Tripp (23 page)

She stares at me and begs me with her eyes to understand what she’s saying. But I can’t. Goddammit, I can’t.

She doesn’t want to want me. I can’t be with her if she isn’t all in. I don’t know what hurts worse—having her just long enough to know how amazing we can be together, or it ending so soon. I decide it’s now or never. If I’m going down, I’ll do it in a blaze of glory. I go all-in one last time.

“Why would you need to make it on your own?” I shove away from the door and stalk toward her, brazenly pushing into her space until her back is against the wall and my hands are caging her in on either side. “Don’t you trust any of us to stay with you, Rachel? To love you unconditionally, even when you’re being a pain in the ass?”

Her eyes light with fire then, and it makes me want to goad her even more.
Fight me
, I want to tell her. Fight
for
me. Like I did that day I put her in the shower and challenged her to come back to life, I press into her space and challenge her to come back to us.

“Excuse me?” she asks, her voice tight.

“Which part do you need me to repeat?”

I lean forward even farther and I see her body shift slightly, as if deciding whether or not to push me.
So close
, I think.

“Wanting to be independent does
not
make me a pain in the ass.”

“You’re right. It makes you selfish.” Direct hit. She’s gaping at me. I know I’m hitting her hard when she’s already down, but I can’t stop myself. She’s hurt me simply by refusing to trust me. Fighting back is the only way I know to defend myself.

“Are you the only person allowed to love Gracie? To want to make her life better, happier, easier? Are you the only person she should be able to depend on? Is no one else allowed to love her? To make a sacrifice to show her that she’s worth it—that you’re both worth it?”

“That’s not what I said,” she stumbles out, and I shake my head, not ready for her backtrack and cover up. I’m ready for her honesty. She better be ready for mine.

“No, you don’t say
anything
, don’t ask for anything, don’t complain. You do everything on your own, only giving up the reins when you have no other choice. Did you let your mom stay up and rock Gracie last night?”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and I know she’s beginning to understand. She doesn’t ask for help, and I’m not made to sit on the sidelines. “Did you call Stacy or G or Katie and ask them to come over so you could even just have someone with you? Did you call me? No, because you’re afraid that asking for help makes you weak, makes you less, and you’re afraid that we won’t stay. That
I
won’t stay.”

She bulldozes me when she says, “Not that you won’t. That you shouldn’t.” I’m reeling, and dear god, I finally see it. Before I can tell her just how ridiculous it is for her to question me—ever—she goes on. “We’re eighteen, Tripp, and she doesn’t belong to you. How long before you realize that and everything changes?” She’s not aware her eyes are wet, but I am. I want to reach out, but my hands stay stubbornly at my sides as my mind tries to catch up with her and what she’s said.

“My own dad didn’t want me…something he admitted tonight. It was too difficult to raise Stacy and me—his own daughters—so he left, and let my mom do it. Why would you want the responsibility of a baby that isn’t yours?”

The answer’s there, off my tongue and in the air before I even question it. “Because she’s yours,” I tell her. There’s shock on her face, and I hope to Christ pleasure too, but I don’t wait around to check before speaking again. “And because you’re mine, Rachel. You’ve always been mine.”

My anger is gone, and though there’s still fear living inside of me, it eases as I watch her face and understand that she fears too. She’s not playing it strong because she wants to, but because she has to. Trying to show her I mean exactly what I say—I tell her I don’t care about her father, I won’t accept being compared to a coward of a man. Then I tell her exactly what I need, and hope like hell it doesn’t backfire.

“I left you once—don’t shake your head at me like you don’t blame me. We both blame me. All I can do is apologize. But I can’t apologize forever. You can’t keep backing away. I asked you to trust me to love you, and you said you did…but you lied, Rachel. If you trusted me to love you, you’d know that meant Gracie too.” I loosen my grip on her arms so I can slide them up to her neck, cupping it while my thumbs press under her chin. She tilts her head up and looks at me. “Let me love her, love you both. And stop thinking I don’t know what I’m asking, because I do.”

She’s weakening, I can see it, but ever the stubborn girl, she shakes her head. Then, of all things, she tells me we’re too young for this. Age? That’s what you’re going with? Please.

“Who the fuck cares how old we are?” I ask, but there’s no sting to my words. “Rachel, do you love me?” She nods and the vise around my chest eases a little bit more. I bring her closer. “Then believe me when I tell you I love you and it isn’t going away.”

“But what about next year? Your future, Tripp. Listen to me,” she says when I go to interrupt. “I do trust you. I trust that you love me, that you love Gracie, and I’m sorry I don’t ask for help. It’s not that I don’t trust you to give it, it’s that I know exactly how hard it is to look ahead and know it’s not just yourself you’re looking for. I’m not being noble when I tell you I don’t want you to sacrifice, I’m being honest. It’s hard, Tripp, and I can’t ask you to sacrifice like that. I won’t do it.”

Here’s the thing about a strong girl: sometimes, you forget that their strength stretches beyond what you could ever imagine. Rachel’s strong for herself and for her daughter. She’s strong for Katie who doesn’t have a good family, and she’s strong for her own family—Dr. C and Stacy and G—because when she loves, she puts her whole self into it. What I forgot, or was unable to see, is that Rachel’s strength doesn’t stop there. She wasn’t rejecting me because she doesn’t trust me. She was rejecting me because she somehow wanted to save me.

However wrong she was, the thought that she could do that—would do that—is beyond words. I can’t tell her that. More than she needs to hear my gratitude for her misplaced selflessness, she needs to hear that without her, my world isn’t quite right.

“You don’t have to,” I tell her and mean it. “Rachel, last weekend we made a decision that changed my life. We became a unit, something I’ve wanted since we were in the fourth grade. Whether or not you ask me to make the sacrifice is irrelevant—the minute you became mine, I decided you were worth anything I could give.” I make sure my eyes are on hers, and she knows I’m telling her the truth. “I’m going to be here, whether you want me to or not.”

I don’t let her speak because I see the acceptance in her eyes, on her face, and I can’t stop myself from pulling her close and taking her lips. My hands slide from her neck to her hair, massaging the strands through my fingers before I change the angle of the kiss and tangle our tongues together.

When she pushes to her toes and gets closer, everything in my brain shuts off and the only thing I can think of is her. My hands make their way from her hair to her hips, sliding underneath her tank top where I can finally feel her skin. I surround her waist and tug her up against me, pressing into her until I can feel a groan come from deep down in her throat.

Yes. Now
, I think, and slide my grip down to her hips. Before I can lift her and put her on the bed where I want her, she’s pulling back. When I look down at her, there’s not the passion on her face that I’m feeling but… guilt?

“What’s wrong?”

“Your mother thinks we need to talk more and jump into bed less.”

Side note: it doesn’t matter how turned on a guy is, or how much he wants to have sex. When he’s turned on and there’s a mention of his mother, that boner is going to fall because, well, you said mother. Let’s be clear, this isn’t his fault.

My hands loosen their grip; even though I know it’s ridiculous, I step back from Rachel. I don’t know how to process what she’s said—don’t know how to take it. Her face is amused, but not the kind that tells me she’s playing an awful joke. It’s the amused of, thank God, now he’s suffering with me.

“My mother?” is the best I can come up with. This appears to delight the love of my life even more, as her smile spreads even wider.

“Yeah, didn’t she mention it? She and I spoke today as she reminded me essentially the same thing you did—asking for help doesn’t make me weak, and it’s insulting to everyone around when I put stipulations on your kindness,
blah blah blah
.”

I nod and tell her that my mom’s right. And then I ask the million-dollar question. “But when did this turn into a conversation about sex?”

“Oh, right about the time she admitted to knowing that something happened between us two years ago—apparently you, her youngest, are also her most emotional. Can’t keep a secret from your mama, Tripp?”

Awesome. No boner, no sex, and apparently, no pride anymore either. It’s been a day for the books. I can’t help the stuffy “Excuse me?” that comes out of my mouth in response to her teasing. She wraps her arms around my neck, obviously finding my mortification hilarious, but I refuse to be placated and leave my arms at my sides.

Undeterred, Rachel snuggles up against me and goes on. “Yep, she told me all about how Tanner and Griff disappear or shut down when they’re upset, but not her Tripp—her baby, who walks around
like
a baby until she has to give you some chocolate and a shoulder to cry on…where you promptly spill your guts to her.”

I want to deny what she’s saying, to pound my chest and do my
I am man, hear me roar
dance, but I can’t. If I’m being honest, there’s truth to what she’s saying. More than that, we’re ignoring the entire point of the conversation. “Jesus…but you didn’t—” I have to pause and swallow with a suddenly dry mouth. “—you didn’t tell her we’re sleeping together, did you?”

When she assures me she didn’t have to tell my mother, because my mother brought up the conversation about sex, I fear I might die. Do I think my mom’s an idiot? No. Which means with three grown boys as sons, she’s most likely figured out that we’re having sex. Figuring it out and actually saying something about it are two different things though. Christ, I’m uncomfortable.

Apparently, Rachel doesn’t see just how uncomfortable as she finishes her explanation, “She’s glad we use protection, B-T-dubs—she doesn’t want another grandbaby for at least five years, just in case you were wondering.”

Is there a word that exceeds uncomfortable? Oh, right. Horrified. I’m horrified.

While I sink to the bed, Rachel jabbers on. Despite the fact that I might actually be sick at the thought of my mother and girlfriend talking about sex—there’s a part of me that’s relieved to know Rachel’s still here, with me, and it doesn’t appear she’s going anywhere.

32

Past

Rachel: Gracie doesn’t want to leave cookies out for Santa.

Me: Why?

Rachel: Because she likes cookies;)

Rachel: She keeps taking them off the plate saying “my cookie.” I wonder if she’ll share her birthday cake with people next week?

Me: Did you ever share yours?

Rachel: Point taken.

~

When Rachel opens her front door two days after Christmas, its chaos. Literal chaos.

She’s wearing a party hat that’s less
jauntily tilted
and more
a cat tried to steal my hat and we battled it out
. Her hair is scarier than her hat.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Oh yeah, don’t I look okay?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Fuck you.”

I tisk at her as she pulls me inside. “I thought we talked about that word. Seriously, Gracie’s starting to mimic you big time. The other day she said fork, but that is
not
how it came out.”

“My language is the least of my worries right now,” she says slamming the front door and looking behind her. “I didn’t get Gracie’s present put together.”

“
What?
How could you not get it put together?”

“Shh. Lower your voice, you idiot.”

“Me? I’m the idiot? Did I just hear you correctly when you said that
you
didn’t get Gracie’s present put together?”

Her eyes go to slits. “Yes, and I feel bad enough, so can you ease off on the judgment?”

“Yeah, no,” I tell her, and barely have time to tighten my abs before she’s slamming the back of her hand into my stomach. “Hey, don’t hit me, I brought Gracie a present. One that
is
put together.”

She groans. “Shit, I know how bad this is, but it has like five hundred pieces, Tripp. Oh, Christ, why did I think I could put a kitchen together?” Before I can answer, she’s rushing on. “Did you know all of the hardware comes in bags? Doors, too. Like, they number everything and expect you to read the directions and put every piece together and I thought I would do it during her nap, but then she was so excited she didn’t sleep and Stacy came over early and I couldn’t admit to her, of all people, that I’d failed to put my kid’s present together. She judges me enough. Oh, my god, I’m such a terrible mom.”

“Rachel, relax, you’re not a terrible mom. Gracie’s only
one
. She won’t know if you don’t give her a present. Let’s just put your name on mine.”

She hesitates and I can see how bad she feels. A little slice of pain hits me as I see her shoulders sag and her head nod, like she knows there’s no other choice, but she won’t be able to stomach herself for being so careless. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Sorry to jump all over you, I just… Christmas was a lot, and I had to put together all of that stuff, too, because god forbid Amazon send anything already assembled.”

I want to remind her—for what feels like the thousandth time—she has any number of people who would have willingly come over early to put the kitchen together for her…including this guy, who just so happens to put together cars on a regular basis. But I don’t, because we argue pretty regularly about it, and she seems stressed enough today.