Tripp (9 page)

“Yeah, asshole. She can. Like she said: she has a baby, not a disease. It makes her life more challenging, but she’s got needs bro.” My jaw clenches so hard after his last statement, I think I may have cracked the enamel on my teeth. Tanner’s oblivious, though, and he keeps going. “Besides, it’s not like she’s trolling downtown and turning tricks. She met a guy through a mutual friend—”

“Katie’s not exactly what I’d call a reliable judge of character,” I interrupt, and Tanner laughs at me.

“She’s hot, just like Rae is. Christ, she can really rock those bikini bottoms, can’t she?”

“Tanner, Jesus.”

“I’m talking about Katie, bro. Relax. I’m not poaching on your weird best-friend territory, but can I just say something first?”

“Like it would stop you if I said no.”

“Why do you care so much who Rae dates? I thought you two decided
friends
was all you wanted.”

I turn away from him and the warm-up we are doing to prepare for the championship match against Rachel and Katie. I grab the water bottle I screwed into the sand earlier. “We did decide that.” Because we never spoke about it—so clearly that means we both know it was a mistake…by
both
, I mean she thinks it was a mistake, and I’m too much of a pussy to ask her about it. Instead, I protect her from everyone, myself included. I do that by keeping a girlfriend who wants nothing more than a date to a party. Everyone’s happy.

“Then what the hell is going on with you? Rae deserves to be happy, and you look like a douche when you call her out and make her feel like she’s doing something wrong.”

Goddamn Tanner. I hate that he’s right—hate that I know I look and act like an asshole when faced with anything having to do with Rachel—but even knowing it I can’t always help it. The words I want to say to her are never the ones that actually come out. This morning was a prime example.

It’s spring break, and we’re at a beach-volleyball tournament thrown by Tanner’s fraternity. Rachel and Katie are partners. When we congratulated them on winning, Tanner made a comment about how good Rachel looked. I meant to nod—to agree, because she does look good with all of her brown skin on display, her outfit showcasing her legs and flat stomach in the best possible way. Instead, I got mad at him, and insulted her. I’m terrified around her sometimes.

When we’re just Tripp and Rachel, we’re good—hanging out at the park on Sundays with Gracie, doing homework, playing video games, or catching rides home from school—it’s all good, because it’s normal. It’s these other times, like when she goes out on dates, or is without Gracie, I realize she’s more than the girl I try to make her sometimes. That’s the problem—if I can compartmentalize her as a mom,
Gracie’s mom
, she doesn’t tempt me as much as she does right now. She walks toward me on the other side of the court—her bikini bottoms and dry-fit showing her lean muscles and gorgeous legs, her eyes piercing as they glow out of her face.

My body tenses and goes on high alert, waiting for her to come closer. She picks the ball up she and Katie had been peppering and turns back to her service line. I watch her longer than necessary, my eyes drinking in every detail they can before I know I have to turn around or get caught.

The official blows the whistle, letting us know we’re about to start. I head toward our service line, throw him the ball, and strip off my shirt. Tanner has his shirt off and his eyes locked on the other side of the court. I casually turn, my stance relaxed as I look over too. Katie might be crazy, but she is gorgeous, with her clear skin and bright blue eyes. She’s compact strength, lean, but not petite like Lauren. She has clearly-defined muscles and a rack that looks pretty nice from here. Next to her, Rachel is much taller, her frame lean and thin, with a kind of strength that screams independence.

Rachel snags the ball, snaps her fingers in front of Katie’s face for a second, and speaks to her before taking her position behind the service line. She stands for a minute, the ball in her hands, her feet spread, her eyes steady, and I’m momentarily struck with just how gorgeous she is. With girls like Lauren, beauty is something they have, something they enhance, something they understand, and I appreciate it. It’s nice to know that when we’re going out, Lauren spends the time and energy getting ready to look good for me. There are those other times too—the ones when we’re just hanging out, when I wish she could just be comfortable without all of the tricks and gloss and hairspray.

Rachel doesn’t wear a lot of makeup; I know she has none on right now. What I’m seeing is just her—mixed with the absolute confidence she wears when she’s playing. Christ, I need to focus on something else, or I’m going to have a chubby, and these board shorts won’t do diddly squat to hide it. I start to say the alphabet backward, and I hear her name. She glances toward the sidelines, my eyes track with her until they land on a guy with shaggy brown hair. He’s wearing a plain hoodie and cargo shorts.

Talk about boner recall.

Rachel smiles at him; I know this is her college boyfriend—
Dean
, the rugby player who can’t get a girl his own age.

“Hey, Romeo, are you gonna spend the rest of the day deciding whether or not to drink the poison? Or are we going to play?”

Tanner’s words are just loud enough for me to hear. They’re what I needed; I laugh and hold out my middle finger, turning away from college boy and heading back to my game.

Rachel serves first. I don’t know if it’s because I know her that well, or because I’ve watched her play enough in her life, but I anticipate what she’s going to do before she does it. The first game I am all over her shit. It might make me an asshole to admit, but blocking her gives me a kind of male satisfaction that’s indescribable—
I am man, hear me roar
. We take game one and I am all about showing her who’s boss.

Then she takes game two, blocking me more than once, hitting the damn ball hard enough I turn my back and have to take a few breaths to recover. We lose the second match handily. I’m no longer
I am man, hear me roar
, but
I am in pain, get me a beer
.

When we change sides, I hear her boyfriend cheering. I can’t help the pissy comment that comes out of my mouth, which is less because of my usual brain malfunction that happens around her, and more because I’m embarrassed by the fact that I just worked harder in a pick-up game than I have in some of my own. I still got my ass handed to me—by
girls
. And yes, I lied earlier, because although I believe in equal rights, I don’t believe in equal physique. I am a chauvinistic-sexist who believes boys are stronger than girls, and therefore, should always win physical competitions. Get out the torches and pitchforks.

“Tell your boyfriend you haven’t
actually
won yet.”

“At least you’re able to admit that the win’s inevitable,” she says on her way by me.

I have to laugh, because as much as I hate losing to anyone—especially girls—that kind of shit talking reminds me I’m not competing against just anyone. I’m competing against an athlete. Anatomy aside, she’s pretty goddamned good.

“And hot,” I think to myself, despite my better judgment and constant lecturing. She’s bent over, about to pick up the ball and taking a minute to dust off her legs. Mesmerized by the sheer length of them as she goes up and down, lifting one and then the other, I’m forced to take several deep breaths to regain focus.

“Are you done grooming yet?”

She looks up at me with a sly smile, one that tells me she’s not unaware of her effect on the male species. It catches me off guard to the point that I almost blow my return. Rachel’s always been honest, open, and up front about what she wants and needs. Girls like Lauren play games; girls like Rachel tell boys what they want. Don’t they?

I don’t have time to form any answers. I’m eating sand most of the match, working to dig each and every ball Rachel sends my way. The first two games she targeted Tanner, noting that he was more bulk and brawn than speed—but now, she’s started a personal war, and I’m her enemy. Every time Katie sets her up, it doesn’t matter where I am, the ball finds me. I’m forced to receive, bump, dig until my wrists are throbbing and my knees are scratched from the number of times I’ve hit the sand.

The match lasts just under an hour, and in the end I’m grateful for the loss if only so the pain can stop. Christ, how does she hit that hard?

We walk up to meet them in the center, Tanner already running his fool mouth while he watches Katie act out portions of the match. I stare at them both, stealing glances at Rachel as she laughs along with Katie. When college boy comes up to stand next to her, his friend wrapping his arm around Katie, Tanner’s scowl matches my own.

Rachel makes introductions, and Katie invites everyone to her birthday party. When
Dean
tries to engage me in conversation, asking me if I’ll be making it to the party tonight, while covertly moving closer to Rachel, I declare open season.

“Are you coming tonight? No
college
party to go to?”

He’s shocked; I know, because I see the hint of color creep up his neck. I ignore Rachel when she glares at me. He’s in college— note, Tanner thinks Katie is hot, but he declines her invitation because he’s not in high school anymore. I don’t care that I’m being outright rude as I stare at him while he tries to say goodbye to Rachel. I know he’s uncomfortable, because he leaned in once like he was going to kiss her, but then he glanced at me and actually shuffled a few feet backward.

I am man; hear me roar
.

But Rachel doesn’t stand down to anyone—goddamn it if that’s not the most attractive thing about her . After shooting me a death glare, she does what college boy wouldn’t; she grabs his shirt, dragging him forward for a proper kiss before releasing him and walking away.

As exits go, it was pretty perfect. As awakenings go, it was like a bullet to the brain.

Rachel has a boyfriend. Rachel—the girl I’ve thought of as mine, the one who was always to be looked at and not touched—just touched someone else, because she’s a person, not a robot, not a mom, not a doll. She’s a person, and she’s not going to be single her whole life; she’s going to fall in love, make love, be loved. And I’m what…going to sit on the sidelines and hold her purse? Date someone safe, because I’ve convinced myself she’s better off without me?

13

Past

The first few months after Rachel told me she was pregnant, I constantly revisited the night we hooked up. I couldn’t shake the feeling everything happening to her was because of me. I punished myself nightly when I would go to sleep, my subconscious throwing me back into that night, her wrapped in my arms.

It began the same way every time. I would call her, she would answer, we would go to her house and start kissing. Sometimes, the details after that would change—rather than just messing around, we’d have sex. And always, always in the morning I’d stay and wake up with her, kiss her and laugh about morning breath, then sink inside of her again and make her mine.

One time, I saw myself lying there; it was a different morning, I could tell somehow. Rachel came out of the bathroom with tears in her eyes and told me she was pregnant. I knew it was mine, and we were scared shitless, but instead of crying, we sat together and made a plan. Then, we started laughing and I grabbed her and kissed her. Then I woke up.

In the harsh reality of morning, I was able to rationalize that had I gotten Rachel pregnant, neither of us would have laughed and kissed about it. It would have been devastating. However much we might have loved one another—and in my dreams she loved me with the same intensity that I loved her—we were sixteen. There is rarely a happy ending for a sixteen-year-old who gets pregnant, and even less for the relationship that began before. Still, this knowledge didn’t stop me from dreaming, and dreaming vividly.

This went on for months, until I had to talk to Lauren. The easy relationship I had with her wasn’t easy for me anymore. I was a lot of things, but a user wasn’t one of them. Since the night of that party during spring break—that’s all I’d felt like. I met her at a coffee shop on the outskirts of campus and we stood in the parking lot staring at one another for a minute.

“Want to walk?” I ask and she nods her head.

When she doesn’t reach for my hand, I know she understands what I’m going to say.

“Lauren, we need to talk.”

She stops near a bench outside of a building that looks half condemned. The sign reads
SOCIAL SCIENCES
. I sit next to her; the silence continues. Clearing my throat, I turn to almost face her.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s not fair to you.”

“What’s not?”

“Lauren, I’m not all in this. I haven’t been for a while. I’m not sure I can give you what you want—what you need.”

She studies me for a second, and then takes my hand. “Is this about Flow?” I eye her and then incline my chin. “Are you guys going to start dating? I mean, you were barely speaking a few months ago. Even now, you’re back to being friends—but it’s not the same.”

“We’re not like that,” I say and hate I have to say it out loud, hate that I have to admit the person I want can’t be mine.

“Then why are you breaking up with me? Listen, Tripp,” she says before I can speak, “I know you had your thing with her that night we were broken up. I know she’s your best friend, but she doesn’t look at you like anything more than that. If you’re telling me you guys aren’t going to start dating, I guess I’m wondering if there’s some other reason you’re breaking up with me. Are you just using her as an excuse?”

Confused—because for whatever reason she is making sense of something I’ve been wracking my brain over—I shake my head. “Lauren, I don’t want anyone else. It’s just I don’t feel like I’m being fair to you. I don’t know how I feel. Things are complicated…”

She presses her lips to mine, waiting for my response. As much as I’ve tried to deny it, it’s there. This kiss isn’t fireworks and passion—but it’s familiar, it’s easy, and it’s there. Lauren leans back and smiles. “Un-complicate them then. Let’s try this, Tripp.
Really
try. And let’s just have fun.”