Tripp (4 page)

My eyes are closed, but I know Rachel’s seething next to me; I know she won’t say anything. This part of our relationship has always been awkward, which is weird, because in middle school, she never hesitated to tell me how she felt about a girl I was making out with—but in the year plus that Lauren and I have been together, Rachel’s never said one thing about her. I slit my eyes open, glancing at her out of the side of them, now wondering why that is. I always assumed it was because Rachel didn’t like Lauren. I think that’s part of it, but as we pass my house and I ask her to take me to hers, I see her breath catch a little; I notice a slight intensity in her focus, and I begin to think maybe it could be more.

This is where I get stuck, like I have since our seventh-grade year when I wanted to kiss her and kissed another girl instead. Rachel is the one I come back to time and again—the one I see each day, that I need each day—but I don’t know what she feels for me, and it’s the one thing I can’t read about her. I know when she’s happy, when she’s sad, when she’s hurt or downright pissed, but every time I try to get a sense of her and me as more than friends, I can’t. I’m too scared to ask her and risk what we have.

But tonight, whether it’s the beer, or the high from my win, I’m looking at her and I feel like I’m seeing everything I’ve never truly allowed myself to see. I brave it, and take her hand in mine. She jolts slightly, but she doesn’t laugh at me and she doesn’t let it go. The courage that’s always been lost begins to bloom inside of me.

My heart’s beating like an anvil in my chest as we get out of the Explorer and head around to the back, slipping through the laundry room door next to her room. She turns a light on in the corner and slips out of her shoes, sliding onto her side of the bed and staring up at me. Rather than go to my normal side and lay down, I go to hers and sit there—staring at her the whole time—our eyes locked in some sort of question and answer neither one of us is strong enough to verbalize. She makes me weak, unsure, scared as hell, and needier than I’ve ever felt. It’s because of those feelings I can’t tell her any of what’s going on inside of me.

Instead of telling her, I show her—leaning in and capturing her lips with mine, diving my fingers into her rich, thick hair and angling my head so I can taste more of her. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my conscience tries to shove his way through and remind me I’m still drunk, and I might be mad at Lauren, but she’s still my girlfriend. I don’t let him get farther than any of those small reminders, before I kick him in the nuts and tell him to go the hell away.

This… this is what I’ve been missing.

Rachel, oh Christ, Rachel. Her mouth meets mine, kiss for bruising kiss. On their own accord, my hands are reaching for her shirt, shoving it up and over her head, breaking our kiss long enough to sweep the material out of the way. Then my mouth is on hers again, and my hands are touching her everywhere, skimming over her shoulders and down her arms, up and around her back, then down so I can grip her waist and lift her to the center of the bed.

I lean over her, trying to slow down and savor her, trying to clear my head so I can remember this moment, but everything in me is pulsing, and when she arches up and meets my lips with hers again, I’m a goner. I strip her out of her jeans, pausing on my way to kiss each of her legs, covering her stomach as I make my way back up. When I get to her breasts I don’t stop, I continue kissing until I’ve taken one cotton-covered nipple into my mouth; the sound she makes is so deep, so guttural and sexy, I almost have to stop for fear of coming right there and ruining this for both of us.

For the first time in my life, I’m incapable of thinking of consequences—or whether or not the girl I’m with is comfortable, or if I’m doing something wrong or right. Rachel is a virgin—I know this because I know she’s never had a boyfriend. Suddenly, I very much want to be the person to show her what it feels like to be touched. To be cherished.

Sitting up, I strip off my own shirt before reaching around her and snapping her bra open, shedding it until the only thing she is wearing is a pair of black cotton panties. Looking at her, long and lean and golden, her hair tousled and her lips swollen from mine, I’m more scared than I ever have been in my life—knowing that this girl is the one who will change me. When I lay on top of her, my hands framing her face, my eyes meeting hers, I still can’t tell what she’s feeling, but I know she feels something, and for tonight, that has to be enough.

We don’t have sex, though I tell her I have protection. She looks at me with wide eyes that are a little scared; I realize that however strong she is, however brash, Rachel isn’t like anyone else, and this—sex—is a big deal, and she’s not ready. So I show her in other ways what I’m still unable to say, using my fingers first, and then my mouth, making her cry out over and over before we fall into a deep sleep wrapped in each other.

~

Present

I don’t know why I left that morning, but when I woke up and she was in my arms, I was scared out of my mind. When she opened her eyes, I closed mine and waited for her to go to the bathroom before I got up and checked my messages. I saw a text from Lauren and realized whoever I was to Rachel—there was someone I owed an explanation to. The entire way from Rachel’s to Lauren’s I psyched myself out, preparing myself for the blowout of all blowouts, but it never came.

Even after I told Lauren everything, she said she understood—it had been partly her fault too; we had too much together to just walk away. Because a part of me still cared for her, and the other part was terrified because the girl I’d been with last night still hadn’t called, texted, or thrown a hand grenade at my car, I said
okay, let’s take a few days and see
.

That Monday when I walked into school with Lauren by my side, Rachel glanced at me and showed me nothing; I was just insecure enough, I grasped onto my relationship with Lauren and used it as my shield. I had wanted Rachel with a force I’d never felt before, but we hadn’t made any promises, and she didn’t seem like she cared, so I held onto my pride and walked away before she could walk away from me.

The only person I told was Tanner, and the only thing he did was shake his head and tell me I was an idiot. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.

4

Present

After working at the garage all Saturday, I go straight to the gym to play a small pick-up game with Tanner and some of the guys from his fraternity. I get a text from my mom on the way inside; she’s watching Gracie tonight, because Rachel’s going out. Then she adds “on a date.”

I have no idea why she added that last part. It halts me in my tracks. On my way through the campus parking lot to the gym entrance, I have to reread it.

Date
. Like the one she mentioned the other day…with a guy I don’t know. Which should be better, but somehow it doesn’t feel better. I tuck my phone away and keep walking, repeating to myself over and over that she’s not
mine
so this is none of my business. I mean, I have a girlfriend, one I have plans with tonight, so why should I be angry that Rachel has plans?

The answer slams into my brain at the same time the image of Rachel wrapped around Marcus Kash does, so I slam through the door to Dixon and put my membership ID on the counter, barely noticing the flirtatious look the girl behind the desk gives me.

“Your brother’s already here,” she says, trying to grab my attention. I smile, but her look tells me it comes out as poorly as it feels.

I swing to the locker room and see Tanner lacing up his shoes, his Dickies and mechanic shirt already traded for basketball shorts and a T-shirt.

“I want to lift first,” I say, and he raises his head to meet my eyes. He must see something he understands, because he nods.

“Meet you out there. We’ll start on the treadmill and get a little cardio going first.” He claps me on the shoulder and heads out, leaving me to stew while I change.

~

Two hours later, I’m home. I’m sweaty, achy, and in a much better mood than I was when I went to the gym. It might have something to do with the fact that Tanner had me try his new workout. After my third circuit of cleans, jump rope, pull-ups, burpees, and squats, there was no room in my brain for anything but basic survival. We never even made it to basketball, but I do feel better, good enough that when I hear the doorbell ring, I toss my soaked T-shirt into the laundry room and walk to get the door before my mom can.

I know Rachel’s on the other side of it; when I open it, I should be prepared for her. I laugh internally at myself. I’m never prepared for Rachel, no matter how many times I tell myself I am. That’s why I know with one look at her—I’m fighting a losing battle, one I can only hope to survive, if not win.

My eyes track the length of her, starting at her neck that’s framed by the popped collar of her denim jacket, her long hair falling over one shoulder, tousled and just this side of imperfect. I follow the smooth line of her neck down to her small breasts and torso that are covered by a thin black material that should be loose enough to be unsexy, and instead has the opposite effect. Down some more to her legs, their mile-long length clad in denim the same midnight-black as her shirt, and tight enough I can see the perfect outline and shape of those stems from her hips to her ankles. I’m a masochist, so I let my eyes take the same perusal in reverse before acknowledging her.

Because I’ve been staring at her for longer than is appropriate, or wise, I say hello and make a smartass comment about her shoes—Chuck Taylors, a totally-Rachel thing to wear on a date—before taking Gracie, who has reached out to me. I laugh as I see the fire in Rachel’s eyes. I snuggle Gracie, and turn and walk down the hallway. The door slams a second later and I roll my eyes, murmuring to Gracie, “Mama’s got a temper.”

The blonde beauty babbles to me, clapping her hands on either side of my cheeks to make her point. I lean against the counter and hold onto her, listening to her garbled chatter as Rachel walks in and goes through her process of explaining Gracie’s things to my mom.

With anyone else, my mom would have shooed them away and told them she could handle it, but with Rachel, she understands this is part of her process—once Rachel decided Gracie was hers, she took that responsibility seriously. I know she doesn’t want to be like her dad—the parent that neglects her child and leaves them behind because it’s easier. She’s so good with Gracie; I sometimes forget she wasn’t always sure about herself, or her daughter.

When she takes Gracie from me and goes through her silly routine of kisses and tickles and hugs, I watch and feel my heart beat a little harder as I see Rachel’s struggling to say goodbye right now.

“She’ll be fine,” I tell her, because I want her to know she deserves this. I hate that she’s going on a date, but as much as I hate that, I hate the idea of Rachel ever doubting that she deserves the whole experience of going out and being young.

She nods and hands Gracie to my mom; my dad immediately begins to make asinine faces that have her giggling. Rachel watches too, and I see some of that tension ease. She turns to leave and I stop her with her name again. I want her to go and enjoy herself, but I desperately want her to stay too. While I know Lauren will be calling me any minute to finalize plans, I want to stay in with Rachel and play with Gracie—just to be with them both. Since I know I can’t say this, I swallow, and give a small nod.

“Be safe.”

Her face shows nothing, but her jaw tightens before she salutes me like a smartass. “Aye-aye, captain.” Then she’s gone, and I’m left behind. The high I had from working out is gone as I listen to the front door close.

5

Past

In my life, I haven’t ever truly hated anyone. I’ve avoided people I found annoying. I’ve judged people on sight—despite the recommendations society makes against doing that—and I’ve ignored others because I just didn’t give a shit what they wanted or who they were. I’ve even beaten a few people up over disagreements. And yet, in my sixteen-plus years, there’s never been a person I’ve ever really hated.

Until now.

I hate Marcus Kash. It’s an unreasonable hatred; I’ve never really had much contact with him since he’s a junior and I’m a sophomore. Our social circles are different, but there’s always been something about him that’s hit me wrong. He’s one of those guys that girls look at and think
danger
in a hot way—please, my own girlfriend has swooned over him a time or two when he’s walked by her in the hallway or parking lot. What she and the other girls can’t see though, is what all of the guys around him see: this guy isn’t a bad boy. He’s just bad.

We live in a small town, despite the fact that it’s home to a major university. Small town means lots of gossip, and amidst all of the rumors, there’s always a morsel of truth. The word on Marcus is that he’s a mommy’s prince—one his mother has never denied because she can’t bear the thought of losing another man in her life—since her husband spends more time in the company of younger women. Marcus doesn’t care about anyone or anything, just like his old man. While he doesn’t really engage with me on a daily basis, I can’t stand a guy like that.

Currently, though, I hate him for something a little more basic. He’s at a party being thrown by a sophomore girl, and he’s got his hands all over another sophomore girl—not that she appears to mind. My temper flows as I watch her down another shot and lean into him.

Goddammit, Rachel. What are you doing?

It’s been two weeks since we talked—two weeks since I walked out on her and she let me. Two weeks since I saw that steep ledge of forever and backed away from it, because the other side was rejection—a far harsher ledge to fall from. This is the first time I’ve seen her—outside of the occasional passing in school, where she promptly ducks into a classroom or pivots and goes the other way—and I hate that I can’t just go up to her and talk to her.