by Torrest, T.
I wasn’t much looking forward to the extra-intensive workout in the morning, however.
Trip and I took over the couch with the baby, and I was bouncing her on my lap, watching her beautiful, chubby face splinter with drooly smiles as she chewed on her hand. She had a great laugh, and I was pulling out every trick in my repertoire just to hear it as often as possible.
“You’re a natural,” Trip’s mom directed at me.
I chuckled and responded, “No. I’m practiced. My best friend had twins a few years ago.” A pang gripped my heart as I mentioned Caleb and Julia. God, I missed those little fuckers. “Baby number three is due this summer. And. I. Can’t. Wait,” I added, bouncing Skylar’s feet against my knees on every word. She started squealing in response. Jackpot.
“Oh! Look at her face!” Mrs. W. exclaimed. “Oh, she reminds me so much of your father when she laughs like that.”
Trip spat, “Skylar’s adopted, Ma.”
“Even still. She’s a Wilmington.” Mrs. W. leaned over from her chair toward her granddaughter. “And you know it too, don’t you, baby girl,” she added, grabbing at Skylar’s pudgy toes.
“She’s a Wilmington-Carron. And stop comparing her to that asshole.”
We all went silent at that, the room turning quiet enough that I could actually hear the hall clock ticking away the seconds. I kept my focus trained on the baby on my lap, miming happy faces in her direction, trying to downplay the awkwardness that had suddenly crept into the evening. I was well aware that it wasn’t the first confrontation Trip’s family ever had regarding Terrence C. Wilmington II. Despite the fact that their mother was their saving grace in that house, neither Claudia nor Trip had ever understood her loyalty to the man. I didn’t feel it was my place to join the conversation, so I simply placed my hand at Trip’s leg and gave an inconspicuous squeeze, just as a reminder that I was there for him.
Finally, Mrs. W. broke the silence with her calm but firm voice. “Your father was a good man, Terrence. I won’t have you speak of him that way in my presence.”
“He was a drunk, Ma.”
Trip’s mother sank back into her chair, her tone conciliatory. “Can’t you try and remember the good times? Yes, he fought his battles with the bottle, but then, so did you. What if I had given up on you?” Trip stayed silent at that. “Terrence, you never forgive. Look at you right now. You’ve got your arm around Layla, and yet you still haven’t forgiven her. I love you, but you can be stubborn as a mule sometimes.” She shook her head and looked at him earnestly before leaning forward on her chair and placing a consoling hand against his knee. “Sometimes, you just have to learn when to let go. Let it go, honey.”
There was a heavy pause before Claudia let out with a long whistle. “Well. On that lovely note, I’d say it’s time to get this kid to bed.” Trip’s sister reclaimed her daughter from my arms as Sandy gathered up all of the baby’s things.
Mrs. Wilmington stood up to leave as well, brushed a hand over Trip’s hair and kissed him on his forehead. “Goodnight, my sweet boy. Happy birthday. I love you.”
Trip was still stewing from his mother’s reprimand, but he answered, “Yeah, love you, too, Ma. Thanks for coming out for my birthday.”
“Lunch tomorrow?” she asked hopefully, her attempt at a truce.
Her invitation allowed a small smile to escape his lips as he answered in a resigned voice, “Yeah. Yes. I’ll call you in the morning.”
After they’d gone, I finished cleaning up the kitchen and then collapsed onto the couch next to Trip. He was busy checking out his new gifts: a Tag watch from his mother, and a mini digital palmcorder from his sister and Sandy.
I watched him in silence for a few minutes before asking, “You okay?”
“Why? Because of that thing with my mother?”
“Well, yeah.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said matter-of-factly, “It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed about the guy. I just wish Claudia would back me up a little more sometimes. She had her problems with him, too, you know. But it’s like she and my mom are content to just forget all about it now that he’s gone.”
“But you can’t? Or won’t?”
He gave another shrug, indifferent to the conversation I was trying to start. I already knew how Trip felt about his old man, but he’d never allowed himself to deal with those feelings. Denial had been his coping mechanism for way too long. Forgiveness isn’t really something you can force on a person, but if I could just get him to talk about it, maybe we could sort it out together.
I tried the indirect route. “Hey. What did your mom mean when she said you haven’t forgiven me? I thought we were past that.”
Trip didn’t look up from the pamphlet he was inspecting. “We are. Now. But I spent so many years angry at you that I guess she figures old habits are hard to break.”
“Kinda like you and your dad when you think about it, huh?”
That got his attention as he looked up and met my eyes, a blank expression in his. “You’re you. He’s him. It’s not the same at all.”
I thought he was being intentionally evasive, but I realized the guy probably didn’t want to get the third degree on his birthday. Maybe my timing wasn’t so great. “Do you even want to talk about this?”
“Not really,” he said as he went back to his gifts.
“But you’re okay, right? I feel like your birthday party has this big cloud hanging over it now.”
He stopped futzing with the palmcorder to meet my eyes, a lethal smirk decorating his face. He put a hand under my chin and tipped my face toward him. “It’s not the first time my mother and I have had that discussion. It won’t be the last. You’re making too much of it. Nothing could ruin tonight. Thank you.” At that, he brushed his lips against my forehead in a sweet, pacifying kiss.
Even if I felt my psychoanalysis had been a big bust, I at least knew that Trip was at peace about the evening’s events. I figured we’d be tackling his father situation with baby steps, and that maybe we’d taken enough of those for one night. I could try again another time. A time when it wasn’t his birthday. So, instead of hitting him with the Spanish Inquisition, I pulled a gift bag out from behind the couch and plunked it on his lap.
A huge smile spread across his face.
“You seem surprised,” I noted.
“I just thought the party was my present.”
“Oh my God, Chester. You’re so cute. And stupid. You’re kinda stupid, too. Don’t hurt yourself there, big guy. You just sit there and look pretty, okay?”
He shoved a forearm into me, then tore into his gift.
The first thing he pulled out was a manila envelope. Inside, there was an 8 x 10 photo of us from Oscar night, a really great shot where he was whispering in my ear and I was laughing. I’d contacted US Magazine when I saw it, and asked to buy a print. “Wow, great shot,” Trip said, admiring the picture. “We should frame this one.” He shot me a wink, and it made me smile, but I was anxious for him to see the something-even-better in that envelope.
Trip peeked inside and started chuckling when he saw the folded piece of notebook paper. “Oh, man. You’re not going to make me read this, are you? I’m already cringing.”
I nudged into him and explained, “It’s not your Mind Ramble. It’s mine.”
His eyebrows raised in anticipation, plunging his hand into the envelope and pulling it out.
Here’s what I wrote:
Hey Dummy.
After spending too long in the Hallmark store, I realized that no pre-printed card was going to cut it. I thought it would be best if I wished you a happy 32nd birthday in my own words.
My own words? Okay, here they are:
I’m crazy, sick , head-over-heels in love with you.
These past weeks have been the most amazing of my life. Not just because I’m in an exciting new place and taking part in your exciting life.
It’s because of you.
The person you are. The incredi
bly generous, and fun, and hardworking, and incredibly beautiful person that you are.
Do you even know how beautiful you are?
I wanted this gift to take us back to the beginning, to where it all started.
The start of US.
Here’s to looking back… But more importantly… Here’s to what’s yet to come.
Happy birthday, Chester.
I love you.
Lay-Lay
Trip sat there staring at the sheet of paper in his hands for way longer than necessary, and I knew he must have read my letter at least twice during that time. When he finally raised his head, his eyes met mine in gratitude. “God. Is this what you felt like when you read mine?”
I smiled and asked, “I don’t know. What do you feel like right now?”
He gave a shake to his skull, slid a palm over my hair and answered, “Like I could fly.”
“Well, then, yep. Same feels,” I confirmed.
He laughed at that, gave me a lingering kiss on the corner of my mouth.
Just to thwart any further corniness, I pulled back and joked, “If that’s the reaction I get for your card, I can’t wait to see what I’ll get for your present!”
He snickered, then turned his focus back toward the gift bag. Inside, there were three wrapped packages of varying sizes. In true Trip fashion, he unwrapped the biggest one first. When he did, his lips pursed into a smile and his shoulders slumped as he viewed the Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox in his hands. “You kept it.”
“Of course I kept it. Hidden in a wad of beach towels and shoved to the back of my closet… But I kept it.”
He ran a palm over the front as I said, “Well, open it, dummy! There’s more inside.”
He broke out of his daze to flip the latch, cracking up as he did so. “Holy shit. It’s us!”
His hands dove into the treasure trove, pulling out the bag of Skittles, the package of Twinkies. The pack of Juicy Fruit, the snack-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, the scattered pieces of saltwater taffy.
Underneath all the junk food, he unearthed his nametag from Totally Videos that I’d saved as if it were a voodoo talisman. “Oh my God! I can’t believe you have this, you stalker!”
I laughed and admitted, “I slept with it under my pillow that whole winter.”
“Loser.”
The last item was a broken piece of cork. He held it up and asked, “Our wine from the tent?”
“Yep,” I smiled back.
He shook his head in disbelief. “You are just the best, you know that?” he asked, before his lips came down sweetly on mine.
It was hard to tear away, but I was too excited to concentrate on kissing him when there were still unopened presents. “There’s still more! Keep opening.”
He grabbed the small, square package out of the bag and ripped off the paper. He was smiling like a loon at the Guns N’ Roses Greatest Hits CD in his hands as I explained, “You don’t know this, but ‘Paradise City’ is our song.”
He didn’t even miss a beat as he asked, “Why? Because it’s the first one we listened to together?”
My mouth gaped open. “Tell me you don’t actually remember that.”
“We were in my truck—God, I miss that Bronco—and I was driving us back to your house after school. Of course I remember. I was the one who put it on.”
“But… But…”
“All I wanted to do was pull over and see what you had on under that skirt. I had an uncontrollable hard-on the whole ride home.”
“Shut up! You did not!”
“The song still drives me insane whenever I hear it.”
“Where’s your CD player!?”
He laughed at that, but noted, “Cool your jets there, horndog. I still have another present to unwrap.”
He took the last, small package out and tore off the paper. He was holding a disc in a clear jewel case. He looked it over, asking, “R and J? Who’s that?”
I must have confused him with the G N’ R. I bit my lip and hinted, “I had it burned from video to DVD.”
Understanding dawned across his face. “Get out. Our movie? I can’t believe you did this!”
He immediately hopped off the couch to throw it in the DVD player when I stopped him. “No! Popcorn first. I haven’t watched this in fifteen years either. Let’s do this right.”
So, it was a few minutes later when we were situated on his couch, wrapped up in a fuzzy tan blanket, the coffee table strewn with a junk food buffet. I settled into his side with a Twinkie in one hand and a Coke in the other, delaying my worries, yet again, about the calories until a more convenient time. Trip had one hand around the bowl of popcorn and the other on the remote control.
“You ready?” he asked, his smile infectious.
“Just promise me something.”
Trip paused in the act of pressing play, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “What?”
“Please don’t analyze it. Just watch. Okay?”
That cracked him up.
We watched as the scene faded in on my father’s den—Friar Laurence’s room—the two of us frantically pacing about, Trip wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and me in a pair of scrubs (We’d decided to make Romeo into a very Eddie and the Cruisers-type hoodlum and put a literal spin on “the nurse”), and I kept whining about how his main squeeze “Julie” had been moping around the castle.
“Look at you,” Trip laughed out. “God, you were so in love with me. But look at that skinny little fuck. How could you not be?”
“Oh my God, you’re right!” It was so mortifying, watching the teenaged me looking at him all googly-eyed and hero-worshippy. “Oh, this is so embarrassing! No wonder everyone thought we were a couple. I wasn’t even playing Juliet! Yikes. It looks like the nurse wanted to get it on with the Montague boy.”
“She still does, I hope.”
I smiled at that as we directed our attentions back to the television.
By the time “Robbie” finally accepted the mood ring that Julie had asked the nurse to bring to him, we were cracking up, and the movie was over almost as soon as it had begun. I always thought it was like an hour long. Seriously, it was probably no longer than seven minutes.
The screen went blue, and all I could do was sit there and groan in humiliation. “How on God’s green Earth did you not realize I was crazy about you? How could you have possibly been so blind?”
“I knew. Well, I hoped, anyway. You thought you were so slick.”
“I did! Oh, God. Kill me now.”
That made him laugh. “Just shut up and kiss me or I’ll have you bani-shed from this couch.”
I was still giggling as his mouth met mine, but it didn’t take long for me to stop laughing and melt into those soft, inviting lips. He wrapped his arm around my middle and slid my body underneath his as my hands ran over the muscles in his arms. I was practically obsessed with Trip’s new body, tracing my fingers over his new bulges every chance I got. I loved his involuntary response to my touch, the muscles in his back, or his chest, or his abs jumping under my palms.
He groaned as his hips jacked into mine, his tongue teasing against the seam of my lips, coaxing them to open, but he didn’t meet much resistance from me. I opened my mouth and moaned into his as our tongues tangled against one another.
Things had heated up quickly, but I was jogged out of the spell when Trip tore his lips from mine. “Hold on,” he said gruffly, before bounding off the couch.
He threw his new Guns CD in the stereo and skipped to “Paradise City.” He turned from the sound system, looking at me with a wicked smirk, slowly stalking back toward the sofa like a predator and scooping his new palmcorder off the table. “I think we need to make a new movie….”
…And that’s how only a handful of people (okay, just he and I) know that Trip’s greatest film was actually a riveting two-person performance opening to unanimously positive reviews in the winter of 2005 during a private after-party on his couch in Hollywood, California.<
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Chapter 22
THE UPSIDE OF ANGER
I was in the pool early the next day, trying to work off the feast from the night before. Trip’s plan was to run some errands all morning, then take his mother out for lunch that afternoon.
I thought he’d left hours before, so I was surprised when he came outside, holding a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“What is this?” he asked derisively. I didn’t know what he was holding, but I did know that I didn’t like the tone of his voice. I stepped out of the pool and wrapped a towel around me, coming closer to take a better look.
I was just coming to the realization that the papers he was holding were mine when he spat out, “Are these the notes from your book? My biography? You’re publishing this? How could you do that to me, Layla?”
Hey, whoa. Hold on there, sparky. One minute, I was swimming around the pool. The next thing I know, I’m getting a tongue-lashing. And not the good kind.
I couldn’t even address his anger yet. I had my own anger to deal with. “I didn’t do anything! And why are you reading my stuff?”
“You left it scattered around my office. I couldn’t avoid reading it.”
His office.
But crud. He was right. I did. “It was supposed to be a surprise. And I wrote this for us, not to sell. If I wanted to sell it, I could have done so years ago.”
“Bullshit. You did sell it! You sold me out!”
I was really shocked at how he’d just blown off my explanation and at the way he was ranting at me. I’d only been the target of his rage once before, years ago when he exploded on me at that diner. Only, he was drunk that night. This time, there was no excuse. I wondered what the hell was going on.
I tried to counter his yelling by keeping my voice calm. “I did no such thing. Trip, I swear. Those are my personal notes from years ago, and I didn’t even use them for that first book. I only pulled them back out to write our story for you. It’s the one that they wanted, but I didn’t do it. Just read the book. You’ll see I’m not lying.”