Tripp (5 page)

We’ve always had our separate lives. Even before high school and my relationship with Lauren, Rachel and I had a friendship that was comfortable. The one I knew would always be there even if we didn’t spend every waking moment together. She has Katie; I have Tanner and Griff, and some basketball friends I see occasionally. We don’t, nor have we ever, do everything together—but we’ve always
known
our relationship was there. Now it’s not, and I don’t really know how to deal with that.

When she lets Marcus take her hand and lead her away from the crowd, I give up caring whether or not she’s mad at me, and step around people until I meet her at the stairs.

She’s weaving slightly, leaning enough on Marcus and the banister, I know she’s not completely with it, which makes me ill to think about. I know Rachel—despite whatever is happening in our relationship right now—and I know this isn’t her. Drinking, random hook ups…if our time together two weeks ago was any indication, Rachel’s a virgin, and a guy like Marcus isn’t going to respect that. My gut clenches as I place my hand on her arm to get her attention.

She’s faded, but not enough to be incoherent. Maybe there’s a chance.

“Don’t do this, Rachel.”

“Who’s Rachel?” Marcus asks, and I have to use every ounce of control inside of me not to grab him by the shirtfront and pummel the life out of him. I keep my eyes on hers, willing her to let me in, just once, to let me see what’s going on so she can see what I’m asking her.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she wrenches free of my grip and motions to something over my shoulder. “Lauren’s waiting for you.”

I don’t turn around, but I don’t watch her walk up those steps, either. I close my eyes and let my chin drop to my chest, because I know whatever just happened isn’t right—not for me or for us—but for her. Rachel, the real Rachel, would never want to lose her virginity at a party with a guy who doesn’t know her name.

Feeling helpless, I take out my phone and text Katie. As expected, I get “Fuck you” in response, but I remain undeterred and text her again. I don’t care if it makes me look controlling or needy or desperate—she can’t be alone right now, and if go in there I’ll commit murder.

Ten minutes later, Katie sidles up to me, a solo cup in her hand and a bitchy retort on her tongue. “You rang, Sir Asswipe?”

Clever. “I need you to wait for Rachel. She’s upstairs.”

Katie raises her brows and goes to sip from her cup. I yank it out of her hand and toss it over my shoulder, ignoring her annoyed shrieks, and the affected party behind me.

“Flow’s a big girl, Tripp; she doesn’t need you to set up a bodyguard so she can’t have fun. She’s allowed to have fun—seeing as she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

How I ever made out with this spiteful creature is beyond me. Even at twelve, I had to have known she was the devil incarnate.

“No, Katie, she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but she does have a best friend. I’m still her friend,” I hiss before she can slap at me. “And so are you, which is why I need you to wait for her. She’s upstairs with a guy she doesn’t know—and I know goddamn well he wasn’t concerned with the fact that she was wasted.”

It takes a minute, but it hits Katie then; I see her face pale a little as she glances up the stairs. A second later, she blinks and slides her eyes to me.

“What do I do?”

I release a sigh and scrub my hands over my face. I want to tell Katie that we go upstairs, guns blazing, banging open every door until we find her—but I know that just like I couldn’t stop Rachel, I also can’t do that. She made her choice; nothing can change that now. “Nothing. We can’t do anything right now, but I need to know she’s okay… that she isn’t alone when whatever’s happening is over. Can you makes sure she gets home?” Katie nods. “No driving.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Tripp.”

I clench my teeth, reminding myself that however much she and I can’t seem to get along, she’s the only person Rachel trusts unconditionally. She’s here because she cares about Rachel.

“Right. Just text me or something to let me know she’s okay?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said
no
. I’ll wait for her, because you’re right. This isn’t Flow, but I won’t text you. You fucked up, and until you fix it, I’m not helping you.”

“Katie—”

“Go away, Tripp. Your girlfriend’s waiting. I’ve got Flow.”

The reminder of Lauren has me wincing as I turn away. She’s in the middle of the dance floor, grinding against one of her friends. When she sees me make my way over, she squeals and throws her arms around me, her small mouth plastering against mine. I recoil slightly at the taste of vodka and something else, but then I let her hold onto me while she sways back and forth to the music.

When she smiles up at me, I smile back, ignoring the small voice inside of me that says this isn’t right—what I’m doing with her isn’t right. Instead, I break my rule of never drinking when I’m going to drive us home, and grab a shot from one of her friends, downing it and two more so I can get my mind off the girl upstairs—who isn’t mine.

6

Present

Lauren calls as expected, only instead of dinner and a movie, she wants to go to a CV party. I don’t always abstain from partying during season, but Crescent Valley is our rival school, and I’m still in the middle of basketball season. Showing up at one of their parties is a sure way to get myself kicked off the team.

“Come on, Tripp. No one we know is having a party, and all of my friends are going.”

I hate that I’m tempted, even a little. And even more, I hate that I’m tempted—not because Lauren’s asking, but because if I stay home, I know I’m going to wait up for Rachel and ask about her date.

“Lauren, you know I’m in the middle of season. I can’t go to a party where the majority of people there would run over their own mother to take an incriminating photo of me and post it on the Internet. We beat them by twenty points last month.”

I scored twelve and had almost as many rebounds. Not that I’m bragging—I don’t have to, the newspaper did it for me—but going to a party in their city? Sport suicide.

“Triiiiiipp,” she whines, and I feel my eye twitch. Baby talk and whining are the only two things that make me do that. “You can be the DD; you don’t even have to drink. We haven’t been to a party in weeks.”

Which is an utter tragedy.

Swallowing the sarcasm that’s fighting to leap off my tongue, I breathe deeply and remind myself—for what feels like the hundredth time—that I pursued Lauren. I was the one who wanted her; I was the one who asked her out repeatedly. And I was the one who let her convince me we should stay together when I realized I’d pursued the wrong girl. When I try to remind myself why I did those things, I can’t come up with an answer.
Huh
.

“Lauren, I can’t go to any party right now, but especially not
that
one. We have a great chance at going far in playoffs this year, and I don’t want to mess that up.”

“
Ugh
, everything is always football or basketball with you.”

I sigh. For a second, I wonder if this attitude change is because of me—or if she’s always been this whiny and demanding, and I’ve just never noticed or paid attention. Lauren isn’t an athlete. As much as I’d like to say she’s supportive, I think she enjoys the idea of dating a top athlete more than the actual sacrifice that comes with it. When my name’s in the paper, or I’m on the court and people are screaming for me, she’s all too happy to wear my number on her cheek and stand in the front row so people can see her.

But when the sport demands that I stay sober—and that means staying clear of parties or situations that the OSAA might find concerning—she isn’t a fan. Needless to say, this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation in the past few months.

“Lauren,” I pause. I should ask her to come over and watch a movie, or grab some dinner and go for a drive, but I don’t. As much as I know I shouldn’t be here when Rachel gets back, I don’t want to go anywhere right now, especially not when I know what awaits is a night filled with petty fights started to show me exactly how much Lauren dislikes not going to the party that all of her friends are at.

I’d rather handle the unbalanced crazy that is Katie than face hundreds of passive-aggressive text messages from Lauren’s friends as they try to change my mind.

“Why don’t you go to the party? We can talk later.”

She sighs over the phone and apologizes, which makes me feel like an asshole. I know she only wants what we promised each other we could have when we decided to do this after the debacle that was our night apart—where we both hooked up with different people, and that’s fun. It just happens that the closer we come to graduation, and the more I think about what I want in my life, Lauren doesn’t seem to fit.

I tell her it’s okay, I’m sorry too, and I promise to text her before I go to bed. When I hang up, I go into the kitchen and sit at the table where my mom’s feeding Gracie her dinner, laughing as Gracie continues to spit out the green beans as quickly as they’re fed to her.

“Listen here, little missy, your mama left me these beans, and you will have none of those biscuits she left for dessert until you finish them.”

Gracie stares straight into her eyes with a look of challenge that is so similar to the one Rachel always gives me—I’m stuck with the twin urge to laugh and wince. Because I know my mother’s temper is one very much like Rachel’s, I don’t laugh.

“Good luck, Mom. I’ve seen that look before, and I think it means
eat shit
. Or in this case,
I’m not eating that shit
.”

“Jackson Herbert Jones the third, watch your language,” she scolds, and I roll my eyes at my name. Seriously, let’s get it out of the family. Why do we keep passing it on? “And I can take a challenge.” Then my mom gives me a sly look, “Can you?”

I raise my brow and try not to fidget when she keeps a steady gaze on me. “What are you talking about?”

She shakes her head and moves her gaze to Gracie, but unlike me, the one-year-old doesn’t seem phased by the stare. She gives it right back, and without breaking eye contact, picks up a small piece of chicken nugget and puts it in her mouth, chewing with her eyes on my mom’s the whole time.

“A worthy opponent,” I say, and stand to grab an apple from the bowl on the counter.

“Are you going out?”

“Nope.” I take a bite and crunch through laughing when Mom gives up and gives Gracie a biscuit anyway.

She looks over her shoulder at me and raises a brow, “Don’t you and Lauren have plans?”

I know she’s fishing, as always. I shake my head and take another bite of my apple to make sure my mouth is too full to talk. Georgina Jones has a way about her that both terrifies me and inspires words to come out of my mouth at the same time. As I’ve fallen victim to her interrogations before, I’ve learned effective methods of avoiding communication such as the ones I’ve employed now: keep my mouth full, and if I must speak, use one-word answers.

She smiles like she knows what I’m doing. “Seems like you two are cooling off. I haven’t seen her around much lately. Is everything all right?”

I nod. She lowers her chin and stares at me. Crap. “Yep. Just busy with basketball and work, and she has all of these things with…her friends.” Lauren runs track, but it’s more like a hobby than an actual commitment for her. She goes, she wears the gear, she skips when she has something better to do. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen her run in a race, to be honest.

“Do you not like her friends?”

Loathe them, actually. I shrug instead of saying this. “No problem with them, I just like to take a break every now and then. Lauren’s more social than I am, so she goes out and I stay in.”

She nods, but I can’t read it because it’s not a
yeah-right
nod or an
I-understand-what-you’re-saying
nod. It’s an
I-know-something-you-don’t
nod, and I hate that it makes me want to ask her what it is. I take another bite of my apple, trying to hold out for her to say what she has to say. Being my mother, she doesn’t—because
of course
she wouldn’t make this easy on me.

“Fine. What? What’s with the questions and the face and the nod?”

She looks at me all innocent face and curious eyes. “What face, Jackson?”

“That face, the one you’re wearing right now while you look at me like I’m an imbecile. What do you think you know that I don’t?”

She sighs—a tired, heavy sigh. It tells me she’s settling in to really let me have it, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Jackson Herbert—”
With the name already
. “Remember when you were going to give up football in order to train for basketball only—because you were spending a lot of time training and not getting much playing time?” I nod, a little confused, because this was all last year. “Remember what I told you?”

“Just because it seemed like the thing people expected from me, didn’t mean it was right for me.”

She nods, cleaning off Gracie’s hands before taking her out of her booster seat. “You love football, but all everyone else could see was that you were better at basketball, and you weren’t getting what you wanted in football. Not then, at least.”

I nod, lost. “Mom, what are you saying?”

She sets Gracie on the floor with her singing basketball and stands to look at me. “I’m saying that sometimes people think the easier way is the best way. It’s not. The easy way is good as long as it’s making you happy. Right now, the easy way isn’t making you happy though—is it?”

I don’t respond. I know something awfully close to an admission will come out of my mouth if I do—an admission I’m not ready to make to anyone, let alone my mother—so I stand nodding, hoping she lets this go. When she gets on the floor to play with Gracie, I swallow and look down at the half-eaten apple. I need out, and I need out now.

“I’m going to call Huey; see if he’s up for grabbing dinner and some gaming.”

“Have fun,” she says. I stoop down to press a kiss to Gracie’s head before leaving, avoiding all eye contact with the mind reader who birthed me.