Tripp

by Kristen Kehoe

  I follow my mom and head toward the kitchen, glancing briefly at the hallway leading down to Rachel’s room. I lean back against the counter and listen to Dr. C talk about last night, trying not to squeeze through my cup when she mentions that Rachel did most of the rocking and walking with Gracie while she fought her fever.

  There’s a movement at the doorway of the kitchen, and I turn to glance at it, making direct eye contact with Rachel. She’s wearing orange and black OSU boxers with a gray sweatshirt that bags on her shoulders. Her hair is down, heavy and dark and thick. I can see the small dark bruises of fatigue marring the skin under her eyes.

  We stare at each other, and though I know she didn’t expect me, she doesn’t look upset that I’m here. I might be imagining it, but there’s a part of her that looks happy to see me, almost relieved.

  My mom and hers are sitting at the breakfast bar. I know they’ve stopped talking, but I don’t care. I keep my eyes on Rachel as I push away from the counter and step toward her, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the kitchen and down the hallway to her room. I pull the door closed—and before I can stop myself—I’ve got my arms around her, banding her against me. Belatedly, I think how she doesn’t like to be dragged around, and even as my lips find her forehead I wonder if she’s going to punch me.

  She’s so tired. I feel her whole body lean against me, instead, and I close my eyes and hold on for a second longer. I’m mad and hurt and confused, but how right it feels to hold her puts some of that to the back burner.

  “I have some things to say to you, but I need to know how you are first. Your mom said Gracie’s doing better, that she finally broke through the worst of it and is sleeping it off.”

  She doesn’t speak, but I feel her head move up and down against my shoulder. Before I ask Rachel how she’s doing, I take a second to be relieved that Gracie appears to be on the mend. “Are you okay? I was worried when I didn’t hear from you again.”

  She leans back. I open my eyes and look down at her. “Didn’t you get my text?”

  So, here’s the thing. I can see sending a moronic text in the heat of the moment when a person is tired and their daughter is sick. I might not agree with it, but I can see where one might think it’s a good thing to send at the time. At the time being the key element in that agreement. Right now, I’m staring at Rachel and I can see that she’s serious when she asks me if I got her text, like a text would keep me from worrying and allow me to go about my business until she gave me the all clear to come see her.

  I’ve never thought Rachel was stupid—in fact, I’ve copied her math homework as much as she’s copied my English homework over the years. But right now, I’m wondering if she’s dumber than I thought or really just clueless when it comes to feelings.

  Taking a deep breath, I do my best not to yell at her or question her intelligence when I answer. “The one last night that said, sorry, Gracie okay just fussy now, have fun and I’ll call you later. That one?” I clarify. She nods and I have to breathe again, this time counting down from ten until I’m sure I won’t explode all over her.

  “Rachel, you’ve had a long night and because I can see you’re almost asleep on your feet, I won’t yell at you.” Deep breath. Keep it steady, no word-vomit here. “But if you ever—and I do mean ever—send me a text and tell me to have fun when I know you’re scared shitless and overwhelmed, you won’t be able to hear for a month after I’m done with you.”

  My voice is tight, but I’m pleased I haven’t raised it; I haven’t given myself over to the urge and asked her exactly what she thinks of me if she would expect me to enjoy myself at a party when she’s taking care of her sick daughter. I haven’t let my emotions rule me and spurted out words I can’t take back. Banner. Freaking. Day.

  “Tripp, I didn’t want you to worry.”

  On second thought...

  I release one of my arms from its grip around her and press my fingers to her lips. I know my patience is already at its limit—no matter how good her intentions, what she did was wrong. I can’t get past it, not right now.

  I tell her this, watching her face the entire time, steeling myself against the need to cuddle her close when I see her eyes go from confused to devastated as I say, “You were wrong not to trust me to help you last night. And you were wrong to shut me out and make me worry.”

  I have to walk away from her, step back and take the distance I need now. She trembles slightly; I clench my hands into fists. I want to reach out and hold her, to tell her it’s okay, that I understand, and I want to make her feel better. But I can’t, because as hard as I’ve tried in the past twelve hours, I can’t understand. More, I’ve come to realize my mom is right. If Rachel can’t change, if she can’t try and give a little and lean on me, this isn’t going to work.

  “I came over because I needed to see you, and I needed to tell you when you wake up I want to talk to you. Will you call me?”

  She nods; her movements are slow and unsure, as if even that small motion has taken every ounce of energy she has left. My nails bite into my palms, but I don’t reach for her. I can’t do that, not anymore. Eventually, she’s going to have to reach for me—or we’ll always be back at this exact place. “Go to sleep, Rachel, and call me when you wake up.”

  I walk out and down the hall, wondering how I’m back in the position of waiting for her to call me and tell me she’s ready.

  30

  Past

  The gym is packed by the time I get done with football practice and shower. We’re a big school. If even an eighth of the student body attends an event, it’s crowded. For obvious reasons, girls’ volleyball always pulls in a crowd.

  I stand at one of the side entrances to the gym, the one that faces the parents and sits behind the home varsity bench. Within seconds, my eyes track to Rachel on the court, taking in the details as I watch her finish her warm up. I tell myself the reason my eyes wander from her head to her toes is because I’m checking for readiness, nerves, making sure she’s put back on most of the weight she lost during the spring. If I also happen to enjoy the sight of her in her barely-there shorts and fitted long-sleeved jersey, well, that’s just a bonus, isn’t it?

  My assessment is interrupted when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats. Turning my back to the court, I swipe my finger across the screen and see Tanner’s name.

  Tanner: G Money and I have food. Open the side door so we don’t have to pay.

  Me: Cheap bastards.

  Tanner: Tacos.

  Me: South entrance that opens near the boys’ locker room.

  I walk out of the gym and down the cement hallway to the door leading outside. I push it open, leaning on it while I watch them walk up. Griff’s always been the bulkiest of us, me the tallest, and Tanner a blend of each of us. Personality-wise, it’s the same. Griff’s the quietest, the most introspective. Tanner’s the loudest, and though he hardly shows it, the smartest. I’m in between—able to hold my own, not afraid to feel, but not always comfortable being the first to say it.

  Tanner tosses me a closed paper bag and I catch it, letting the door slam behind us. The smell of Tacos is already making its way to my nostrils and causing my stomach to growl. Unlike Griff, though, who’s already got his bag open and a half-eaten taco in his hand, I wait until we’ve found a less crowded spot in the bleachers behind the home bench to open my bag and dig in.

  Across the court, I can see Dr. C and Stacy already seated. Gracie is on Stacy’s lap, and I wonder for a second if Rachel knows she’s here. To my knowledge, she’s never brought Gracie to school in the few weeks that we’ve been in session. It’s not because she’s ashamed—as so many idiots speculate—but because she doesn’t ever want Gracie to feel like an animal at the zoo, being paraded around for everyone to stare at. Her life is going to be different enough; Rachel’s nature is to protect her and make sure she doesn’t put her daughter in a position to be hurt.

  I watch Gracie for a second longer, smiling when I see
Stacy point my way. I don’t know if she’s old enough to see all the way to where I am, but I wave anyway.

  “Christ, I love this sport,” Tanner says and Griff snorts.

  “Jailbait,” he says.

  “Only if I touch. Nothing wrong with appreciating a well-trained group of athletes, brother. Especially now,” he says as Rachel and the rest of her teammates strip out of their practice jerseys and into their game ones. I pretend to be invested in my tacos, but burned into my brain is the sight of Rachel in her spandex and sports bra with nothing else covering that lean torso or those strong shoulders.

  “Tripp’s definitely appreciating someone,” Griff says. I slide my eyes to his. “How’s the girlfriend?” he asks and I shrug. It rankles me he always feels the need to remind me of Lauren. Even more so because I know why he does it.

  “Still there,” I say, and devour my last taco.

  He shakes his head and leans back against the bleacher behind us, crossing his arms over his chest. “When are you gonna let yourself admit what you really want, little brother?”

  I’m saved from answering. The announcer comes over the loud speaker and asks us to all stand for the national anthem. When that’s over, we remain standing as they announce the starting lineup, beginning with the visiting team.

  I keep my eyes trained on Rachel’s back the entire time, watching the tense set of her shoulders, the way her usually-confident posture is somehow shrinking. Katie leans over and whispers something in her ear. When Rachel laughs, her shoulders relax a little and I feel mine do the same.

  The home team is announced and I cheer with everyone else. When Rachel’s name is called last, Tanner goes wild, even Griff. She jogs out to her spot, and I see her throw a small wave at Gracie before huddling with her team.

  I wait, watching her nod as the six starters speak, prepare, and make decisions before the starting whistle. Two claps and they break apart into formation. It happens right before the first serve—Rachel turns and faces me completely. Arms at her side, she waits. I stand and mirror her pose and, finally, we swipe two fingers over each shoulder—right then left—and salute the air, holding it for three counts, eyes locked.

  Eight years, and still going strong.

  The first game is close, and though she’s not playing badly, I can tell Rachel’s nervous. A group of guys from the visiting team is sitting directly across from us; I can see them saying something every time Rachel is passed the ball. The third time it happens, Rachel blows a block and the other team gets the win.

  I’m ready to go kick some ass, but Griff has his hand on my arm. “Let her take care of it.”

  “They’re heckling her,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, but you chasing them off is only going to make it harder on her. Don’t distract her, Tripp. She’s been heckled before.”

  I know he’s right, but I keep my eyes on them as the next match starts. Katie sets over her head to Rachel in the outside-opposite position; Rachel takes her two steps before she swings. I watch her arm shift all the way around at the rotator cuff, her hand connecting with the ball in such a way I don’t even have to see it land to know she’s scored. The momentum carries the ball all the way into the stands from where it bounced. I stand to shout with the rest of the crowd. The three bozos on the opposite side of the court don’t stop chattering at her, though, and a few plays later when Katie sets her up again, Rachel hits it way out of bounds—with perfect placement—nailing the center guy in the face.

  The other team claps because it’s their point, but our student section goes nuts too. Rachel stands with her hands on her hips, staring at the idiots while she celebrates a different kind of victory. When Katie cheers and slaps her on the butt, Rachel turns and laughs and everything inside of me unwinds.

  She’s back.

  The student body stands and swipes their shoulders, ending in a salute, causing Rachel to falter when she goes to take her position. There it is—her welcome home, her reminder that this belongs to her, no matter what else happens in her life. This is hers, and we support her.

  The knots in my shoulders release; I can still hear the rest of the crowd shouting Rachel’s name as she takes her defensive position. I don’t know why that one moment makes me know she’s going to be okay, but somehow, she stood up for herself like she used to. She stood there afterward and challenged them to say something more, and that act let me know she’s all right. Whatever happens, she’s going to make it. My relief shows me how much I was worried about her.

  “Told you she could take care of herself,” Griff says as I relax enough to sit down.

  “Yeah, yeah, G Money, but Tripp can’t help but want to take care of his girl,” Tanner says and I scowl at him.

  “Rachel’s not mine. She’s not anyone’s.” I repeat the mantra I’ve said countless times, but as I watch her, I wonder just how much longer I’m going to be able to say it and mean it.

  31

  Present

  I don’t hear from Rachel until almost nine o’clock. I’m in my room playing video games against the system, because I don’t have the energy to sign on and play against someone else. After I came home and slept this morning, the rest of my day was spent doing mindless tasks that would keep me occupied so I didn’t break my word and call her.

  I expected it to be after seven when I finally heard from her, because I knew she would want to put Gracie to bed. But when the face of my phone reads eight o’clock and she still hasn’t called, I’m tempted to call her and say to hell with my pride. At eight thirty, I’m half scared Gracie has relapsed and half scared Rachel has just decided to be done with me.

  When my phone finally buzzes with a text at three minutes to nine, I’m so relieved I drop it twice trying to pick it up.

  Rachel: Leaving Monmouth. Is it too late to stop by?

  Me: Monmouth? What were you doing there? Never mind. Come over. I’m here.

  I sit outside on the front step, waiting the twenty minutes it will take her to drive Highway 99 south back to Corvallis. I don’t know anyone in Monmouth and wasn’t aware Rachel did. I’m curious why she was there. When her Explorer pulls into the driveway, I stand and wait for her to get out. She walks over to me, but she doesn’t stop like I expect her to; instead, she keeps going until she’s wrapped her arms around me and turned her face into my neck.

  Relief pours through me; I bring her closer, brushing my lips over her forehead and breathing her in. Whatever happened, whatever either of us did or didn’t do, we’re going to be okay. I have to believe that. She murmurs an apology and I nod, but before I can say I’m sorry too, she leans back and looks up at me. “I’m sorry for not calling, for not asking for help, for making you worry.”

  I acknowledge her statement and release her so I can bring my hands up to cup her face. I want that to be enough—for the moment and the words to be able to brush away any lingering doubts or fears—but I know they’re not. If I’ve learned anything in my time loving Rachel, it’s that I don’t trust her to trust me, to need me, to lean on me. Last night and today showed me that being with her isn’t ever going to be enough. I want to have all of her, so help us both.

  “We need to talk, because I won’t be pushed to the side every time something big happens, Rachel.”

  I try to say it gently, but I feel the tension rise in my shoulders; I know my anger hasn’t dissipated. She sees it, too, because her face gets serious. She nods, following me inside and down the hall to my room.

  I close the door and lean back against it, taking a second to study her. She’s wearing dark jeans that mold to her long legs from hips to ankles, where they end in her Rainbows. The tank top she has on is almost the same color as her eyes, though that wouldn’t be why she chose it. Rachel doesn’t think in terms of complements and fashion. When she chooses clothing, it’s because it’s comfortable and functional. The cut of her tank top leaves her shoulders and most of her back bare, except for one long strip of fabric between her shoulder
blades.

  Her skin looks warm and smooth, and when I study her like this, all I can remember is the way she tastes when I press my lips to her skin—how her skin pebbles in excitement when I find the place on her neck that makes her call out my name. As if she can sense what I’m thinking, she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. I know she’s nervous when she’s the first to break the silence.

  “I went to see my dad tonight, and while I don’t want to get into the conversation I had with him…it did make me realize some things about myself, things that affect you. I owe you an explanation.” Ah, the Monmouth visit. Makes sense now. I nod, so she continues. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you yesterday by not asking for your help, but not calling you and not answering your calls was deliberate, and I’m sorry.”

  That’s the thing about Rachel. She hates talking about emotion—hates talking in general—but when there’s no way around it, she’s as honest as anyone I know. She doesn’t lie, doesn’t manipulate. She’s straightforward, even if what she’s going to say hurts.

  “I’m not used to asking for help, not from anyone other than my family, and that’s hard enough. Every time Mom or G or Stacy helps me, I feel like I owe them something. Every time, I wonder how I’m ever going to repay them for taking care of me—for taking care of Gracie—for all the sacrifices they make to make my life and hers easier. It’s hard to think of owing another person for that too.”

  I can’t help but interrupt her, because even though I know what she’s saying is true, I hate that she feels that way. “Do you really think people expect you to owe them, Rachel? That they help you because they want you to help them? Do you really believe they think it’s a sacrifice to help you?”

  She shakes her head no, but I can see she’s not truly convinced. “It’s not about what they think; it’s about what I think, and I can’t stand needing so much help from so many people. How am I ever going to make it on my own if people are always bailing me out?”