Tripp (16 page)

The problem with being the one in the wrong is that no matter how much I know I’m wrong, I always still try to defend myself, because despite what everyone else thinks—at the time I was being an asshat, I was actually doing it for what I thought were very good reasons. When Rachel looks at me with such hurt and contempt, I can’t help but try and defend myself… and by
defend
myself, I mean blame her.

“You didn’t call me either,” I snap and her eyes go to slits.

Asshat, party of one
.

Blowing out a breath, I scrape my hands over my face and try again—this time, with honesty. “You were everything I’d ever wanted and it scared me to realize that at sixteen. I knew I wanted you, but I didn’t know if you wanted me. I thought I would go and talk to Lauren, wait and see if you called. When I got there, I told her that I’d been with you. She said it was okay, that she had made a mistake in trying to make me jealous, and we could work it out. I wanted to call you—to ask what to do—but I realized you hadn’t called me. I wondered if you wanted to forget it. When I walked in with her on Monday, and you didn’t say anything, I figured I was right.”

Her voice is deceptively low when she responds to me. I finally understand that statement about the calm before the storm. “Let me get this straight: you left my bed to go and talk to your
ex-girlfriend
, then you got back together with her because
I
didn’t call
you
and you figured it was because
I
wasn’t interested?” Fearful, I nod. Then the bomb explodes. “You asswipe.
You
left me;
you
texted some lame thing to
me
that morning, and then
you
walked in with Lauren and pretended it never happened the next day. What was I supposed to do?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“That’s not enough.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

I battle, using every excuse in the book because I’ll be goddamned if I’m going down without a fight. I explain myself again, telling I was just a kid—one who couldn’t understand why
what he wanted
and
what he had
weren’t the same thing. I see in her face that she doesn’t care; all she remembers is that I spent the night with her and walked away. I want to rage, to scream, to tell her I know I’m an asshole, but all I can do is breathe and try to explain what I was feeling then.

“I’ve loved you my entire life, Rachel. I fucked up and thought it was best to take the punishment. Then when you got pregnant, I thought all you needed was a friend, someone to be there and take care of you. To make sure no one ever hurt you again, especially me.”

“Well, you failed at that, and I can take care of myself.”

I nod, not only because she’s right, but because this is the hardest thing about loving Rachel. She doesn’t need me, not like I need her. Deep down, I know this is what I need to tell her, but I don’t know how without looking weak. How do you look at the girl whose heart you broke and explain that it was fear that held you back? Not the fear of falling—but the fear of never landing, of falling and falling and falling only to realize the person you fell for will never truly love you the way that you love them?

I can’t tell her that, not even now as I’m breaking apart and I can see that she is too. It might be pride, or just stupidity, but I can’t tell her. Instead, I stand and look her in the eyes. “Doesn’t change that I want to take care of you, and when I saw you with Dean I realized I don’t care if it’s selfish, if it’s unfair, if it’s asking too much. I want to be with you; more than I want anything else in this world, I want to be with you.”

I step toward her and she steps back, a sure sign that there’s more than anger swirling around inside of her now. Whether I should or not, I feel rewarded enough that I keep walking toward her until she’s pressed against the wall. I’m in front of her, filling her vision, and I stop only inches from her. She tries to deny me, to remind me that she has Gracie, that I have Lauren, but I stop her and remind her that Lauren and I broke up. Then I can’t stop myself from explaining to Rachel who Lauren was to me—letting her know that Lauren, although important at the time, was never to my life what Rachel is.

“I told her about you, you know,” I say and take her hand. “I told her that I just can’t get past the feelings I have for you, no matter how much I try to convince myself that she’s the better, safer choice. I cared about Lauren, and I liked how when I was with her things were easy…that even for just a minute I could convince myself it was right. But I can’t do that anymore, Rachel.”

Her voice isn’t steady when she asks me why. Looking straight into her eyes, I tell her, and I pray to God she understands it’s the truth. “Because she’s not you.” Leaning forward, I stop my lips a breath from hers and wait for my words to sink in. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know how to work for what I want. You’re it for me, Rachel. You always have been.”

She doesn’t shove me away when my lips descend on hers. I start slowly, tracing her lips with my mouth, memorizing their shape and taste as I release her hand to bring my own up so I can cup her jaw—skimming my thumbs underneath and over her sensitive skin—breathing her in as I soak up her mouth. I feel her response, a dizzy kind of yielding. I wish I could push, that I could make her mine here and now and know that it was for real, but I can’t and I won’t. I promised her I would give her time. I know she’s going to ask for it. Whatever Rachel is, she isn’t a girl of faith; she’s one of action and proof. However much she might feel for me, I haven’t given her nearly enough proof to forgive me.

As if my thoughts conjured that very reaction, she tells me with her next breath that she believes me, and then tells me that she needs time. And then she opens herself up for the first time in years and lays her hurt out for me to see.

“I believe that you didn’t mean to hurt me, that you were scared like I was, but you did hurt me when you didn’t talk to me, when you stayed with Lauren. I wanted you every day.” My breath stops, and my heart falters. Rachel’s eyes are steady and open as she looks at me and explains exactly how much she loved me. With each word, I feel less and less like a man. “Even when I wanted to hate you, when I wanted nothing more than for you to hurt like I was hurting, to be over you and in love with someone else—I wanted you. And still, you were with her, and it hurt. I need time to deal with that.”

There are moments that come with such clarity I want to scream at the sky and curse fate for being such a wicked bitch. I’ve feared Rachel my whole life, and it wasn’t until that night two years ago that I understood why: she was the one thing I didn’t see clearly. My life, my goals, my ambitions, I’ve always had those all planned out. I don’t expect them to come easily to me, but I understand that with hard work, I can reach most of them. With Rachel, I didn’t see it because I was too afraid. And now—now I see that if I had just taken the chance, our lives could have been different.

I wish I could take it back, all of it. When I tell her this, she nods, but like me she knows I can’t. Nothing we’ve done can be undone. Now, we have to see if we can go forward.
Rachel
has to see if she can go forward. I hate that I wouldn’t be able to blame her if she decided she couldn’t. I think of the small amount of time when she was with Dean, how much it sliced at me to see them together, and then I imagine what it did to her to see me with Lauren every day, to watch me walk into school with her the week after we spent the night together.

The image is painful. I rest my forehead on hers in a gesture of utter defeat and loathing for every rash decision I made. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”

She mumbles her agreement with my forehead still on hers. “I need to go and get Gracie.”

Her voice is a low; I understand that it’s not just leaving right now we’re talking about. She has to go—to walk away and take the space and time she needs. I have to wait.
Son of a bitch
.

“Will you call me at some point?” I ask her, trying not to grab her tighter, but still not letting her go.

She nods. I don’t move, knowing that once I do, it’s done—I’ll be left waiting for her to tell me her decision.

She tilts her head back so she can look at me. “Tripp, let me go.”

I hesitate briefly, then drop my hands, stepping back, letting her pass. I wait until she’s almost out the door before I stop her again. “Rachel,” she turns and looks at me. I see the understanding in her eyes. “I love you. I just want you to know that. Maybe if you do, you’ll realize I’m not going anywhere…not this time.”

“Tripp, it’s not that simple.”

I smile, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

She walks out, and I let her go. I wait until I hear the front door close before easing down on my bed and leaning back against the wall with my eyes closed. I delivered my last line like a challenge—an arrogant statement to show her that I wasn’t scared, that I was confident I wouldn’t lose her.
Yeah, right
.

23

Past

“I think she just threw up on me.”

Rachel looks over her shoulder. I’m now holding Gracie like a ticking time-bomb instead of a seven-month-old. My neck is wet and I can smell that horrific scent I’ve come to associate with regurgitated formula—the kind this kid constantly spits up, because she won’t slow down when she eats.

“Why does she do that?” I cringe, setting her on the blanket on the floor, and standing to strip off my shirt. Rachel stays where she is, her laptop balanced on her legs where she sits on the couch. She is speed-typing an assignment for her online class that was assigned two weeks ago—and is due in less than three hours.

“Do what?” she asks absently.

“Spit up all over me. Why can’t she just burp like a normal person?”

“You do realize she isn’t a normal person, right? She’s a baby; their digestive systems don’t work the same as ours.”

Of course I didn’t know that, but I’m not about to admit it. “I’m just saying—it would be nice to leave here without smelling like dog shit.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always blathering on about my language and how she hears it even if she can’t understand it?”

“Bite me,” I say, walking into the small bathroom off the living room to wash my hands, my neck, and my shirt. Wringing the water out of the cotton, I hang it over the lip of the sink and hope it dries a little less smelly.

“Hey, I heard you guys are already training,” I say as I stop in the kitchen for a soda. Heading back into the living room, I check to make sure the monster hasn’t rolled herself under a table to chew on plugs or stick her fingers in any outlets. When I see her on her stomach, face buried in her stuffed bear as she mauls him, I nod and sit back in the recliner.

Rachel still hasn’t answered me, but her fingers aren’t clacking away at her keyboard anymore either, so I repeat myself.

“Rachel? Training already? Katie said Coach already has you guys doing six o’clock individuals and three o’clock team trains. How’s it going?”

She closes her laptop without looking at me, setting it onto the couch. “Um, I don’t know.”

I frown when she stands, and bends down to scoop up Gracie and put her in the playpen—where she can be contained, and can’t electrocute herself or try and climb on the stairs and fall off, again. Rachel heads into the kitchen. I follow her, brushing my hand over Gracie’s golden curls on the way.

She’s a gorgeous kid. I know Rachel panics a little because she thinks she looks like Marcus, but honestly the more I’m with her the more I see that she’s all Rachel…the cat eyes with heavy lids, the ever-changing sea-green to gray color, the full pink lips—the stubborn stares. When Gracie was learning to move, she didn’t want anyone to touch her or help her. She kicked those feet until she got mad enough to roll, and then pushed up with her hands.

In the kitchen, Rachel is standing with the refrigerator door open; she’s staring at the contents, but making no move to choose anything. I wait because though her appetite has come back, she’s still a little on the thin side. If she’s actually going to grab something to eat, I want her to. She doesn’t, and just keeps staring, so I speak.

“Rachel, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t go to training. I’m not going to training.”

I frown. “Because you’re not ready?”

She slams the fridge door and whirls around, eyes blazing out of her sun-darkened skin.

“Because I don’t want to,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

I stare at her for a second before walking over and cupping her shoulders in my hands. She jerks, but still doesn’t look at me. “Rachel.”

“What?”

Her acid tone should deter me, but because she won’t look at me I understand she’s fighting because she would rather yell than be scared. What I can’t figure out is what she’s scared of.

“Will you look at me for a minute?”

She does and her eyes widen, like she didn’t expect me to be this close even though I’m holding onto her.

“Jesus, Tripp, where are your clothes?”

“Your kid spit up on them. It’s either no shirt or smell like vomit.”

“Well, don’t you like, have an extra?”

“Shirt? No, I don’t usually bring wardrobe changes with me when I go places. What’s wrong with you? I run without a shirt all the time.”

She shakes her head, her eyes skimming over my pecs and then coming back to my face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Rachel was blushing, but then she’s shoving my hands off and stepping back.

“Well, with skin that pale you might want to think about starting to carry one. I’m going blind here.”

All-righty, not checking me out. Noted—I’ll just make sure my ego knows, too, so he can slink into a corner and pass out for a while. “Not all of us have the super powers of Native-American skin like you. It takes some time.” When she laughs I’m relieved, but I refuse to be derailed from my original goal. “Now, back to volleyball.”

Her smile disappears. “Tripp.”

“Rachel, what’s wrong? You love volleyball.”