Tripp (6 page)

~

Huey’s all for pizza and
Call of Duty
since he has to live by the same code of behavior as I do until the season is over. It’s a bit harder for him; he comes from a family where partying is just something that’s done—just like making money off other people’s habits is something that’s always been. Huey walks a balanced line between the person he could be by default, and the person he wants to be. Right now, he wants to be a ball player, and so we ignore the party everyone else is at and we stay in.

“I gotta call it a night man,” he says two hours after I arrive. We’ve eaten two large pizzas and have been blowing things up ever since. Now, Huey’s looking at his phone while his fingers type rapidly. “The party got broken up, so Heather’s done earlier than she expected; she’s looking for something to do.”

“You gonna help her with that?”

He looks up at me and grins, his white teeth shining out of his coffee and cream face, his controlled afro casting a shadow on the wall behind him. “Hell yeah. She gets creative when she’s been drinking. Add in the fact that I’ll pretend I was sad to be alone all night, and she’ll work pretty hard to make sure she makes it up to me.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Don’t act like you aren’t gonna play that card with your girl.”

My mind blanks and then I realize that Lauren was at the same party. I take out my phone and see there are no texts from her—no missed calls. “I should call her,” I think out loud as I drive home. But I don’t. Instead, I grab candy and water and sprawl on the couch two minutes before the front door opens, and Rachel walks into the living room.

I’m focused on the television though I have zero idea what’s playing on the screen. She makes some snide comment about my choice of beverage, asking me if I need a straw to drink my designer water, before shoving at my legs and settling on the other half of the couch.

I’m 6’3”—there’s no way I’m sitting in the lotus position on my own couch. Raising my legs, I plop them down across her lap. Though she pretends to be mad, she doesn’t shove them off as she grabs at half my candy.

Like I could care less, I keep my eyes trained on the television and ask her about her date. When she smiles and tells me he plays rugby, I can’t help my self-satisfied smirk.

Mistake number one, nameless nemesis: I know for a fact high schools in our city don’t carry rugby teams. I’m happy to provide Rachel with this information, but rather than be outraged at being lied to, she drops the bomb that he’s in college.

College
, like her dating past has prepared her for someone who’s out hooking up with girls every night.

I rip my eyes from the television to stare at her, dumbfounded that this information seems to please her instead of make her leery.

“He’s in college?” I repeat, praying that she’s joking. Her nod of affirmation makes my teeth clench—so the next sentence that comes out is not one of warning as intended, but more like judgment. “What a loser.”

She remarks that going to college is what keeps people from being losers, but she’s missing the point. Educated or not, guys who can’t seem to meet a suitable partner in a school of twenty thousand plus people—are guys best not messed with.

When I point this out to her, I follow by asking why he can’t date a girl his own age. She stumps me when she asks, “Why do you care?”

Why
do
I care?

Because she’s got enough going on in her life; she doesn’t need to add a scumbag who’s only looking for one thing. I convince myself that’s the reason, but I avoid her gaze as I shrug and tell her that I don’t. My mouth continues moving on its own accord, and I say what I know I shouldn’t. “I just thought that you’d be more careful now, especially after last time.”

I stop abruptly, ready to take the words back and apologize profusely—because no matter who Rachel is, she doesn’t deserve that. I know how much she’s dealt with people saying things like that about her. Before I can launch into my apology, though, she’s speaking, and steals the air right from my lungs.

“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 steal it first—you just weren’t as convincing as the pothead I finally gave it to.”

What the
… I blink twice, barely hearing her when she tells me she’s going to crash in the guestroom. Her phone buzzes and her smile tells me it’s most likely
college boy
already texting her. She mentions going for our Sunday run tomorrow, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak again as I listen to her footsteps receding down the hallway.

I wait until her door closes before blowing out a breath and swinging my feet to the ground. We’ve never spoken about that night—ever. For as long as we’ve been friends, for everything that we’ve ever said, not said, fought about and so on, that’s the one regret I truly have. I spent the night with Rachel, and before I fully grasped the impact it had on me, on us—she was crying on my shoulder and telling me she was pregnant—and there was no reason to bring it up. Until now, apparently.

My own phone buzzes. I see that it’s Lauren. She tells me she’s still at the party and that she’ll call me tomorrow. I don’t respond, but I do wonder why she’s lying to me. Then I wonder why it doesn’t bother me as much as the thought of Rachel and her college boy.

7

Past

There are times in life that it’s best to throw in the towel and admit defeat. Any competitor knows that while comebacks are possible, they’re not always likely. Even a hard-fought battle in many instances can’t change the fact that it’s a losing one.

I’ve been fighting a losing battle since I was ten, and in the last twenty-seconds I just realized one thing: I’m well and truly sunk. There is no coming back from the fall I just took; there is no more fighting, there is no changing the outcome.

I’m in love with my best friend, but I can’t tell her, because even now as I fall all of the way—as my heart lodges in my throat and threatens to choke me—she sits in front of me with tears streaming down her face and says the words that prove some battles are over before they begin:
I’m pregnant.

Ten minutes ago, she walked into my class and made eye contact with me for the first time in two months, but it wasn’t the expected death eyes I’ve been waiting for. Instead, it was sheer terror on her face. Somehow, I knew what she was about to tell me was going to change both of us forever. I took her hand and led her to the parking lot, setting her in the passenger side of my truck before getting into my own. When she sat there sobbing, I put my arm around her; I understood that whatever it was—it was bad. But I hadn’t prepared myself for just how bad.

She’s pregnant, and the only person she’s ever slept with is Marcus Kash. Which means it’s his baby… oh goddammit,
no
.

I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, how long it’s been since she stopped crying and started staring out the window, but I do know I have to break the silence, to ask her what she needs me to do—what she wants to do.

Her hands are grasped tightly in her lap now that she’s pushed away from me. I can see her pulling herself together, miniscule bit by miniscule bit, reaching for every piece of strength she has, and stretching it until it’s wrapped tightly around her and she can hold herself up. I want to reach over and bring her against me, to tell her that we’ll deal with this together, that I’m here, and she doesn’t need to worry because I want her—all of her. She’s mine…only I can’t, because she isn’t. And neither is the baby.

Reality is rarely kind. In this moment, I understand why people think life is too hard to deal with at times. Rachel’s pregnant; this is going to rock her world, no matter what she chooses to do. The selfish part of me goes where I’ve been trying to avoid, and I realize Rachel’s never going to be mine—and I didn’t know just how badly I really wanted her to be until this moment.

Fuck you, Karma, you’re an asshole.

Not about me, not about me, not about me
. I recite this mantra over and over until I’m strong enough to reach over and take her hand as a friend would, to wait for her to meet my eyes and understand that what I’m about to say is the truth.

“I’m here. Whatever you need from me, whatever you want, I’m here, Rachel. You’re not alone in this.”

And so began our journey back together. We’d been best friends since we were little, and though neither of us was ready for the night we spent together, or the repercussions, after that day everything else just disappeared. I was the only person who knew about her pregnancy for almost six months, which meant I was the one to drive her to her doctor’s appointments, to hold her hand when she was sick and could barely get out of the girl’s bathroom, to make sure she ate enough and that it was the healthy stuff.

And months later, it’s me sitting in the car waiting for her on the day she finds out it’s not just a baby, but a little girl—one whose profile is a replica of her mama’s. Rachel opened the truck door a second ago and I saw the look on her face—one that said it all—she handed me the photos the doctor had taken to make sure there were no birth defects that would cause complications. And there weren’t, but there is one complication that has been sorted out today.

“I’m not giving her up,” Rachel says, looking down at the photo I’m holding. I look over and see her staring at me, the words hitting her. I grip her hand and nod, knowing she’s been battling this decision for a while. After the first ultrasound she had, she knew she wasn’t getting rid of the baby. Now with this, she can’t give her up. And I get it. This is a piece of her—however the baby came to be—she’s hers.

“I need to tell my mom and Coach.” I nod. Then her strength falters for just one instant; it’s me she needs. “Tripp, what am I going to do?”

I hold her hand and look at the picture again. She’s not talking about how to tell her mom; Dr. C. is the best—and there’s nothing that Rachel has to fear about being kicked out or unsupported. She’s not talking about how to tell Coach, I don’t think; she’s talking about what she’s going to do now that she’s made the decision to change her life—a life that she’s only ever envisioned
one way
. This isn’t like changing allegiances and choosing Oregon over Oregon State, or taking time off club ball to run track or play basketball.

She’s about to have a kid, a little person, one who’s going to depend on her every day for every little thing—and Rachel isn’t even seventeen. Her life just changed, but her dreams didn’t, and in making one decision, she’s paying for the other.

Still holding her hand, I squeeze her fingers and give her back the picture of that beautiful growing baby girl. I tell her the only thing I can think of, the only truth I have for her, and wish like hell it was more, “I don’t know, Rachel, but whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

She smiles and takes the photo, but for a second our eyes lock and we stare at one another. If this were a different time and we were different people, I’d lean over and kiss her. But we’re not. We’re Tripp and Rachel—best friends—I only smile and hold her hand, and wait for her to tell me what she needs.

8

Present

After almost thirty minutes of straight drills and running, I’m getting water when I hear my name called from the gym door open to the outside. I ignore it, thinking it’s Lauren’s friends who are always calling out weird things to me. As much as I enjoy the flattery, there are times it gets to be a little ridiculous; they always turn away and laugh when I look at them. We’re eighteen, not twelve; why not just say hi and talk to me like a normal person?

Thinking the voice is one of them, I don’t look up, but then Huey asks me why Crazy Katie is shouting my name and running into the parking lot.

“What?”

He motions with his water cup to the darkening lot. “Crazy Katie? The hot chick your girl Flow is always hanging out with. She just yelled your name and took off into the parking lot. Think you better check it out?”

I nod and head out the door, something pushing my feet to go faster—images from the last time Rachel needed me and I was too late slipping in and out of my head until I’m sprinting through the rows of cars and calling out Rachel’s name. I have no idea why I’m assuming she’s the reason Katie said my name, but something inside of me tells me that she needs me, my fear too great to question it.

I hear a car door slam, and an engine starts. I glance over the rows to see that familiar Beemer peel out of the parking lot. My fear, no longer a supposition, takes on a life of its own as I recognize Marcus and his car.

Goddammit
. Impotence slams into me. Flashes of Rachel from last year race through my mind—tears on her cheeks, sitting on that bench outside school, Katie next to her as she cupped her hands around her belly and explained what Marcus had done.

I remember her tears, “He’s said a few things to me since it came out that I was pregnant. I guess someone mentioned something to him today about being a daddy, and he decided to take care of it.” She hiccupped a little, “He told me to get rid of it.”

Katie had held her hand, but her eyes swung to me and in one look, we agreed on something for the first time in years:
Marcus Kash was bad news
.

Now, I’m sprinting and yelling Rachel’s name—cutting through cars until I’m at the row where she parks. When I’m still a half a row away, I see her leaning down on her knees with Katie beside her.

My heart stops and then jerks back to life with a vengeance, beating so hard I’m afraid I’m going to pass out. I ignore it, and don’t stop until I’m right in front of her. My feet halt only when I grab her shoulders and yank her to her toes, barely registering the fact that I’m being rough.

My heart is slamming into my ribs; my anxiety high, I can barely breathe. All I can think when I’m looking at her—is I wasn’t here the last time, either.

“What the hell just happened?” I bark and shake her, my fear whipping the words out and into her face with a blast. When she gives me a smartass comment about family meetings and shoves me back, I go from terrified to irate in point two.