Tripp

by Kristen Kehoe

  She walks out, and I let her go. I wait until I hear the front door close before easing down on my bed and leaning back against the wall with my eyes closed. I delivered my last line like a challenge—an arrogant statement to show her that I wasn’t scared, that I was confident I wouldn’t lose her. Yeah, right.

  23

  Past

  “I think she just threw up on me.”

  Rachel looks over her shoulder. I’m now holding Gracie like a ticking time-bomb instead of a seven-month-old. My neck is wet and I can smell that horrific scent I’ve come to associate with regurgitated formula—the kind this kid constantly spits up, because she won’t slow down when she eats.

  “Why does she do that?” I cringe, setting her on the blanket on the floor, and standing to strip off my shirt. Rachel stays where she is, her laptop balanced on her legs where she sits on the couch. She is speed-typing an assignment for her online class that was assigned two weeks ago—and is due in less than three hours.

  “Do what?” she asks absently.

  “Spit up all over me. Why can’t she just burp like a normal person?”

  “You do realize she isn’t a normal person, right? She’s a baby; their digestive systems don’t work the same as ours.”

  Of course I didn’t know that, but I’m not about to admit it. “I’m just saying—it would be nice to leave here without smelling like dog shit.”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always blathering on about my language and how she hears it even if she can’t understand it?”

  “Bite me,” I say, walking into the small bathroom off the living room to wash my hands, my neck, and my shirt. Wringing the water out of the cotton, I hang it over the lip of the sink and hope it dries a little less smelly.

  “Hey, I heard you guys are already training,” I say as I stop in the kitchen for a soda. Heading back into the living room, I check to make sure the monster hasn’t rolled herself under a table to chew on plugs or stick her fingers in any outlets. When I see her on her stomach, face buried in her stuffed bear as she mauls him, I nod and sit back in the recliner.

  Rachel still hasn’t answered me, but her fingers aren’t clacking away at her keyboard anymore either, so I repeat myself.

  “Rachel? Training already? Katie said Coach already has you guys doing six o’clock individuals and three o’clock team trains. How’s it going?”

  She closes her laptop without looking at me, setting it onto the couch. “Um, I don’t know.”

  I frown when she stands, and bends down to scoop up Gracie and put her in the playpen—where she can be contained, and can’t electrocute herself or try and climb on the stairs and fall off, again. Rachel heads into the kitchen. I follow her, brushing my hand over Gracie’s golden curls on the way.

  She’s a gorgeous kid. I know Rachel panics a little because she thinks she looks like Marcus, but honestly the more I’m with her the more I see that she’s all Rachel…the cat eyes with heavy lids, the ever-changing sea-green to gray color, the full pink lips—the stubborn stares. When Gracie was learning to move, she didn’t want anyone to touch her or help her. She kicked those feet until she got mad enough to roll, and then pushed up with her hands.

  In the kitchen, Rachel is standing with the refrigerator door open; she’s staring at the contents, but making no move to choose anything. I wait because though her appetite has come back, she’s still a little on the thin side. If she’s actually going to grab something to eat, I want her to. She doesn’t, and just keeps staring, so I speak.

  “Rachel, what’s going on?”

  “I didn’t go to training. I’m not going to training.”

  I frown. “Because you’re not ready?”

  She slams the fridge door and whirls around, eyes blazing out of her sun-darkened skin.

  “Because I don’t want to,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

  I stare at her for a second before walking over and cupping her shoulders in my hands. She jerks, but still doesn’t look at me. “Rachel.”

  “What?”

  Her acid tone should deter me, but because she won’t look at me I understand she’s fighting because she would rather yell than be scared. What I can’t figure out is what she’s scared of.

  “Will you look at me for a minute?”

  She does and her eyes widen, like she didn’t expect me to be this close even though I’m holding onto her.

  “Jesus, Tripp, where are your clothes?”

  “Your kid spit up on them. It’s either no shirt or smell like vomit.”

  “Well, don’t you like, have an extra?”

  “Shirt? No, I don’t usually bring wardrobe changes with me when I go places. What’s wrong with you? I run without a shirt all the time.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes skimming over my pecs and then coming back to my face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Rachel was blushing, but then she’s shoving my hands off and stepping back.

  “Well, with skin that pale you might want to think about starting to carry one. I’m going blind here.”

  All-righty, not checking me out. Noted—I’ll just make sure my ego knows, too, so he can slink into a corner and pass out for a while. “Not all of us have the super powers of Native-American skin like you. It takes some time.” When she laughs I’m relieved, but I refuse to be derailed from my original goal. “Now, back to volleyball.”

  Her smile disappears. “Tripp.”

  “Rachel, what’s wrong? You love volleyball.”

  “Loved. Past tense, as in used to. Now I have a kid and other responsibilities. I can’t just drop everything and go to practice twice a day. Who’s going to watch her when I have games and morning individuals and afternoon team training and off-season workouts like right now? I can’t afford a babysitter. I have a kid, and despite the pity-job your parents gave me working at the garage, I still have no money.”

  She’s rambling, her voice rising with every word she says until I step up to her and grip her shoulders again, saying her name a few times to get her to stop.

  “Breathe. Can you just breathe?”

  “I am breathing, shithead. Let me go.”

  “Not until you calm down enough to listen to me.” She tries to shove me off, but I hold on tighter—pissing her off, no doubt, as there are very few people strong enough to stand up to Rachel. “Not gonna happen, so you might as well save your strength for your workouts with the team.”

  “Why won’t you let this go? Jesus, it’s just a sport.”

  “Your sport,” I remind her and feel the slight tremble in her body. “Rachel, all you’ve ever wanted was volleyball. I know your life is different now, but remember last month when we were talking about wanting something for yourself?” She nods. “You want this, I know you do. So take it, take volleyball and let the rest of us help you make it work.”

  She sniffles, but her head is down so I can’t see if there are tears in her eyes. If I’m honest, I’m not really looking for them, either. Rachel’s tears make me feel something I can’t define, but it’s too much. “I can’t ask anyone else for help, Tripp. Jesus, look how much my mom and sister and grandmother have helped me already. How can I ask them to help me deal with my mistake while I try to take back my old life?”

  “Because they love you.” Because I love you—I want to say, but don’t. I tilt her chin up until her damp eyes meet mine. “And not take it back, earn it back. You’ve earned a chance to have your dream, Rachel. Let the rest of us help you get it.”

  She doesn’t shed those tears in her eyes, doesn’t move until they’re gone and she’s steady. Though I want to say the hell with it and drag her close to hold her, I wait with her. I know this is something she needs to do. Being strong is what Rachel knows; it’s the way she survives. No matter how much I want to, I’m never going to convince her that leaning on someone else—on me—doesn’t make her weak.

  “I don’t know if I can do it, Tripp. What if I’m no good?”

  I shake my h
ead and laugh at her. “No good? Rachel, that’s not possible. Trust me,” I say and understand how great of a request that is. Trust for Rachel just isn’t there. With something like this, the only person she’ll ever really trust is herself. I try not to resent that.

  She nods and steps back. I clench my suddenly-empty hands and shove them into my pockets to keep from reaching for her again. Not yours, I remind myself. Not yours.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says and I nod my acceptance. “And Tripp?” she adds as I turn to go get my T-shirt. “Thanks. For making me listen, for telling me what I needed to hear.”

  I smile, but it feels a little stiff. “That’s why I’m here.”

  24

  Present

  I’m at the shop working on a truck rebuild when my phone jingles out a text. My heart jumps up into my ribs like it has every time my phone’s made any kind of noise in the past week, but my hands stay steady as I complete my task. I carefully place all of the coil spacers necessary to give the guy the lift he wants.

  Lift-kits are a popular demand for us. It was one of the first things I learned to do on my own that wasn’t just changing oil and rotating tires. It takes exacts in weights and measurements—a process that keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied. In the last week, I’ve needed that.

  When you profess your love to the girl of your dreams and she walks away, keeping yourself busy is of upmost importance not only for your sanity, but your pride. It’s taken all of my willpower not to seek her out at school or her house and corner her until she tells how she feels. Some of my resistance comes from knowing this is Rachel’s process. Rushing her won’t get me anywhere. The other portion comes from the fact that when I professed love to said girl, she didn’t profess hers right back. Instead, she ran away.

  As much as part of me wants to find her and force her to tell me what she’s feeling, the other part doesn’t want to hear from her—ever—because it means that there’s still hope that she might feel for me what I feel for her. And…oh my god, I’m going insane.

  Wiping my hands off, I slide out from under the truck and slip my phone out of my pocket.

  Rachel: I’m home. Going to eat dinner and play with Gracie. If you can be here after seven when she goes to bed, I’m ready to talk.

  I text back almost immediately, telling her I’ll be there.

  I feel like a girl. I look at the brief words she sent for far longer than necessary—searching for a tone of voice or a subtext that I already know isn’t there. She’s been gone since Friday night at a tournament, which means she texted me almost as soon as she got back. That has to mean something.

  When I finally click out of her message and check the time, I realize I have three hours to kill. It’s only going to take me one to finish the truck.

  “Gym after work?” I ask the garage at large.

  Griff gives me a thumbs up from where he’s headed inside with a customer. Tanner’s buried beneath the hood of a Mazda (read: hot-girl car) spouting off about spark plugs and gaskets and fuel lines and any other confusing mumbo jumbo he can think of. Every time he does, the hot girl leans over further and pretends to understand what he’s pointing out. As she came in for a standard oil-change and fluid check, I can guarantee he has no idea what he’s talking about anymore. When she leans over farther, he slides his eyes to mine and nods his head before a wicked grin crosses his face.

  For the first time in a week, I smile back.

  ~

  For almost twenty minutes, I debate whether or not I should bring flowers. I want to make a list of pros and cons, which shows me just how desperate I am for Rachel.

  I don’t stop and grab any. The last time I brought her flowers was after I’d said some awful things. I don’t want any reminders of that night. And I most definitely don’t want her to think I’m trying to bribe her into loving me—I just want her to know that it’s real. Everything I feel is as real as it gets. Even though I can’t take back what I did and didn’t do in the past, I want to start here and now with what we can have in the future.

  I leave my house at three minutes until seven and walk slowly down the sidewalk to hers. I thought about driving, but short distance aside, I need the walk to calm my nerves. Even after the workout with Tanner and Griff, my body is keyed up and ready to go—my shoulders tense and ready, every muscle in me coiled for the fight they feel is coming.

  I step up to Rachel’s door and knock lightly, not wanting to wake Gracie. It takes less than ten seconds for her to answer. When she does, my body tenses for an entirely different reason.

  Her skin is brown and warm, more so than the last time I really looked at her. Her eyes are glowing, the gray showing in this light rather than the green—their heavy lids and dark lashes frame those silver beacons that latch onto me. However necessary this week apart has been, it hasn’t been easy on either of us. That recognition has my shoulders uncoiling a little.

  I leave her eyes for a brief moment to scan her from head to toe again, the saliva drying up in my mouth. I take in her bare feet with her legs in the carelessly cut-off shorts and casual white V-neck. When I make it back to her face, I note she’s taken the same time to make her own visual appreciations. She must notice my eyes are finally on hers again, because she says “Hello,” and steps back, opening the door wide enough for me to pass through.

  I step inside, but rather than walk by her and give her distance until she shows me what she wants, I step into her space and lean down, brushing my cheek against hers while my hand curls lightly at her waist. She shivers, just barely, and my body absorbs the tremble and reacts in turn.

  “Welcome home,” I say, my mouth close enough to her ear that my lips brush the lobe. She trembles again, and this time she follows it with a nervous laugh—one that has my shoulders uncoiling another notch. Smiling, I let her go when she steps back. I walk past her into the living room.

  I sprawl on one end of the couch and watch as she takes the other, tucking her hands under her legs. I keep my eyes on her, resisting the urge to call her out on the action, because it’s her tell, the thing that shows me she’s nervous.

  “I wondered if you were ever going to call me.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Shifting, I notice her eyes tracking my movements, staring at my arm thrown across the couch. Another smile tugs at my lips when I realize she’s checking me out pretty hard. I say her name, and she lifts her gaze to mine. If her skin were fair, I know I’d be able to see a blush running across it right now. Instead, all I see is the smile going from her eyes to her lips as she accepts she got caught.

  “Yeah, I uh, I needed time, and not just because I needed to think. My life now, with Gracie, it’s busy. It’s a constant battle for time each day and I have to think about that, too.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I would never ask you to sacrifice time with her for us.”

  “I know that, Tripp. That’s not what worries me.”

  I lean forward and scrape my hand over my hair. “Then what does?”

  Even as I ask, I hold my breath, deathly afraid that she’s about to tell me she doesn’t trust me, she can’t get past who I was when I was sixteen and terrified. Christ, why do two years make such a difference?

  I’m on edge, waiting, clenching my hands, and readying for a blow, but it never comes. Instead, she asks me about the day she came to me at school—the day she cried and told me she was pregnant. When she asks me whether or not I understand why she chose to come to me, I shake my head.

  “Because I knew you would make it easier,” she tells me and I feel myself deflate, just like that. “Just telling you made it easier, just knowing that you knew all those months when no one else did made it easier. I already lean on you, Tripp. I depend on you. As a friend, I don’t worry that you’ll think Gracie is your responsibility…that you’ll think I’m asking more of you than I am. But if we start this—”

  I interrupt her now. “We’ve already started this, Rachel. We can’t ch
ange that.”

  She accepts this with a nod of her head, but because she’s Rachel—and whether or not she knows it, she’s scared—my word isn’t enough. “But we don’t have to move forward. I need you to be sure, Tripp,” she says, and my lungs contract enough to stop my breathing. When she looks into my eyes, it’s not just fear I see, but downright terror. I want to say something, anything, to erase that look, but before I can, she’s speaking again. Her words hit me hard.

  “I have zero idea what I’m doing every day. I get by, I get through, because my mom and sister and grandmother pull me up when I fall, and I feel like I’m falling a lot. Not as much as I was, but enough to know that if you and I start this and it gets too tough for you, it might really sink me if you walk away again. I might be able to handle that if it was just me…but it’s not. I can’t lose myself and forget about Gracie again. I just can’t.”

  My breath is back now, and my heart is beating so fast I’m amazed it doesn’t jump out of my chest. It’s not because she doesn’t love me; I know she does. It’s because she isn’t ready to trust me. As much as I know I deserve that, it hurts like a motherfucker to hear.

  I stand and walk over until I’m crouched in front of her—until her eyes are on mine. I wait a second longer, pleading with everything inside of me that this one time she’ll really be able to see what I feel. I tell her everything I should have told her two years ago when I kissed her for the first time and she turned my world upside down.

  “I can’t apologize enough for what I did. There’s no excuse and I guess the reason I didn’t come after you then was because I felt like being without you was my punishment. If you really want to hurt me, you can tell me no right now. You can tell me that it doesn’t matter that you feel the way about me that I feel about you—because you’ll never trust me again, that you won’t ever be able to be with me. If you want to hurt me and make me suffer, tell me you won’t have me, Rachel.” I give her a second, letting it all sink in, half afraid she’s about to do just that, but she doesn’t. I take a deep breath and lay the rest of it out there.