Tripp (2 page)

“Jesus, butterfingers, get a grip. And a towel.”

I stand, grateful for the excuse to walk away for a second and get myself together. I don’t know what’s going on, but it needs to stop.
Now
. That’s Rachel in there. Rachel who’s been my best friend for almost eight years, Rachel who knows everything about me. Rachel who is hotter than freaking hot, and Jesus Christ, why do I keep thinking that?

I grab a towel out of the bathroom and head back into her room, wincing when I see her splayed out on her bed in nothing but running shorts and a tank, the same thing she wears almost every time we’re together. But this time I’m noticing things—like how long her legs are and how smooth her skin is—and it’s wrong for more reasons than the fact that I have a girlfriend.

Girlfriend.
Lauren
. Right. Time to go.

I throw the towel at Rachel when she turns her head my direction, laughing when it smacks her in the face.

“Hey, I’m gonna take off. Lauren just texted and said she might come over in a bit.” Why did I just lie?

She takes her time blotting at the almost-dry sheets and nods, her head down. I can’t read her face. “Sounds good.”

That’s all she says, even though it’s only nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Usually, when I leave early, she’s trash-talking and asking me if I need to be tucked in. Then again, things haven’t exactly been the same since I started dating Lauren a few months ago. I learned quickly never to mention Lauren’s name in front of Rachel— it appeared to make her uncomfortable.
Why
was a question I didn’t have an answer for, as it often is when I’m faced with Rachel. Why won’t she say anything? Why won’t she look at me? Why do I care?

I wait some more, willing her to look at me and speak, because for whatever reason, her easy acceptance of my excuse has me wanting to stay.

As per usual, she stays silent and I end up speaking first. “You sure? I know we planned to watch a movie.”

She nods, throwing the towel to the ground and settling back against her pillows without looking my way. “Sure thing, captain. Be safe.”

I stand in the doorway for a few seconds longer, waiting for… I don’t know,
something
, but it never comes, and she never looks my way again. “Okay, well, see you later.”

“Yep.”

I walk out while she scrolls through the channels, her head already on the pillow I had been using. Walking home with my hands stuffed into my pockets, I wonder why I just lied to my best friend. And then I wonder why she let me.

2

Present

Owning a classic car has its ups and downs. The upside is, if you own one, it means you know how to work on it, or you have the cheddar required to pay someone else to work on it—which is just as important if not as cool. For some reason, girls love a guy with grease on his hands as long as he can wash it off at the end of the day. The second positive aspect of being a classic-car owner: you’re automatically upgraded in the social hierarchy that is high school. You’re not like the majority of other guys out there who drive the hand-me-down Honda, or the overly-pricey suped-up truck that screams compensation.

A classic is just that—vintage, retro, unique, and a little badass.

The downside of owning a classic? It breaks as often as it works, and until you find the free time, you’re without wheels, and therefore, without the ability to get anywhere. Like I am right now.

Betty is my classic Ford truck. She’s broken again, as she has been for most of the month of January. She’s been a work in progress since I bought her. My parents own a garage, and I helped both of my older brothers with their rebuilds when they turned sixteen. I figured my own would be easy. The rebuild wasn’t bad; it’s the maintenance that’s killing me. I play two sports and am getting ready to graduate—free time isn’t of the excess in my life.

I usually don’t have trouble getting a ride. Rachel lives right down the street from me, and my girlfriend, Lauren, is usually free after school. This morning I hitched a ride with my older brother, Tanner; he came over after seven-thirty when I called him and let him know Betty was leaking fluid again. Mom would skin me if I left her in the driveway all day.

Tanner swung by and took me to school on his way to grab the tow. He promised he would get the truck out of the driveway and to the garage. I could work on her this weekend. Which just leaves me without a ride home and a ride to school for the next two days.

Sitting on a bench in the locker room after my shower, wearing a clean pair of sweats and no shirt, I take out my phone and text Rachel to see if her club-volleyball practice is done yet. I would ask Lauren, but I know she’s going to dinner with her friends, and I don’t want to go. If I ask for a ride, she’ll ask me to go—when I say no, she’ll be mad, and I’ll feel guilty.
Should I feel guilty for declining an invitation to have dinner with six girls who do nothing but squeal and talk about clothes?

My phone buzzes. I look down to Rachel’s reply—whether she’s still here or not.

Rachel: parking lot about to leave

Me: hold up, I need a ride

Rachel:
k

“Sexting with your girl, Big T?”

Shoving my phone in my bag, I shake my head at our starting guard, Huey; basketball and girls run his life.

“Rachel.”

“Ah, with your
other
girl. Well, that’s cool. She’s super fine, man. Don’t be afraid to drop my name into a conversation.”

I laugh because we both know Rachel requires way more work than Huey has ever put in. She would require conversation and that he remember her name. And, if he got out of line, Rachel wouldn’t hesitate to punch him.

“No promises,” I tell him and he laughs.

“You know I’m kidding. I wouldn’t poach man. Flow’s yours. Hands off.”

I shake my head at the nickname that’s followed Rachel since middle school and a public period incident.
Yeah, not going there
. I always just call her Rachel.

“Rachel’s not my girl, Huey. She’s not anyone’s girl.” He gives me a look that clearly says I’m lying, but shakes his head as I stand and yank on my long sleeve.

“Whatever you say, brother. Whatever you say.”

I salute him and walk out of the locker room, not bothering to respond. The hell of it is, and I know this makes me an egotistical asshole, I don’t mind that people keep their distance from Rachel. Which is probably why Lauren hates her so much. Well,
that
and she knows for one brief period of time, Rachel and I were more than friends.

Yep, remember that promise I made to never touch my best friend so she would remain my best friend? Turns out what I said was ridiculous because
should
never crossed my mind when I learned about
want.
And my god did I want her—it was a desire like no other in my life at that time.

My feelings for Rachel are confusing—or not, if you want to get technical. Yes, I feel way more for her than I should as someone who owns the title best friend, but I don’t act on those feelings because I understand that if I do and things go wrong—she feels nothing for me that I feel for her—my life will be worse. I wasn’t lying when I said I needed Rachel. I do need her. I can’t explain it. Rather than take the chance and go for it, I keep my hands off. I’m a little territorial sometimes, but for the most part, I’ve learned to compartmentalize with Rachel. I only acknowledge the things I’m allowed to feel.

She’s my best friend. She and I play video games, we share Sunday-morning runs, and we talk about sports and family. If I think of her like that—my friend with whom all of my greatest interests are shared—the wanting isn’t as heavy or persistent. We don’t mention certain things, like the night we hooked up our Sophomore year, or my relationship with Lauren—mostly because I don’t think either of us wants to look too closely at those things and ruin the balance we’ve learned to maintain in the past few years.

Being with Rachel when we were sixteen and stupid was…unexplainable. Everything got both bigger and smaller until nothing and no one existed outside of my world, except her. When I touched her, I saw everything from who I was then to who I would be in the future. When I finally came up for air, I realized there were no guarantees in life, and that scared the shit out of me. Scarier than that, Rachel gave me nothing: no soft words, no encouragement beyond what we were doing, no guidance as to how much she felt. I was too much of a pussy to risk it. So, I went back to the friend zone, and I’ve added one more compartment to my relationship with Rachel: the night we don’t talk about.
Ever
.

For almost two years, this has worked. I think part of it is because directly after our worlds collided, I went back to my girlfriend.
Cue the gasps and unholy hatred for me—yes, I’m an asshole
. Being Rachel, she didn’t take my rejection lying down—at least not alone. When I went back to my girlfriend, Rachel found her own comfort somewhere else, and a couple months later, she got news that trumped even our passionate moment together, news that rocked both our worlds and changed the course of hers forever. While she was dealing with the idea of being a mother at seventeen—
nope, baby wasn’t mine
—I was dealing with my newfound knowledge that
friends
was all we would ever be.

We’re eighteen; we’re still best friends, though, admittedly, there are moments where the air between us gets heavy with memories and thoughts and things we can’t and won’t act on or verbalize. But when those moments pass, we’re back to being Rachel and Tripp and the world is right again.

Until something else upsets the balance—like it did a moment ago when I walked out of the locker room to the parking lot and saw her baby daddy hanging around. Nothing and no one upsets the balance of my world more than the guy who stole Rachel’s virginity and sent her world into a tailspin.

Marcus Kash is my mortal enemy—not only because he’s a rich prick with no morals and even fewer standards, but because I can’t go back in time and beat the ever-loving shit out of him like I should have the night I saw him take advantage of Rachel. And because I can’t change the past and my part in it.

It might make me a narcissist, but I’ve always thought that if I had just called Rachel after our night together—if I had just told her why I left—she wouldn’t have hooked up with Marcus a few weeks later. Her life wouldn’t be as hard as it is now, with a baby and the knowledge that the guy who fathered her is a useless human being—who’s becoming increasingly dangerous, as he sells drugs on the university campus instead of actually attending college like most nineteen-year-olds.

Yanking open the passenger door to her Explorer, I scowl and watch Marcus’s shiny Beemer—courtesy of his rich mommy and daddy—speed out of the parking lot. I turn my eyes to Rachel and raise a brow.

“Why was he here? He graduated last year.”

I try to keep my voice neutral, a simple question that most likely has a simple answer, but I don’t quite pull it off. I never do. I know it; I can hear the strain in my voice. Even if I couldn’t, Rachel’s sarcasm always lets me know.

“Oh, you know, wanted to check in with the family, see how his offspring is, if he can do anything to help raise her, the usual.” My expression is less than amused, as am I, and she rolls her eyes when she recognizes this. “Jesus, Mom, relax. He was making a deal. We barely made eye contact.”

The relief I feel is ridiculous, mainly because it’s the same thing I feel every time she reassures me that she doesn’t want contact with him. Even still, when I get into the car and she starts the engine, I can’t help myself from asking more.

“Has he asked about Gracie?”

“Nope.”

“Do you want him to?”

Her expression looks a little annoyed at my questions, but I don’t care enough to stop asking. Rachel got pregnant when we were sixteen. To say she was the least-expected person for that to happen to would be an understatement. Rachel isn’t a prude, but she is a badass. She stands six feet even, has a quick tongue, a fast trigger, and a hell of a right hook. Add to that the fact that we’re best friends and she never really gave guys the time of day—no one saw an unwanted pregnancy from her.

“Why would I? He made it clear the day he told me to keep my mouth shut; he didn’t want to be attached to her, and it’s not like I was into him before that.”

I want to say the relief I feel is because her answer assures me she’s safe; she isn’t going to try and enter into a relationship with a guy who’s dangerous. But as much as I’ve always done my best to compartmentalize my life—reminding myself that Rachel’s my best friend, and that I have a girlfriend—there are days when I can’t help but wish she was mine. Even when I know she can’t be.

I remind her again to be careful, proving to myself my intentions are good and all about her. Then I add that Tanner has seen Marcus around campus dealing more than the recreational marijuana he dabbled in when he was in high school.

She offers me a smartass retort. She’s the girl who refuses to be intimidated or show fear. Even though I let her get away with it, I wish she were a little more cautious, a little more scared. Then I know she’d be more careful with herself.

I don’t say anything else; we’ve pulled into her grandmother’s driveway to pick up her daughter. Gracie spends her days with Rachel’s grandmother, G as she wants people to refer to her. I know Rachel doesn’t like talking about Marcus in front of Gracie. Before I can open my door to get out, Rachel’s hand is on my arm and she’s offering me an amused smile.

“Uh, I should probably warn you. G’s got a boyfriend these days, and she’s super vocal about him and, uh, their… dates.”

My insides quiver a little at the mere thought of two seventy-plus-year-olds wiggling around together. I actively have to swallow bile that leaps to my throat. “Sweet Jesus.”