Tripp: Why are you like this?
Me: Like what?
Tripp: So stubborn.
Not a single soul has ever called me stubborn and I love the way it sounds: So stubborn. My back straightens. Chin tilts up.
Tripp: Are you doing this on purpose?
Doing what? Intentionally trying to piss him off? As if that’s hard to do?
Me: You give me way too much credit.
Tripp: No, I don’t think I gave you ENOUGH credit.
True. But he’s in good company, because everyone underestimates me. It’s because I’m mostly quiet, content to observe from the background and let other people shine. That doesn’t mean I don’t have thoughts or ideas of my own, or that I’m not strong.
My strength is my patience. My contentment. My lack of a need for drama.
Tripp did strike a nerve, though, and I set down the stack of board games in my arms on the coffee table and plop down on the couch, chin in my hands.
What would be the harm in getting a drink with the guy? He’s fun to annoy and I don’t have any plans in the next few days. Many of my girlfriends aren’t available when I want to hang out—several of them are nurses with long hours, one just moved to Florida, and my friend Kristy just had a baby. I can’t take her out for a drink while she’s breastfeeding a newborn—although she probably needs it more than any of us.
I stare off at the blank, white wall, at the spot where Hollis had artwork hung, only the dust shadows and nail holes remaining.
I should fill those and repaint.
Sigh.
So much to do and I start work on Monday.
Tripp: What if I feed you?
Me: You already said you weren’t going to.
My phone rings.
Dammit! It’s him. WHAT IS HE DOING?
I swipe to answer, already rolling my eyes. “What?”
He pauses. “Is that how you answer the phone now? I thought you were nice.”
Nice?
That makes me laugh. “You never thought I was nice, you thought I was boring.” As I love to remind him. “And a stick in the mud—how is that calling me nice?”
“Why do you keep bringing up the boring thing and throwing it in my face? You’re hurting my feelings.” He sounds serious. “I was young and naïve back then.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re ridiculous?”
“No actually.”
“Well they should because you are.”
He pauses to think. “My sister maybe, but she doesn’t count because she’s my sister.”
I’ve only just been introduced to True Wallace recently. She is the spitting image of her brothers, but female—tall, dark, and beautiful. The trio of them are close, and now that my cousin is part of the family, I can’t help but feel a touch of envy pooling in the pit of my stomach.
“Sisters are supposed to tease.”
Tripp grunts, which I guess is his agreement.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “Why are you calling again?”
“It’s easier than texting.”
“No, taking no for an answer the first time is easier than texting.”
Tripp lets out a low tsss sound. “Sick burn, Westbrooke.”
“This isn’t a competition and that wasn’t a burn. I was merely stating a fact, not trying to one-up you.”
“You couldn’t one-up me—I’d win.”
Oh my god, this guy. “See? You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
I imagine it’s the same thing he probably does at his parents’ house with his brother and his sister, arguing so he can win some fictional contest amongst his siblings. Too bad it won’t work on me—his mother is not here to umpire.
Or referee.
Or whatever officials are used in football.
“You can’t just call me and expect me to change my mind. I’ve spent enough time in your company to know we wouldn’t enjoy having a drink together. I’d have to have at least five just to tolerate you.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. That was such a rude thing for me to say!
I immediately feel guilty.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
Tripp lets out a low whistle. “First rule of Fight Club, never apologize for brutal honesty. Men will have more respect for you.”
I tip my head. “I thought the first rule of Fight Club was that you don’t talk about Fight Club.”
A loud sigh comes over the line. “Are you always this literal?”
Am I? “I don’t think so?” Not on purpose anyway.
Probably though. But that’s from years of a strict upbringing and private school teachers breathing down my neck, and friends who were snotty and stuck up.
“So what are you doing tomorrow?”
I rack my brain but the answer is immediate: unpacking, lying around, unpacking some more, watching TV, ordering food, unpacking, sleeping.
In that order.
“Stuff” is my brilliant answer.
I can almost hear his annoyance. “At least you didn’t say washing your hair.”
“I’ll probably do that, too.”
Ha!
“Be serious for a second—what’s the harm in having a drink with me?”
“Why are you so determined to get me out of the house? You didn’t even know my name last week.”
“I’m determined to make you like me, that’s why.”
I highly doubt that’s true, but I cannot continue arguing with the guy about his motives.
“You called me out of the blue because you suddenly need me to like you,” I deadpan, clearly not ready to let the subject go.
“Yes.”
“And it has nothing whatsoever to do with me dropping you on your ass.”
He pauses. “First of all, you did not drop me on my ass.”
“Yeah I did.”
Tripp takes a breath in, seeking patience. “You—” Inhale. “Whatever you say, Chandler.”
Whatever I say? Who is this guy and what has he done with Tripp Wallace?
I get an idea.
“Tell you what…” I hope he’s listening. “I will agree to have a drink with you—”
“Great!”
“—if you dress like Paul Bunyan and bring your stuffed blue ox.”
The line goes dead. Silent. “No. No fucking way.”
I feign a disappointed sigh. “Well, sorry it didn’t work out. You have a great night.” I get ready to end the call, but his voice stops me.
“You are an asshole.”
Yet another thing no one has ever called me. I’m racking up many firsts with this guy.
“I’m flattered you think so.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Wasn’t it though?”
“No.”
“Okay, well…” I blow out a breath. “You take care. Think about my proposal and let me know. Or not. But either way, good luck with your games and…stuff.”
I tap to end the call, satisfied to have gotten the last word.
The last and only word, because I know I will never hear from Tripp Wallace again.
And if I’m being honest? The thought of that has me a little bit disappointed…
Eleven