Tripp

  “Oh, what’s new? I’m always crying these days. Isn’t that what being pregnant is about?”

  She stops. I think she heard it too—the word that isn’t so anymore. She’s not pregnant; there is no waiting and wondering. Her baby is here and in the world and holy shit, there’s the panic in my chest again.

  “How is she?” I ask, putting my phone away and sitting slowly.

  Rachel shrugs, but she’s holding her Wolverine T-shirt; I see her smile at the food, though she makes no move to touch it. “Good, I guess. She looks like a baby.”

  I snort out a laugh and she smiles, but it’s small. “I’m serious; I don’t really know what she’s supposed to do or look like—but everyone tells me she’s perfect, so I guess that’s good.”

  I want to ask more, but I can see her retreating into herself, sinking down in the bed and curling onto her side so she’s facing me. “Tripp?”

  I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep them from stroking the loose piece of hair from her cheek. “Hmm?”

  “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re with me.”

  I nod, risking it and placing one of my hands over hers. “Me, too.”

  18

  Present

  I’m in Rachel’s bed, lying next to her. It’s so similar, yet so unlike the last time and I don’t know what the hell to do. We should be wrapped together, laughing, talking, kissing, having more sex—because when we do, fireworks explode—we’re that good together.

  Instead, we’re immobile, both of us breathing as quietly as possible, neither of us talking, neither of us breaching the gap between us that’s getting larger by the second.

  Why? I want to rage, to scream, to beat my fists against the wall and then haul her up by the shoulders and demand she tell me why she’s shutting me out. But I don’t, because as much as I want the answer, I’m afraid of it. Just like I was two years ago. Only now, I know what it feels like to go back to being just her friend and I don’t think I can survive that again.

  Just as I’m about to clear my throat, to damn my pride and the fear of rejection and reach over that two-inch gap and take her hand, she speaks. Her words are like a fist in my face.

  “I guess you proved your point.”

  Still lost in my own head and insecurities, I take a second to process. “What?”

  She doesn’t hear me—or doesn’t want to answer. She’s sliding from bed, leaving me there alone, aching, and pissed off at her and me—and everything we can’t just fucking say.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side, grab my jeans, and hitch them on. That nagging sensation is now like a bell clanging over and over in my head, alerting me that there’s danger up ahead. Curving road. Icy surface. Falling boulders. Yeah, I got that when she jumped out of bed like it was on fire. Thanks for nothing.

  “What point, Rachel?” I ask again, and though I can barely make her form out in the dark, I know immediately that she’s got on her tough-girl exterior. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation—or an honest one if she can help it.

  “I was mad because you insinuated that I was a slut earlier tonight. I don’t guess sleeping with you was the proper way to prove you wrong, now, was it?” She forces a smile that’s so fake it looks as brittle as glass. She turns away from me, as if she couldn’t care less what just happened between us—as if she’s so unaffected by it, she can already make jokes and shrug me off.

  “Is that what you think this was? A way to prove a point?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  Direct hit. Snapping on the light, I ignore her curses and taunts as I grab her arm and force her to face me. I wince slightly when I notice her wearing my shirt. Without meaning to, I sweep my eyes over her, burning that image permanently into my brain. This is how it should be, I think for a second. She should be wearing my shirt, but we shouldn’t be fighting. Why the hell are we fighting?

  I tell her to look at me. She ignores me. Pain slices at me, and panic threatens. I harden my voice and I tell her again. She refuses a second time. I put my finger under her chin and force her to look into my eyes. Before I can find the words, before I can get anything out or just shake some sense into her and tell her to actually look at me and see what I’m feeling—she’s pushing away, and exploding all over me. I’m responding, yelling back, demanding she talk to me, that she listen. I’m trying to clarify what she’s saying, but with every response she gives, it hits me—in my own need to keep from being hurt, I’ve hurt her far more than I ever imagined.

  On the heels of that horrific knowledge comes the understanding that I might not ever be able to recover from what I’ve done—she might not ever forgive me. When she tells me to leave, I shut down, crossing my arms over my chest and ignoring her.

  “We need to talk about this,” I say and reach for her, desperate now that I can see her shutting down, shutting me out.

  “No, we don’t,” she says and brushes past me.

  I reach out and grab her; she breaks for real. Tears spill from her eyes, and it’s a sight so shocking, so unreal to me, I drop her hand.

  “Is this what you wanted, Tripp? To stick around this time and see me cry over you?”

  The pain inside of me is so real—so deep. Someone has taken a sledgehammer and beaten my heart; nothing in me feels whole, and every time a tear slips down her cheek, it’s one more piece of me gone. Some girls use tears to get their way, but Rachel isn’t one of them.

  When she told me she was pregnant, those tears broke my heart. I knew they were each shed against her will. As she got farther along in her pregnancy, she shed tears of frustration, tears of annoyance, and tears for who-the-fuck-knew—those were all times I could handle. I understood them, and what they did or didn’t mean.

  Looking at her now, I understand her tears. I understand it’s another moment like the one she had that day when she told me she was pregnant. These are tears of agony, and it’s my fault.

  “Rachel, no. I—”

  “Well, here it is. Here’s me crying over you. And it’s not the first time. Does it make you feel better? Are you happy now that you know you still have me? That I won’t ever want someone the way I want you? Take a good look, Tripp, because it’s the last time. I don’t want to see you again.”

  I’m at that crossroads again—the one that tells me I’m losing my battle. There’s not enough time left on the clock to gain back the points I need. Still, I can’t give up. I can’t stop fighting for this one win. That is, until I reach for her and she does the one thing I can’t compete with. She looks me in the eyes and says no. Just like that. No. And I understand I have to let her go. Whatever I’ve done—she’s paid enough for it.

  ~

  Me: I fucked up.

  Tanner: What’s new?

  Tanner: You serious? What happened? You okay?

  Me: I slept with Rachel. She walked out. I hurt her bad and I don’t know how to fix it.

  Tanner: I get off in thirty. I’m texting Griff. We’ll be there in an hour with beer.

  Tanner: You’ll get her back, Jackson. Just give her time to cool off.

  My brothers pile into my room an hour and ten minutes later—a case in one hand, a pizza in the other. “G-money said no beer unless you eat first.”

  I nod, but I don’t take a slice. I continue to play against the clock and clean up on NBA 2K14. Tanner and Griff don’t say anything for a minute; they make themselves comfortable, Tanner on the floor with his back against the bed, and Griff on my bed with his back against the wall. I stay where I am in my desk chair, clacking away on my controller as I drain another three on Kobe. At least I can win somewhere.

  When my game’s over, I hand Griff my controller; he automatically starts another one, switching out of Chicago and into the Cavaliers. Please, without LeBron? Poor choice.

  Tanner picks up the second controller and soon it’s the Cavs at OKC, and Kyrie is battling it out with Durant and Westbrook, and receiving an ass kicking like I knew he would.


  We sit like this for an entire game. I eat a piece of pizza because Griff won’t pass me a beer until I do. When I finish, he cracks the seal and hands it over. I gulp until it’s half gone, barely feeling the burn.

  “So, little brother, you want to tell us about it?”

  I roll the can between my hands and think of where to begin. Yelling at Rachel at a party instead of manning up and telling her I love her? Breaking up with Lauren when it finally hit me I was being as unfair to her as I was to myself? The fight I started with Rachel when what I’d meant to do was apologize? The moment I realized something was going to go wrong, but still had sex with my best friend anyway? Or how about when my worst fear was realized—and Rachel looked at me like I was another person who only wanted one thing from her before she ran out on me?

  I can still smell her if I close my eyes, that scent that’s only Rachel, the one that isn’t girly or flowery, but a subtle thing that almost smells like cake mixed with … I don’t know, goodness. I’ve always thought it was her hair, but tonight when I was touching her and kissing her the scent was on her skin. It’s like her aura, and if that thought doesn’t make me a goddamn girl, I don’t know what does.

  I gulp more beer while my brothers finish their game.

  When it’s over, they don’t start a new one. I let it out—all of it. They know, just like I do, that once it’s out, it’s over. It’s time to move forward. That’s what we do in the Jones house—we figure our shit out and we don’t let it fester; we don’t let it hang. We got a problem with someone? We talk it out. If that doesn’t work, we fight it out. When it’s all done, we move on together—without grudges or resentment. That’s how we make life work, and that’s what I forgot about the first time I ever touched Rachel. I never gave her the chance to talk it out—or fight it out—just like I never gave her the chance to accept me or reject me. I was scared she was going to walk, scared I wanted her too much for a sixteen-year-old, soI walked first, and I never said what I needed to say.

  Griff makes me realize this.

  “Jackson, you have to tell her how you feel. Keeping it inside, bottling it up and using some other girl as a shield? That’s not fair, and it’s not you. We’re feelers in this family. Fuck those people who walk around holding their emotions inside and never letting anyone in. We’re not like that. We feel it. We say it. And we accept the consequences that come with it. So man up and fucking say it.”

  19

  Past

  I’m playing video games with Tanner and Griff when there’s a knock on the front door. I don’t bother getting up, but I do pause when I recognize Rachel’s sister’s voice talking with my mom. She walks down the hallway to the den. Looking over my shoulder, I watch them come into the room. When my eyes meet Stacy’s, I know it’s bad.

  “I need your help,” she says and I nod, not bothering to ask for what.

  Rachel’s baby—Gracie—is almost two months old. I’ve only seen Rachel once since the hospital. Every time I call her, she lets it go to voicemail and then texts me back a few hours later telling me she’s not up for company. I cornered Katie at school, which was terrifying—as she’s not my biggest fan and lets me know it on a daily basis—but this time she didn’t try and tear my eyes out or hit me in the junk. Instead, her eyes filled with tears and she admitted that she hasn’t seen Rachel since she got home from the hospital either, because Rachel won’t call her back.

  She won’t call anyone back.

  That’s when I knew it was more than being tired or embarrassed or overwhelmed. But even when I called her mom, I got no news. Rachel was adjusting; they would call when she was ready to see people. Now, staring at Stacy, I know just how big it is.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her. Tanner and Griff both stand from the couch. A second later, there’s no noise from the game. My mom’s still in the doorway, and Stacy makes eye contact with each of us, assessing just how much she can say in front of everyone.

  “You can tell us,” her eyes come back to me.

  “She’s not getting out of bed,” she finally admits; I feel myself go a little weak. “She hasn’t held Gracie since we got home. She’s not eating. She’s sick, and if we don’t do something, she’s only going to get worse.”

  “Did she get sick from being in the hospital?” I ask, and Stacy shakes her head.

  “It’s not physical,” she murmurs. For a second, I don’t know what she’s talking about. Then I realize what she’s saying. Rachel is sick—the strong, independent, ass-kicking Rachel we know has finally found something that scares her, and because of it, she can’t get out of bed.

  “Let’s go.” I lean down and shove my feet into my running shoes without bothering to lace them.

  She nods and turns, grasping my mom’s arm and mumbling “Thanks,” as she passes her. I follow her, nodding at my brothers and mom as they stay where they are. They don’t say anything, but they don’t have to. They know how much she means to me; they know I’ll be home when I’m sure Rachel’s going to be okay.

  Stacy and I get into her car—even though their house is down the street. “You need to know something before we go in there,” she says and I steel myself. “I wouldn’t be asking for your help if I didn’t trust you. Rae… she’s the strongest person I know, but she’s losing that strength with every minute she lays in that bed, pushing people out of her life. You’re her best friend, Tripp, but when you go in there, you have to be strong.”

  I nod, but she keeps going, unconvinced. “It’s bad, and it’s not going to be easy. You’re going to see her, and you’re going to want to leave her alone, to pretend that it’s not her, like my mom’s been doing. But you can’t. We can’t. She needs us, Tripp. Her baby needs her. I need to know that no matter how hard it gets, you’re going to be there.”

  I nod, and clear my throat. “I promise.”

  She looks at me a minute longer, then nods, opening her door and going up the walk. I follow her, stepping inside of the house that used to be as familiar to me as my own home. When Stacy heads into the living room, I leave my jacket on the bench and follow her, stopping halfway in when I notice the pink bundle sleeping in an oddly-shaped contraption in the corner. I hear Stacy say something, but I can only stand there and stare, unsure of what to do.

  Then Rachel’s mom walks in. I look over in time to see her tired smile before she’s opening her arms and giving me a hug.

  “Thanks for coming, Tripp. Do you want to see her?” she asks and motions to the baby again.

  Before I can say yes, I hear a door bang open and Stacy’s voice carry down the hallway. I raise my brow. I hear her order Rachel to get her ass out of bed, knowing that no matter how sick she is, Rachel won’t stand being yelled at. But then Stacy’s coming back into the living room and I still hear nothing from down the hall.

  “Stacy,” Dr. C begins, but Stacy shakes her head.

  “It’s gone on long enough, Mom. We tried it your way; we tried waiting for her to be the one to make the move, but it isn’t happening. She can’t do it alone this time, Mom; she needs help, and she needs it now.”

  I stand where I am—too terrified to move. I feel pulled to that back bedroom even as I feel pulled to turn and leave, to pretend that this isn’t happening. Whatever her faults, Rachel isn’t a quitter; she isn’t someone who gives up—especially when there’s someone else counting on her. But as I listen to Stacy, I realize that right now, Rachel isn’t anything like she used to be. Her life has changed. She needs someone to support her and show her whoever she is—whatever she is—someone’s fighting for her.

  For a second, I think back to all those months ago when she was in my arms. I hate myself for not telling her right there and then what I realized only weeks later: I love her and all I want is to make her happy, but I can’t—not like that. She isn’t mine to make happy, and now isn’t the time to think of me. It’s about her, and the life she has that’s so much bigger than the regret I feel.

  “Tripp,” Stacy says. I
snap to the present. “Are you ready?”

  I wipe my palms on my jeans and nod. “What do you need?”

  Following Stacy’s instructions, I walk down the hall into Rachel’s room. The light is on; I can see the small form under the blankets before I peel them away and scoop my arms under her even though she protests. I want her to fight, even prepare myself for it, but right away I see what Stacy’s talking about. There’s nothing inside of Rachel—even as she attempts to thrash in my arms, I barely have to tighten my hold on her while I carry her to the bathroom. The girl who has so often put me on my ass from one punch has no muscle, and worse, she has no spirit.

  Nothing about the girl in my arms right now is the Rachel I’ve always known. The lack of fight worries me more than the lack of weight.

  Stacy’s already pushed the shower curtain back. I put Rachel inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests as I turn the water on cold and high. When she screams—the real-deal scream full of terror and anger—the vise on my chest loosens a little and I’m so grateful I could break down and weep. My hands are full because she’s putting much more effort into fighting me than she was a second ago. I forget about how cold the water is on my skin, or the fact that she looks like a ghost with dark circles under her eyes and a pasty pallor to her normally warm skin, and I talk to her while I hold her there.

  “That’s right, Rachel, fight me. You fight me and you come back. Do you hear me? We need you, Rachel. We need you to fight.” She screams more, shoving at me with her hands, but I don’t budge. I encourage her as I see the color start to slowly seep into her cheeks. “Come on, baby, come back to us. Come back to me.”

  I whisper the last part. I don’t know if it was the words or the fact that she’s finally opened up enough to feel the weight of it all, but she breaks—the dam cracking and flooding. Instead of being angry, she’s devastated.

  My heart cracks and my lungs seize; she falls into a sobbing heap. I turn the water off and start to lift her into my lap. Whatever I promised her sister, I can’t do it; I can’t watch her break like this. Before I can, Stacy’s there, pushing me aside and climbing into the tub with her. She curls her arms around Rachel, talking to her while she brushes her wet hair from her face. I sit where I am, watching them, more unsteady than I care to admit.