Tripp (8 page)

I go home after practice to shower and change, but I don’t sit down to dinner with my mom and dad.

“I need to go and see Rachel for a bit,” I tell them and they look up.

“Is everything all right?” Mom asks.

I nod my head, only because if I say
no
Mom will be coming with me. “She’s having some trouble with Marcus. I just want to go check on her.” And berate her into getting a restraining order.

“Tripp, did something happen?” My dad’s voice is quiet, but the concern is there. We’re sharers in our family—rarely do we keep important stuff from anyone. We understand that being a team and standing together is how we get through unscathed. For a second, my mind veers—the only time I didn’t rely on my team was when I spent the night with Rachel—I get hung up on why that was.

My dad asks his question again. I shake my head; no matter how much I want to tell them, to have their advice and support, I know it’s Rachel’s business. She needs to be the one to decide who gets to know and who doesn’t.

“Nothing Rachel can’t handle.” Which is part of the problem. She’s so capable of handling things on her own, it’s almost impossible to show her— force her to see—that some things shouldn’t be handled alone. She has a blind spot when it comes to Marcus. She believes if she doesn’t acknowledge him or ask him for anything, he’ll leave her alone—which is a crock. Marcus didn’t get what Marcus wanted; for guys like him, that’s basically a war declaration.

“Well, call us if you decide you need reinforcements.” Her smile is fierce and real. I know if I called, she’d be the first person there to kick ass and take names later. She’s small, but mighty.

“Thanks, slugger.”

It’s not raining so I decide to walk to Rachel’s since she lives just down the block. On the way, I text Lauren—declining her request to go to “the biggest party of the year” at some junior’s house. In my response, I remind her
again
that it’s season, and any party is pretty much off limits until I’m done with basketball. She texts back a frowny face. I stuff my phone in my pocket instead of replying.

When I get in front of her house, Rachel is sitting on her front porch, eyes trained on the sidewalk. I wish I could walk up and wrap my arms around her—sit behind her and envelop her, ask her what we’re going to do to keep Gracie safe—it’s not just because I care so much for her. It’s more basic than that.

Sitting next to her, I know she feels alone. No matter how many people are with her, no matter how great her family is…. She created a life with someone she doesn’t like
or respect as a person
—someone who has broken what Rachel considers a basic law of humanity: he abused and ignored the one person he should want to protect the most. In her mind, this is somehow her fault, payment for sins committed. I hate that I can’t make her see it differently.

“What are you going to do?” I ask finally, studying her as she stares at the sidewalk.

She doesn’t answer right away. A small flutter of hope rises inside my chest; I wonder if she’s finally going to break down and tell the police—get a restraining order, as useless as it is, and start the process of alienating Marcus. Then she speaks. Her answer ignites my anger quickly, as only Rachel appears capable of doing.

“I don’t know,” she says and I hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Wait and see if he really does what he threatened to do… if this was just his way of making sure I know he’s tuned in to what’s going on in case I get any idea of telling people.”

I’m shaking with anger. Does she honestly think it’s wise to find out if he’ll follow through on his threat to end her?
Jesus Christ
.

I try to keep my voice calm, taking a deep breath before I speak, “I think you should press charges.”

“No.” Goddamned obstinate woman.

“Goddammit, Rachel—”

Before I can lay into her, battle it out until I get my way, she stops me with a look. Not one of heat and anger, but the other one, the one I know she shows to few people. It’s the face that says
I’m scared
, the look that so often says what she can’t.

“Don’t… I don’t want you to tell me why that’s the wrong choice, or what could happen. I already know. I don’t need a lecture or a reminder about why this could go wrong, Tripp. I already fucking know, okay?”

No, it’s not okay. None of this is fucking okay. But I nod. Along with her fear, there are tears building in her eyes—tears I know she’ll be humiliated to shed. I battle back my own desire for justice, for revenge, for her goddamned freedom from one reckless night.

I keep my eyes on hers, their sea-foam color clouded; I can almost see the war going on inside of her. She’s a fighter; waiting for someone else to make all of the moves is hard for her. I always seem to forget that.

“What do you need?” I ask. Her shoulders relax a little, the weight of disapproval feeling just as heavy as those of her demons. Jesus, I’m an asshole.

“Just sit with me.” Then she repeats it, like she almost feels stupid for asking for something so simple when I’m already next to her. I get it. Unlike her, I don’t think it’s stupid. Right now, she needs to wallow, to process, to feel freaked out and upset. Then, when she moves on with her life—like I know she will—she’s gotten it all out of the way.

I scoot closer, releasing her hand; I must have grabbed it at some point without realizing it. I drape my arm over her shoulders and then, because I need the contact as much as she does, I break my own rule, pressing my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in, and wishing for a second it could always be like this—me and her against the world.

~

Thirty minutes later, we finally get to that fight we avoided on the front porch.

Sitting at her kitchen counter, I lean on my forearms and attempt to calm myself. She once again refuses to acknowledge that Marcus is a real and dangerous threat in her life. It’s like no woman in my life can see reason.

Right after we left the front porch to come inside, Lauren called to whine at me again. I was making her go to another party alone. I promptly responded that she didn’t
have
to go. When another fit of complaints ensued, I told her I was with Rachel dealing with some things. After I hung up, I acknowledged that
yes
, I knew it would piss her off and make her stop whining. I employed my very tough best friend’s name to intimidate my girlfriend into acting like an adult and not a five-year-old.

Don’t worry, I’m paying for that manipulation tactic, as it appears my
very tough best friend
is so tough she’s borderline stupid about it.

We finished dinner and are finally talking about Marcus. I’ve been patient to this point, doing my best to use rational thought and reasoning to explain why she needs to let others help her. She rejects the notion of telling people what Marcus has done to her
again
—what he’s done to her motherfucking
again
—stating it looks weak if she asks for help, and it’s giving him what he wants. I explode.

“Fuck what he
thinks
we’re telling him,” I yell, standing to walk around the counter separating us. I stop in front of her, filling her vision, and using all of my will power not to grab her shoulders and shake her. “I’m not waiting for him to pin you to the side of a car or a bathroom wall and threaten you again. You can’t fight everyone yourself, Rachel. You have to ask for help.”

“Who’s fighting?”

Goddamned stubborn woman. I groan. She launches into an explanation about what reporting Marcus’s alleged threats would really accomplish. While a part of me understands she needs to report this—regardless of whether or not the police actually do anything—I also understand where she’s coming from. Marcus Kash is the golden son of one of the richest families in our beautiful state. Reporting him will mean nothing more than filing paperwork, which someone will conveniently lose, ignore, or throw out.

The other thing it might cause—the thing Rachel won’t say, but I know she’s thinking…someone could get ahold of it and put the pieces together. Her daughter might be dragged into a media circus, or worse—into a different family that technically has rights to her. I understand exactly why Rachel has spent so much time never allowing Marcus to be connected to Gracie, and I relent enough to accept what she’s saying.

Before she can get too smug, I make her promise she won’t go anywhere alone. Miss Independent stutters, backtracks, and does her best to prove she can take care of herself.

Yeah, I don’t care. I stand in front of her with a patient expression, leaning back on the counter while I wait for her to acquiesce to my demand.

“Fine, Mommy Tripp. I’ll walk out in one of those packs most girls are fond of—though you realize I’m going to have to find more friends to make this possible. If I see Marcus, I’ll run the other way.”

Something inside me eases a little. I nod, acknowledging what she said—letting her know I’m trusting her to be safe, to keep her promise. “You okay?”

There’s a slight hesitation in her answer, enough to let me know that something’s not right. Before I can focus too much on it, she smarts off and it does the trick of refocusing my mind.

“Please, this was
nothing
compared to childbirth.”

And we’re back.

11

Past

“That color looks like throw up.”

I glance at the wall I’m rolling paint on and then back at her highness. She’s sitting on a stool, pretending to paint while she criticizes everything I do. Typical.

“I don’t know what you’ve been puking up, princess, but throw up is usually brownish-green. This is sunshine yellow.”

“More like shit-yellow.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a Duck color for a reason—one that
you
picked out.” I try smiling at her. “And if your shit’s this color, you should probably get that checked out too.” She gives me the finger, and I feel marginally better. I set my roller down and go to sit next to her, turning over a bucket and putting myself right in front of her.

I squash the creepy urge to put my hand on her growing belly, because
A
: it’s weird—Rachel is my friend who is a girl, and the baby in her belly is not mine.
B
: she hates feeling like some
Planet-of-the-Apes
sci-fi freak for everyone to stare at. It’s hard to tell her—yeah, she’s oddly shaped right now—but she’s also still gorgeous, drop-dead, hit-me-to-the-core gorgeous. Her raven hair is piled on top of her head, and her gray eyes dominate her angular face.

“What’s with the scowl?”

“I don’t want a yellow room. I hate the color yellow.”

Ah, yes,
indecision
. Note to self: never let my future pregnant wife pick a paint color, or choose furniture, or look at names on the internet when she’s past the seventh month. She doesn’t get to do anything until she’s had the baby, and she’s a little less bi-polar in her decisions.

“Yesterday, you said yellow was
perfect
, because it was girly without being fussy.”

“Well, today I’m saying it’s a shit color. I hate it. I hate the way it looks. I hate the bedding we picked out, and I hate… god, I don’t know what I hate; I just hate it all.”

Tears roll out of her eyes and plop heavy and wet onto her cheeks. When one drips down to her belly and soaks into the fabric of her oversized flannel shirt, we both watch it; we look at each other and laugh. I don’t know if she starts first or if I do, but we’re both laughing. Soon, I’m taking one of her hands in mine as she wipes her cheeks with the other.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m a mess. It doesn’t matter if I can see this kind of crazy coming. I can never seem to stop it these days. The doctor says it’s normal, but fuck am I ready for it to be over with.”

I wince; she stares at me. “What?”

“I know you know, but your baby has ears. Think we should tone down the f-word a little bit? Don’t want the little one to come out with a pre-disposition to using it, now, do we?”

“Hey Tripp?”

I nod. “Yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

Of course she did. “There’s my girl. Now, about the color.”

“It’s ugly.”

“I agree. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Are you going to reprimand me for my language again?”

“Never.” Nor would I point out that
said reprimand
got her mind off her pity party and pulled her back to the living. That’s what I call word-Judo. “What about light gray?”

She stares at me for a second. “What? Who paints their kid’s room light gray? Is that even a color?”

“First, people who don’t want to blind their children because sunshine yellow is horrific—as you’ve pointed out. Second, yes it’s a color. You see it when you look in the mirror every morning. Why shouldn’t your daughter see it and be reminded of your eyes every morning when she opens hers?”

Rachel stares at me, contemplating. I know I have her when she looks at the yellow again. Without looking back at me, she twists the hand I’m holding until our fingers are linked for a brief second.

“Sounds like a pretty great color.”

I can’t help myself. I stare at her profile and nod. “Yeah, it is.”

12

Present

Rachel’s got a boyfriend. It’s not that I care, and it’s not like I don’t think she should have one. I’m not a chauvinist; I believe in equal rights and all that—I just never expected it. I mean, she hasn’t ever been remotely interested in anyone, even before Gracie came around. I guess after Gracie was born, I assumed she wouldn’t really want to date.

Apparently, this makes me a jackass, which Tanner has pointed several times now since I insulted her numerous times in a three minute conversation this morning. We ran into her and Katie as they were handing out beatings to the teams in their bracket, and I had a temporary brain seizure seeing Rachel half naked, which caused me to insult her for thinking she could go out on a date. But seriously, she’s got a kid. She can’t just be dating anyone, can she?