Tripp

by Kristen Kehoe

  I like Lauren. She’s easy to be with and when we’re together, she looks pretty and smells nice; her skin is smooth and her hair is silky. There’s not much we disagree about…other than Rachel, and we’ve kind of learned not to talk about her. With Lauren, I’m just Tripp—an eighteen-year-old who’s working his way through school, playing basketball, and hanging out. We go to parties, movies, dinners…and we say goodbye. We hook up, we kiss, and everything’s normal.

  With Rachel, none of that exists. We’ve been complicated since day one—fourth grade when I picked her to be on my team, then tried to defend her when some dickhead fifth-grader on the other team purposefully elbowed her. She shoved me for stepping in the way, and handed him his own ass before intercepting the ball and scoring. She never said thank you, only shoulder-bumped me on her way past in a slight reminder that she can take care of herself.

  This is a preview to every day in our relationship. She’s the girl who makes me feel too much when I understand too little—the one who makes me want to protect her from everyone and everything. Even though I know she’d rather scavenge the forest for food on her hands and knees rather than ask me for a granola bar.

  Lauren makes me feel strong. She lets me open her doors and puts her hand in mine when we’re walking. She tucks under my chin and wraps my arms around while I promise her I’ll take care of her—and she trusts me to do it. Rachel doesn’t trust me, not fully. She doesn’t trust anyone to help her, really. She doesn’t trust anyone to love her. Instead of beating my head against a wall every day, I stayed with the girl who wore my jersey instead of her own. The girl who never made me think beyond what we were doing for dinner or what party we were going to.

  It was enough; I was making it enough—finding the balance for all of us, until today. Reality, by the name of Dean, bitch-slapped me and reminded me Rachel’s life was interrupted, but it’s not over. She’s going to move on and have relationships, lovers, all of those things…and I’m going to miss my chance. Again.

  I’m searching the party, looking for Lauren who has finally dislodged herself from me after feeling surgically attached for the last hour. Now, though, when I need to have this conversation with her—and have it now—she’s nowhere to be found. Instead, I’ve found Rachel; she’s in a lip lock with her college boy, his hands making a journey with one specific destination in mind. Thoughts of Lauren and our conversation rush straight out of my head, replaced with one thing: mine.

  Cue out-of-body experience and the subsequent assholian outburst.

  “Looks like a repeat of spring break two years ago.”

  Rachel turns to level me with a glare, but I barely notice it in my state. I’m incensed; steam will come out of my ears at any moment. I know it’s wrong. Dammit, she can’t know what it does to me seeing her with him. To show her, I hit her below the belt—using the two things I know will cut her the deepest: her name and her past.

  “At least you’re marginally sober this time, Rae. Don’t forget to use protection. Never know where college boy has been.”

  Dean steps up and peacocks, explaining to me that I—her best friend of forever—can’t speak to her that way. Please, you know nothing.

  As I unleash on him, Rachel steps in and slaps me back; she uses my full name and calls me a dickhead—and that’s enough to push me all the way into the dark; the one that beckons to you, the one you can usually ignore because you know what you want to say won’t allow your relationship to stay intact, and that’s really what you’re fighting for, the relationship. But I forget who I’m fighting against, who I’m fighting for. The dark calls to me, and I embrace it, drawing blood.

  “Maybe I’m just looking out for you—like I tried to do two years ago when you got pregnant. He knows you’re an easy mark, Rachel. Don’t make another mistake. You have to think about Gracie, too.”

  I didn’t see the punch coming, what with my head was so far up my ass, but I wouldn’t have stopped it even if I had. And kudos to her; it’s a hell of a punch. My head snaps back; I feel the shock of it sing through my face and I have to press my hand to it. When our eyes meet, I’d give anything I have to take back what I just said. But I don’t.

  There are tears in her eyes and her skin is sheet-white when she whispers something at me before running off. I don’t chase her, but I do wait for Dean to man up and finish me off—to rip me to shreds and make me pay for my words. I wait, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, he shakes his head before he drops the hammer.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I can tell you what I just saw—a kid too in love to actually say it, and too stupid to know when he’s just pushed away one of the greatest girls there is.” He brushes by me, but stops and looks over his shoulder to hit me one more time. “I hope for her sake you know what you’re doing. Otherwise, you’ve just hurt and embarrassed her and for what—your pride?”

  He walks off and the rest of the party gawks openly while I stand—immobile and aching, replaying the moment when I made my best friend cry because I want her to be mine, and I’m too afraid to just fucking ask her.

  “We need to talk.” I turn and see Lauren a few feet away from me, her arms crossed protectively over her middle.

  I nod, but don’t say anything, and follow her through the crowd, wondering if I can start my night over. Start it the way it should have been—with a conversation to explain what I feel to the girl in front of me, and then race to get the girl who might just have walked out of my life forever.

  15

  Past

  My mom has this thing about time. Whenever something’s not working—whenever it’s difficult and I’m so frustrated and I want to quit—she just says, “Give it some time.”

  This has been a mantra of hers over the course of my entire eighteen years, a phrase she’s used sparingly enough that I understand it doesn’t work for everything. When I didn’t make the traveling baseball team my freshman year in high school, I waited for her to say it—expected her to come to my bedroom door where I was moping and tell me to give it some time, and realize this was an okay thing. But she never did. I went to find her, and eventually asked, “Should I give this time?”

  She looked at me with the most amused expression. “Jackson, if you’d given it more time at the beginning of the year, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You don’t want to give this time.”

  She was right. I wasn’t a baseball player; I was a basketball player and there was no amount of time in the world that was going to make me want to dedicate my entire summer to baseball. I started to really understand the meaning of what she was saying. It wasn’t about giving it time so I could feel better—it was about gaining enough space and distance so whatever happened had time to settle. I needed to have time to deal with it, maybe even gain something from it.

  When Rachel and I first hooked up, I was terrified, and then I became angry because it was a more familiar emotion. By the time I truly understood the things I was feeling were really just needs—bone-deep, absolute, physical and emotional needs—she was sitting in my truck with tears on her cheeks and telling me she was pregnant. In that moment, I knew we both needed time, I just didn’t know how much.

  The pain that came with the memory of Rachel—and what might have been—gradually lessened to a manageable ache—only to be acknowledged on rare occasions.

  Being with Lauren made it better; if either of us wondered about the past, we never mentioned it. After that day on campus, we moved forward like we promised we would. There were some times of tension, like when I spent time with Rachel getting ready for the baby, or I missed a party because I was hanging out with Rachel in those last months of her pregnancy, but the tension was normal. Lauren was annoyed I would spend time with Rachel. The annoyance wasn’t jealousy or worry because Lauren had acknowledged, as I had, that Rachel was off limits for me. Her life was beyond all the things we were occupied with—she was, therefore, safe.

  In a way, Lauren was right. Like my mom had pred
icted, time had given back to Rachel and me that easy relationship we’d always had—or as close to it as two people could get without actually going back in time. We fought; I told her when I thought she was being an idiot, and she punched me repeatedly for daring to disagree with any decision she made. Later, we would both apologize before arguing all over again. The two things off limits were my relationship with Lauren and Rachel’s plans for the future. I’m not sure when it became that way, but when we were together we were in the moment of now, preparing for her baby, talking about movies, music, and Katie’s newest boyfriend, but never Lauren or volleyball.

  Somehow, that made it easier on me as well. When I was with Rachel, I was one person, and with Lauren, completely another. With Rachel, I was the dedicated friend, the person who made sure she was never alone—as I know she so often feared she would be.

  She wouldn’t say it, because she’s Rachel, and that meant she had to show the world how strong she was. I could see it when she’d be sitting there, her hand on her belly, staring off…in those moments, I had to acknowledge the ache, the desire, the need I had. It was physically painful and so strong. There were times I was halfway across the room to touch her, bring her into my arms and hold her, before I recognized what I was even doing. I would stop and she would look at me—for a brief second there might be hope in her eyes, but she’d make some smartass comment and her eyes would be guarded again and I’d never finish going to her. Rachel didn’t want to need anyone, especially not me.

  But Lauren did and she made it abundantly clear every time we were together.

  Like right now, while she’s beneath me. Her eyes are wide and wet as she says those three words we’ve never uttered. I’m inside of her—just about to find that bliss that’s oblivion and heaven and everything in between—and she’s got her hands on either side of my face, saying those words again, their meaning reaching out and slapping me.

  I want to say them back. I open my mouth, but there’s nothing, nothing but heavy breathing and that familiar pull of pleasure. Instead of committing to her the way she just committed to me, I press our lips together and move faster, hoping it’s enough—even while I know it’s not.

  Later, as I kiss her goodnight, she says it again; this time, I have no choice but to acknowledge it.

  “I mean it, you know.”

  I startle and stare down at her. Dread hits me when I see those eyes sad and heavy; she says the words again. “I love you, Tripp. And I think maybe you could love me too, if you let yourself.”

  My mouth is open; still there’s nothing—no words, no way to explain how much I want to say those words back, because it means I’m not using her, that I’m truly free and clear of the bonds shackling me to my unreturned feelings for someone else. But the words still won’t come. She nods like she gets it, and I drop a kiss on her forehead.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  Driving home, I recognize that time can make things less, but it can never truly free us from the things that hold us hostage; only we can do that.

  16

  Present

  I’m sitting in my truck outside of Rachel’s house. In my lap is a sad bouquet of flowers from the all-night Safeway down on Fourth Street. Instead of going to the door and knocking—getting on my hands and knees and begging her to forgive me—I’ve been waiting here for the past hour, wondering how the hell to explain what I just did, and why.

  After Lauren and I left the party, we drove to her house and sat talking. It became clear neither of us was really into who we were anymore. I loved someone else, and she was sick of watching me love someone else.

  “I’m sorry… I guess I thought if I had you, I wouldn’t want her so much. I would be content to be Rachel’s friend.” I scrubbed my hands over my face. “God, I’m an asshole.”

  “Yeah, you are. Did you ever think to just man up and tell her how you feel? Did you ever think of what it was doing to me—that I could tell you would rather be with her?”

  “Did you ever think to just break up with me if you were so hurt?” I snapped. I can take blame when it’s mine to take. Right now, there are a lot of dumb decisions I have to own up for, but hearing Lauren place every piece on me was too much.

  Yes, I’m a jerk. I dated you when I knew full well I loved someone else. But why did you let me?

  Her face reddened and tears formed. She looked out the window and said she’d thought she could change my mind. “I just kept thinking you would walk into school one day and that would be the day you looked at me like you did freshman year—like I was a prize you’d just won. But you never did, and that makes me an idiot.”

  There it was. The answer we both needed, however harsh. Lauren had been new and shiny and different—the girl who needed me. I chased her, dated her, and stayed with her when we both knew the girl I needed was just down the street from me.

  “I wanted to be with you, Lauren. I liked what we had. It’s not enough anymore. I love Rachel—I think I’ve always loved her, and I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry I hurt you; sorry I didn’t man up earlier.”

  She nodded and opened the door, throwing one last look over her shoulder. “I think we could have been happy, Tripp. You never gave us a fair chance.”

  “She might be right,” I think out loud as I sit like a stalker watching Rachel’s house for any sign of movement. There’s a chance she went to Stacy’s, or Dean’s—bastard—or he came over here…double bastard. There’s also a chance she’s inside and won’t answer the door, which is why I haven’t texted her. I know if I’m going to get her to talk to me, it’s going to have to be a surprise attack. Rachel is nothing if not stubborn.

  Taking a deep breath, I find my courage—buried deep in the back of my metaphorical closet, pushed behind jealousy, need, and idiocy. Nothing like having a full repertoire of responses. Grasping the flowers, I open the door to my truck and get out. I walk to her front door quickly so I can’t change my mind and opt for the “let’s talk” text, and invite rejection before I’ve told her everything I need to.

  Knocking lightly, I wait for what seems like days; in reality, it might be thirty seconds. When my princess opens the door, she takes my breath away, but my reverie is cut short when she promptly tries to shut it. I slam my hand up in time, stopping the door from bashing my nose and hurting more than my pride, and I thrust the flowers forward, hoping she takes them as the peace offering they’re intended to be.

  “I know you probably don’t do flowers,” I say, and wish for that dark hole to swallow me. Hello, word-vomit, could you take off for a few hours? Give me this small period of time to try and make up with the girl in front of me—so when I tell her I love her, that’s actually how it comes out? Pretty please?

  Let’s try again.

  “Is your mom home?”

  “No.” Nothing else. No softening of the eyes, no measuring of me, just a flat response and blank eyes. Stubborn, I tell you.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  “Rachel, I’m sorry—” She cuts me off with a glare.

  “What are you sorry for, Tripp? For calling me a whore?” Her words slap me. Oh sweet Jesus, is that what I did? Before I can gather myself and try and explain, she’s pushing on, her words so cold they chill me down to my marrow. “Or are you sorry for embarrassing me in front of my date? Who, by the way, wasn’t someone I met tonight like you implied. Or maybe you’re sorry for implying that because I’m a whore—who’s so easily seduced—I’m an unfit mother?” She strides forward and shoves me in the chest with enough force I have to take a step back or fall down. “Which of those offenses are you sorry for, Tripp?”

  “It’s a pretty long list.” Word-vomit, you motherfucker.

  She swears at me and goes to slam the door shut. Desperate, pissed at myself for what I did tonight—for what I didn’t do all of those nights ago when we first hooked up—I put my hand on the door and ask her to wait. She turns back to me, her eyes wide with hurt and anger a
nd something else. It’s the something else that breaks me. I barely hear the words she says to me, but the second she mentions being a bad mom, I interrupt her.

  “Rachel, stop.”

  She steps back when I step forward. Even though I don’t call her on it, I recognize the gesture for what it is—avoidance, hurt, and protection. Rachel’s protecting herself from me, and I don’t blame her.

  “You know I don’t think you’re a whore.” But she doesn’t. I can see it in her face. Memories from what I said tonight—along with all the other nights when I was frustrated with her for not taking better care of herself, or worrying about herself enough, or asking for more help—race through my mind until I’m certain there are other things she doesn’t know…thanks to this guy right here.

  “I know how much you love Gracie…how much you do for her. It amazes me.”

  I want to tell her everything she does astounds me. Every day she’s at school, busting her butt in classes, going to volleyball, racing to tournaments, and raising her kid—I watch her with sheer awe and respect. But I can’t because right now, she won’t hear it. Even if she does, she’ll think it’s a line in order to get her to forgive me.

  She doesn’t forgive me. Instead, she asks me the one question I’m terrified to answer: “Why would you do that to me? Jesus, Tripp, those things you said? They hurt. Worse? The way you looked at me and made me feel like I deserved to be yelled at.”

  My lungs are constricting. I feel the pain coming off her so strongly it reaches out and grabs me, making it damn near impossible for me to keep standing. “Oh, God, Rachel, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  They’re useless words and she calls me on them right away—not allowing me the time to derail the conversation and bring it somewhere else. Then she asks me again.

  “You’ve already said that. It’s not enough. Why, Tripp? Why did you do that to me?”