Tripp (14 page)

I whisper the last part. I don’t know if it was the words or the fact that she’s finally opened up enough to feel the weight of it all, but she breaks—the dam cracking and flooding. Instead of being angry, she’s devastated.

My heart cracks and my lungs seize; she falls into a sobbing heap. I turn the water off and start to lift her into my lap. Whatever I promised her sister, I can’t do it; I can’t watch her break like this. Before I can, Stacy’s there, pushing me aside and climbing into the tub with her. She curls her arms around Rachel, talking to her while she brushes her wet hair from her face. I sit where I am, watching them, more unsteady than I care to admit.

I finally find enough strength to stand and meet Stacy’s gaze over the top of Rachel’s head, nodding to her as she mouths her
thank you
. I walk out of the bathroom while Rachel is crying and Stacy is talking to her. When I get to the front door, I grab my jacket and shove my arms inside, heedless of how soaked I am, my breath heaving in and out and tears threatening in my eyes.

Before I can open the door and escape outside, I hear my name. Turning, I see Dr. C with that pink bundle in her arms. “Why don’t you come have some cookies and hold the baby? She’s going to be all right,” she adds, reaching a hand out and touching my arm. I nod, ignoring the part of me that’s clawing to break free and rage.

When I’m in the kitchen, she hands me a towel and I use it to dry off as best I can. She takes the towel from me before she hands me the pink bundle, situating her in my arms. I stand there awed and dumbfounded and scared out of my mind. She walks away and I look down—and, for the second time in my life, I fall in love with a girl who can’t be mine.

20

Present

For an hour yesterday, I stood inside the Starbucks on campus. The only reason I left was because I hadn’t ordered; the normal barista who takes Rachel’s and my order kept looking over at me. She had the sad face people give others when they know they’ve been stood up. I didn’t order coffee, but ran to the park and waited for another hour. When she didn’t show, it took all my willpower not to run to her house and bang on the door until she opened it and let me explain.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t think she’d miss our Sunday playdate. She never does. It’s the one thing we’re consistent at—and have been since those first few months when she was getting to know Gracie again. I think it began because she was afraid to be with Gracie alone. Rather than admit it, she started bringing her on our runs, pushing the stroller. As Gracie got more active, it became natural to stop off at the park afterward and play.

It’s not really a big deal; I mean, we’ve missed Sunday’s before with her and my crazy tournament-schedules until recently. But if we’re both here on Sunday, we’re both at the park—and she didn’t make it yesterday. Visions of the freeze-out she employed after we hooked up our sophomore year float through my head; I clench my hands on the steering wheel of my truck as I sit and wait for her in the parking lot.

I will not accept her cold shoulder. Her anger, yes, but I won’t allow her to shut me out. I won’t be intimidated into it either. This time, we’re working it out and come hell or high water, Rachel’s going to find out just how I feel. If she wants to reject me, well, she’s got one hell of a fight on her hands.

I see her banged-up Explorer trudge into the lot. I get out so I’m standing with my back against my driver’s-side door as I wait for her to park in her spot, which is the one directly in front of mine. I can see her watching me, and I know she’s contemplating ignoring me, so I keep my eyes on hers to let her know I’ll find her wherever she goes—because this time, I’m not going away.

She parks and gets out, and we stand there staring at one another. Her hands are tucked into her black North Face shell, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with her bangs pushed to the side. She’s a bit pale, but other than that I can’t read her expression. Her face is closed off with none of the emotions from Saturday night visible now. She stares at me as I study her; I hate that the words I want to say dry up with panic. Swallowing that fear that’s been sitting in the wings waiting to grab me and show me exactly what her rejection feels like, I stand a little straighter, ignoring the people who slide glances our way as I focus only on her.

“You didn’t go to the park yesterday.” It’s not what I was going to say—no surprise there—at least, not the only thing I meant to say, but before I can add that I had
hoped
she would be there, that I had been
looking forward to seeing her
so I could begin my groveling process, she bitch slaps me with her next comment.

“I went to see Dean instead.”

Motherfu
—

My jaw clenches so tightly I think I might actually have to pry it open. She did
not
just say that. But then I see the small glow of triumph on her face and understand that Rachel’s on the defensive; the only way she knows to protect herself is to strike first.

Rachel,
one
. Tripp,
zero
.

“I waited for you at Starbucks, and then at the park. I almost came by your house.”

“I wasn’t there, I was out—”

“With Dean,” I bite out. I swear I’m two seconds away from hauling her over my shoulder and carting her off just to prove I can. “So you said. Tell me, Rachel, did you tell
Dean
you slept with me a few hours before you went running to him? Or did you omit that? Act like it didn’t happen?”

“Isn’t that what we do?” she shouts. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been together, Tripp—and if I remember correctly, it was you who snuck out the last time. I’m just following protocol.”      

Score update: Rachel,
one million
. Tripp,
not even in the ballpark
.

I’m working on reigning in my anger and handling the regret that’s piling on high as she yells at me. She pushes by me and my hand snakes out on instinct and grabs her wrist. I don’t flinch when she whips around, don’t cower or let her go like I know she expects me to. This—she and I—is worth another fist in the face, because worse than that physical pain is the goddamned heartache that I know will come if we don’t talk about this. It might come anyway, but I’ve decided that Griff was right about one thing: neither of us can move on if we just let this go. And if I want to move on with her, I have to show her it’s about more.

She—this, us—is everything to me.

“I let you go Saturday, Rachel, because I didn’t want to yell at you after… after. But I can’t let you go now. I just can’t.”

She stares at me a second. I worry that my romantic gesture is going to be trumped when I’m forced to throw her over my shoulder and lock her in my truck while I make her listen to me. Instead, she nods, following me to the football field, because it’s the only quiet place I can think of.

I don’t know how to start, how to explain everything I need to say—from what happened two years ago to the other night and everything in between. When I tell her this, she starts it for me, admitting this conversation shouldn’t have taken me this long.

“How about with the last time this happened?” she says and I freeze. “You should have been waiting at my car two years ago when we hooked up Tripp. You’re too late now.”

I try to respond, try to form the right words to explain why I wasn’t here, but I can’t because there are none. I was wrong. Shit, I was so, so wrong. Now she’s going to make me pay for it, walk away and leave me wanting her even while I know I probably don’t deserve her.

“You were right, Tripp, this is enlightening shit you’re telling me. I’m glad we had this talk.”

After she mouths off and stands to leave, I reach for her, stopping short of grabbing her. I don’t want to force her, but I need to detain her. I can feel the words rising, and when she looks at me out of heated eyes and tells me to speak or back the fuck off (paraphrasing), they explode out of me.

“Rachel, I love you.” There they are.
Thank Christ, I’m not a mute after all
.

Standing, I turn her toward me, noting the heaving chest, the rigid body, and the wary eyes.

“I know you don’t understand. After the things you said Saturday, and the way you left, I realized I have a lot to tell you. But I think that’s the most important thing: I love you, Rachel. I’ve always loved you.”

If I’ve imagined this day (and now that I’m being completely honest, I’ll admit I have), I’ve done so with what one might consider an exaggerated response on the heroine’s part. Each time I played this scene over in my head, it had her eyes filling with tears, her face spreading with a smile, and her hands trembling in mine. She told me she loved me too, that she’d always loved me, and was too afraid to admit it. Whether because she’s contrary—or she really doesn’t feel that way—Rachel does none of those things. She does, however, verbally assault me.

“You sure have a funny way of showing it, Tripp. What…with the girlfriend you’ve been harboring these past few years. Unless you’re going to tell me she was just a way to make me jealous. Bang-up job of that, B-T-dubs.”

Clearly, I have a bit more persuading to do.

“I broke up with Lauren at the party on Saturday night, before I came to see you.”

For whatever reason, this scares her more than my declaration of love. I see it in her eyes the minute I say it—a brief flash of fear, hope, whatever it is we both feel and can’t admit. I want to latch onto it and force her to tell me her feelings. But I can’t, because she isn’t wrong when she says that I’ve had a girlfriend; she can’t know what I was thinking. I have a lot of trust to earn back. She affirms that in her next breath.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers and I hear the tears in her voice now, but they aren’t tears of joy. “So much has happened since we were sixteen, Tripp. I wanted you so much that night, and so many nights before that. When you came home with me, I thought my life had changed forever. But in the morning, you were gone. Then I slept with Marcus, and now I have Gracie. Things are way more complicated now than they were then; I don’t think either of us is ready for that.”

I’m shaking my head, willing her to stop and understand—no matter what, she’s everything I want. When she doesn’t take my warning, I stop her with my lips, pressing them softly, reverently to hers, absorbing even that small piece of contact and holding it inside of me. My world has righted. No matter how scared I am, I know she’s just as scared. At some point, we were both too scared to tell the other how we felt. But I’m not scared anymore.

“I was afraid of you, of us, Rachel, because you mean everything to me and I didn’t want to fuck this up. But I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I want to be with you.” Resting my brow against hers, I finally ask her what I should have asked her the first time I fell. “Let me be with you and Gracie. Let me finally love you, Rachel.”

I feel her lean toward me, feel her pulled just like I am. Still, she steps back. I raise my eyes and meet hers.

“Stop. Please stop.”

“Rachel,” I say, my heart freezing, but she shakes her head.

“I can’t do this right now, Tripp. It’s too much.”

I don’t stop her when she walks away. I saw her face; it wasn’t anger pushing her away from me, it was fear—not just the little kind that comes with the unknown, the big kind that comes with the uncertain. Rachel doesn’t trust me; I don’t know if I have a right to try and make her.

21

Past

The June sunshine is beating down on my tired body. My throat feels something like I imagine the Sahara to be, but I don’t stop and rest, and I don’t ask my running partner to take a break for water. It’s been five months since Rachel got out of that shower, and running like this is something we do now. Her physical strength is coming back; she’s still going at a pretty rapid pace and we’ve been at this for over three miles. I still worry from time to time about her emotional strength, but I never ask because I know it’s private.

Rachel shares what she can, but there’s a side of her that’s always been a little closed off. It’s more so now that she’s gone through what she has. She hates weakness, and this depression and her weekly counseling sessions with Mrs. Flynn are two things she sees as weak.

My body is tuned to hers, so when she begins to slow her pace and walk, I automatically follow. She’s wearing running shorts and a white tank top. If I didn’t know her, I would never guess she has a sixth-month-old daughter. Her form is long and lean and as strong as ever. While we walk in silence, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and note the changes that have occurred in the last few months.

She’s started eating again, and has put back on some of the weight she lost right after Gracie. Rather than gaunt and unhealthy, she looks fit and nourished. Her skin has been soaking in the sunshine and is as brown and warm as ever; her raven hair has grown longer. She let Katie cut bangs a few days ago, but she’s always banding them back when she ties her hair on top of her head. It should make her look sloppy—instead, it makes her look carelessly beautiful.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Busted
. She slants her eyes toward mine and I shrug, taking a minute to make certain my voice is interested and not desperate. “Just wondering how you are. You don’t say much; I have to check myself to make sure you’re as good as you want me to believe.”

She raises her brow. “Conclusions?”

“Well, you look good, and you run as fast as you used to—I’d say you’re pretty fit.”

She must note that I only mention the physical, because she stares ahead for a second, debating something with herself, and then she lets me in.

“I held her a couple of days ago. Really
held
her. It was … unreal, I guess.” She pauses to find the words. I wait because I know for her this is more than a big deal—it’s the step she needed, the one she’s been hesitating over and wondering about. Now, maybe she can move on and see that her life isn’t over. It’s here, waiting for her.