like Lauren. Where Lauren is all girl—with her small physique and willingness to be taken care of—Rachel is the girl who can
and does
do anything she needs done herself. She’s the one that plays video games with me, and blows my avatar to smithereens before I’ve even registered what’s happened. She’s the one I watch Sunday football with, and have a secret handshake with because we made it up when we were ten and it’s been our good-luck charm before every game since.

Lauren is the girl that gets mad at me and expects me to figure out why she’s mad. Rachel’s the girl that punches me in the face, calls me a prick, and tells me where she’ll be when I’ve decided to pull my head out of my ass.

And Rachel’s the girl who’s leaving a party with me right now.

She and Lauren are as polar opposite as two people can be—not just because Lauren’s all female while Rachel is a tomboy. Lauren is petite and fragile, where Rachel’s tall and lean, narrow in the hips, and strong in the shoulders; her legs go on for days. But the real difference comes in this: Lauren will always need someone to attend parties or hang out with, and Rachel will always be fine to show up alone. Rachel is the girl who can drive me home right now—because she doesn’t need anyone, and is comfortable showing up places alone.

When she asks me what happened with Lauren, I tell her everything, scrubbing my hands over my face when I get to the confusing part. “I don’t know. The whole night was fucked up. She got mad when I said I would meet her here, because I wanted to celebrate with the guys first. Then she took forever to get here, so I’m already half pissed when she does. Then she starts complaining I pay too much attention to other girls, and I don’t make her feel special anymore. I had no idea what she was talking about. When I told her that, she got mad and said she wouldn’t dance with me when I’m like this—so she went and let Henry put his hands on her. When I pulled him off, she said I was being irrational and told me to leave.”