Tripp Read online

  “No promises,” I tell him and he laughs.

  “You know I’m kidding. I wouldn’t poach man. Flow’s yours. Hands off.”

  I shake my head at the nickname that’s followed Rachel since middle school and a public period incident. Yeah, not going there. I always just call her Rachel.

  “Rachel’s not my girl, Huey. She’s not anyone’s girl.” He gives me a look that clearly says I’m lying, but shakes his head as I stand and yank on my long sleeve.

  “Whatever you say, brother. Whatever you say.”

  I salute him and walk out of the locker room, not bothering to respond. The hell of it is, and I know this makes me an egotistical asshole, I don’t mind that people keep their distance from Rachel. Which is probably why Lauren hates her so much. Well, that and she knows for one brief period of time, Rachel and I were more than friends.

  Yep, remember that promise I made to never touch my best friend so she would remain my best friend? Turns out what I said was ridiculous because should never crossed my mind when I learned about want. And my god did I want her—it was a desire like no other in my life at that time.

  My feelings for Rachel are confusing—or not, if you want to get technical. Yes, I feel way more for her than I should as someone who owns the title best friend, but I don’t act on those feelings because I understand that if I do and things go wrong—she feels nothing for me that I feel for her—my life will be worse. I wasn’t lying when I said I needed Rachel. I do need her. I can’t explain it. Rather than take the chance and go for it, I keep my hands off. I’m a little territorial sometimes, but for the most part, I’ve learned to compartmentalize with Rachel. I only acknowledge the things I’m allowed to feel.

  She’s my best friend. She and I play video games, we share Sunday-morning runs, and we talk about sports and family. If I think of her like that—my friend with whom all of my greatest interests are shared—the wanting isn’t as heavy or persistent. We don’t mention certain things, like the night we hooked up our Sophomore year, or my relationship with Lauren—mostly because I don’t think either of us wants to look too closely at those things and ruin the balance we’ve learned to maintain in the past few years.

  Being with Rachel when we were sixteen and stupid was…unexplainable. Everything got both bigger and smaller until nothing and no one existed outside of my world, except her. When I touched her, I saw everything from who I was then to who I would be in the future. When I finally came up for air, I realized there were no guarantees in life, and that scared the shit out of me. Scarier than that, Rachel gave me nothing: no soft words, no encouragement beyond what we were doing, no guidance as to how much she felt. I was too much of a pussy to risk it. So, I went back to the friend zone, and I’ve added one more compartment to my relationship with Rachel: the night we don’t talk about. Ever.

  For almost two years, this has worked. I think part of it is because directly after our worlds collided, I went back to my girlfriend. Cue the gasps and unholy hatred for me—yes, I’m an asshole. Being Rachel, she didn’t take my rejection lying down—at least not alone. When I went back to my girlfriend, Rachel found her own comfort somewhere else, and a couple months later, she got news that trumped even our passionate moment together, news that rocked both our worlds and changed the course of hers forever. While she was dealing with the idea of being a mother at seventeen—nope, baby wasn’t mine—I was dealing with my newfound knowledge that friends was all we would ever be.

  We’re eighteen; we’re still best friends, though, admittedly, there are moments where the air between us gets heavy with memories and thoughts and things we can’t and won’t act on or verbalize. But when those moments pass, we’re back to being Rachel and Tripp and the world is right again.

  Until something else upsets the balance—like it did a moment ago when I walked out of the locker room to the parking lot and saw her baby daddy hanging around. Nothing and no one upsets the balance of my world more than the guy who stole Rachel’s virginity and sent her world into a tailspin.

  Marcus Kash is my mortal enemy—not only because he’s a rich prick with no morals and even fewer standards, but because I can’t go back in time and beat the ever-loving shit out of him like I should have the night I saw him take advantage of Rachel. And because I can’t change the past and my part in it.

  It might make me a narcissist, but I’ve always thought that if I had just called Rachel after our night together—if I had just told her why I left—she wouldn’t have hooked up with Marcus a few weeks later. Her life wouldn’t be as hard as it is now, with a baby and the knowledge that the guy who fathered her is a useless human being—who’s becoming increasingly dangerous, as he sells drugs on the university campus instead of actually attending college like most nineteen-year-olds.

  Yanking open the passenger door to her Explorer, I scowl and watch Marcus’s shiny Beemer—courtesy of his rich mommy and daddy—speed out of the parking lot. I turn my eyes to Rachel and raise a brow.

  “Why was he here? He graduated last year.”

  I try to keep my voice neutral, a simple question that most likely has a simple answer, but I don’t quite pull it off. I never do. I know it; I can hear the strain in my voice. Even if I couldn’t, Rachel’s sarcasm always lets me know.

  “Oh, you know, wanted to check in with the family, see how his offspring is, if he can do anything to help raise her, the usual.” My expression is less than amused, as am I, and she rolls her eyes when she recognizes this. “Jesus, Mom, relax. He was making a deal. We barely made eye contact.”

  The relief I feel is ridiculous, mainly because it’s the same thing I feel every time she reassures me that she doesn’t want contact with him. Even still, when I get into the car and she starts the engine, I can’t help myself from asking more.

  “Has he asked about Gracie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you want him to?”

  Her expression looks a little annoyed at my questions, but I don’t care enough to stop asking. Rachel got pregnant when we were sixteen. To say she was the least-expected person for that to happen to would be an understatement. Rachel isn’t a prude, but she is a badass. She stands six feet even, has a quick tongue, a fast trigger, and a hell of a right hook. Add to that the fact that we’re best friends and she never really gave guys the time of day—no one saw an unwanted pregnancy from her.

  “Why would I? He made it clear the day he told me to keep my mouth shut; he didn’t want to be attached to her, and it’s not like I was into him before that.”

  I want to say the relief I feel is because her answer assures me she’s safe; she isn’t going to try and enter into a relationship with a guy who’s dangerous. But as much as I’ve always done my best to compartmentalize my life—reminding myself that Rachel’s my best friend, and that I have a girlfriend—there are days when I can’t help but wish she was mine. Even when I know she can’t be.

  I remind her again to be careful, proving to myself my intentions are good and all about her. Then I add that Tanner has seen Marcus around campus dealing more than the recreational marijuana he dabbled in when he was in high school.

  She offers me a smartass retort. She’s the girl who refuses to be intimidated or show fear. Even though I let her get away with it, I wish she were a little more cautious, a little more scared. Then I know she’d be more careful with herself.

  I don’t say anything else; we’ve pulled into her grandmother’s driveway to pick up her daughter. Gracie spends her days with Rachel’s grandmother, G as she wants people to refer to her. I know Rachel doesn’t like talking about Marcus in front of Gracie. Before I can open my door to get out, Rachel’s hand is on my arm and she’s offering me an amused smile.

  “Uh, I should probably warn you. G’s got a boyfriend these days, and she’s super vocal about him and, uh, their… dates.”

  My insides quiver a little at the mere thought of two seventy-plus-year-olds wiggling around together. I actively have to swallow b
ile that leaps to my throat. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Exactly. So, just be forewarned that when she mentions Walter, you should tune her out because it’s gonna get ugly.”

  I know Rachel’s family as well as I know my own, and her grandmother is no exception. Though Rachel always says she takes after her mom—who still managed to raise two little girls and teach biology at the university after her husband left her to “find himself”—I think she’s a lot like G too, the strong, independent female personality who pulls no punches and shows no fear. G is in her mid-seventies. She’s been watching Gracie every day for the past five months, ever since that first day of school in September when Rachel made the decision to go back for her senior year and be more than the label society had given her.

  Music floats out of the television speakers as we enter the wreckage of the kitchen, but it’s not the noise or the scattering of toys that shock me to a stop. It’s the sight of G in heels, stretchy pants, and a matching stretchy tank top, swiveling her hips and dancing around while Gracie squeals.

  Abort, abort.

  I avert my eyes, but it’s too late. The image of Rachel’s grandmother dancing—while parts moved in their too-tight clothing—is now permanently ingrained in my brain. My gaze meets Rachel’s; the incredulous look on her face tells me she’s as horrified and unprepared for the sight before us as I am. I don’t know if she or I begin laughing first, but soon we’re both laughing—or I think I’m laughing. The image is still pretty fresh, I’m not certain there isn’t an actual sob of horror coming out of my mouth.

  Rachel pulls herself together enough to speak. Though I try to follow suit, I don’t look directly at G or anywhere she can get caught in my peripherals. Better safe than sorry.

  What I don’t expect is for Rachel to abandon me while she goes to free Gracie from her high chair—leaving me helpless, unable to avoid the hug G gives me. She wraps around and squeezes tighter than appropriate every time. I’m always at a loss over where to put my hands. I pat her back lightly as I throw death glares at Rachel.

  “Let’s dance, you handsome man,” G says. I swear my heart freezes in terror when I feel her wiggle against me. Oh, god. I hold myself still while G continues to move. My eyes blaze into Rachel’s back until she finally turns and looks at me.

  When she sees me, I swear an evil glint of appreciation crosses her features. I’m half terrified she’s going to leave me to get myself out of G’s surprisingly strong grip. I keep my eyes on hers, and though I mean to glare, I can’t. She walks over with Gracie—the blonde-haired angel with her mama’s eyes—already babbling a mile a minute.

  The terror in me is replaced with joy, and not just because G releases me when I reach for Gracie. For a brief second, Rachel and I are looking at each other as we pass the baby, and there’s a yearning inside of me that’s so deep I feel it pulse all the way to my core.

  Then Rachel’s eyes are off me. She’s talking to her grandmother, leaving me to play with Gracie. I set her on her feet after tickling her, amused as always at the way her tiny fist wraps around my finger and tugs me from one place to another. At one point, G shimmies and shakes again as she mentions her hot date with Walter. I have to breathe deeply or risk losing my lunch.

  I gently tug Gracie’s hand until we’re facing away from her mama and great grandmother. She reveals a toothy grin, and I smile back, grazing a hand down her perfect cheek, her skin already hinting at a golden tone.

  Unlike her mother—whose expressions I can hardly, if ever, read—Gracie always shows me a smile and what she wants. While Rachel and G talk about Gracie’s day and pick up the toys scattered everywhere, Gracie and I play. I scoop her up and pretend to fly her around the room. She pulls me over to show me all of her treasures.

  When Rachel packs Gracie’s Lovey and blanket into her bag, I make my way over to her to take it. That’s when I hear her ask G if she can take Gracie this Saturday night.

  “Hot date?” G asks with a small eyebrow wiggle that makes me want to laugh until Rachel answers in the affirmative.

  “A date, at least.”

  I stop in my tracks, causing Gracie to stumble and look up at me with a frown. Whether Rachel purposely looks at me or our eyes meet because she’s avoiding looking at G—who is now shaking those hips again, dear god, does she ever stop moving?—I don’t know. But I do know my face must convey my shock, because she stares at me and raises her brow when all I can do is gape back at her.

  “What?” she finally asks.

  I try my best to keep my voice even, uninterested, instead of tense like I feel. “Who are you going out with?” Because we go to the same school, and I sure as shit would have heard if you were going out with someone from there.

  She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and then practically makes my heart stop when she adds, “A guy. You don’t know him. He’s older.”

  Older? I want to yell. Older like last time—when you let someone take advantage of you and left you to pick up the pieces? I don’t say any of this, mostly because I still have my wits about me enough that I know it’s not my place. Still, I can’t help but ask her another question.

  “Where did you meet him?”

  When she hesitates, I go from wondering if she’s even met him to knowing full well she hasn’t. Goddamn you, Rachel, don’t do this. Don’t go out with someone you don’t know; don’t go out with someone who could hurt you.

  My subconscious adds: don’t go out with someone who isn’t me.

  Not yours, I remind myself, not yours.

  “Around,” she finally says as I talk myself away from the ledge. “What’s with the third degree?”

  I shrug and before I grab the baby’s bag from her, I mumble something about the fact that she doesn’t usually go out.

  “Things change,” she says, her voice sharp enough I understand she’s telling me to back off.

  I want to tell her no, but because I can’t tell her what I was thinking a moment ago—I can’t tell her the minute she mentioned going on a date, the only recall I had was the one time I took her home and she was mine—I nod and pick up Gracie and her bag. “Guess so.”

  That’s the last thing I’ve learned to compartmentalize in my relationship with Rachel: those feelings that sneak up every now and then, the ones I have no right to feel. I call them lapses, little memories sneaking in to blindside me. When a lapse occurs, like right now—when all I can think about is the night we were together and everything was right—I remind myself that she’s my best friend. When that doesn’t work, I remind myself she’s a mom. That usually brings me back from the ledge, not because I don’t love Gracie; when Rachel got pregnant and her life became about so much more, I promised myself I would do everything I could to make her life easier, not harder. Part of that meant just being her friend, the one stable thing in her life she could count on.

  I remind myself that a date is just that, a date. I’ll still be here—the one helping her and supporting her, long after her date is just a memory.

  I comfort myself with this knowledge as I take Gracie out to the car and click her into her car seat. When she looks up at me and smiles, my heart breaks a little, and another lapse occurs. No matter how many times I tell myself Rachel isn’t mine, I can’t help remember just how good it felt to be with her the one and only time we ever crossed the friendship line into something more.

  3

  Past

  I’m drunk—there’s no getting around it, but rather than the celebration buzz I had going an hour ago, I’m now the drunk of someone who’s been drinking because facing the reality I live isn’t all that awesome.

  Lauren showed up sixty-five minutes ago. Coincidence? God, I hope so.

  My tongue is a little thick, my speech a little slow, but no other major effects. Which means I’m only really buzzed, so the rest of this exhaustion is coming solely from the fact that the girl I’m trying to please is constantly displeased.

  One more time, I think, and stand to go find he
r. It’s my night and my celebration, because goddamn we won—more than that, I played out of my mind and earned myself a starting position for next year. A sophomore with a state championship under his belt—that’s a big deal, but to Lauren, the party was bigger, and being drunk before she arrived was a violation of our boyfriend-girlfriend pact to do these things together.

  Shit. I just wanted a night. One night.

  But since she’s right—I broke the code of changing plans the night of—I walk to the dance floor and try to find her, ready to make amends so this feeling will go away and I can return to my celebration. I’m looking around, wondering if she got mad enough she left, when I see her.

  She’s got her strawberry-blonde hair pulled over one pale, bare shoulder, and her back pressed against the front of Henry—a second-string JV guard whose greatest skill is taking a charge, which is not as tough as it sounds. You plant your feet and let someone ram into you—enough said. I smile for a second at that thought, and then I watch Henry’s hands slide to Lauren’s hips and my amusement fades.

  Anger is a familiar sensation, but the reason for it right now makes no sense. Henry is grinding with a girl who should be mine—but instead of being pissed at him, I’m pissed that Lauren’s allowing it; she won’t man up and fight with me.

  Walking toward them, I grab Henry by the neck of the shirt, which isn’t difficult since I’m an easy four inches taller than he is, and yank him back with enough force to have him stumbling a bit. I barely acknowledge him as I face off with Lauren, and though I feel more tired than angry, I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I’d have danced with you if you wanted to dance.”

  She flips her hair back and looks up at me out of those perfectly-lined eyes with sculpted lashes. The eyes inside are foggy and unfocused. She weaves a little, which tells me two things: she’s not quite sober, and this isn’t going to end well.