Tripp
“She wants me to dress like Paul Bunyan,” I tell my mother via FaceTime after the various conversations I’ve had with Chandler. I bend to scratch Chewy behind the ears and his satisfied doggy grin has me grinning back despite myself.
“Why would she want you to do that, dear?” Mom is in the kitchen, phone propped on the counter as she slices up one potato, then another, probably for a meal I’ll never have the chance to eat. “It makes no sense.”
“Because she’s a sadist.” And I pissed her off enough that she took it upon herself to humiliate me in public, and she’s trying to do it again by having me wear a costume to have drinks.
The word sadist has my mother glancing up, brows furrowed with a frown. “Is that a nice thing to call someone? You barely know the girl. She seemed nice enough during the wedding festivities.”
Seemed nice enough? “Are you nuts? You were in the room when she had me flat on my back, remember? You thought I had a concussion and had the ambulance on speed dial.”
Mom shrugs. “A mother’s reflex. Still not a nice thing to say about a young woman you hardly know.”
Um. Flat on back? No remorse? That girl?
Still, my shoulders sag under Mom’s disapproval and I backpedal at my use of such a harsh adjective to describe Chandler. “Wrong choice of words, sorry.”
Chewy stares up at me as I stand in my bathroom about to turn on the shower and clean myself off.
I crank the water on to preheat it while chatting with Mom.
“I just think you should try being a bit…sweeter. Would it kill you to let your guard down and enjoy yourself around a pretty woman?” Her head is tilted forward, the top of her hair parted down the middle, the same style she’s worn since True, Trace, and I were kids. A few more wrinkles in her forehead but still the same constant in our lives.
“Sweet?” I want to gag.
Mom sets down her knife and rests both hands on the counter. “Tripp Wallace, perhaps if you made more of an effort to be fun, you wouldn’t still be single.”
Fun? “What does that have to do with my being single? I’m single because that’s what I want, not because I ain’t fun.”
She clucks her tongue at my bad grammar.
“I don’t need a girlfriend or a wife!” That isn’t exactly true. The truth is, I actually would love a family—I just never have the patience to find one. Plus, there haven’t been any women who wanted to tolerate my special brand of humor. “I have Chewy.”
At the mention of his name, the dog barks for attention.
“Who’s a good boy? You are!” I tell him, giving his ears another fluff. “Good boy!”
“Tripp. Focus.” The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board resumes. “I think you’re going to have to show up for drinks in that outfit she wants you to wear.” She’s done with the potatoes now and moves on to carrots. “If that’s the only way to get her to agree, what choice do you have?”
“I could let the story die down and go back to living my life and not giving a shit?”
“That’s not going to happen as quickly as you think it is.” She pauses again, looking into the camera. “It’s too good of a story and there’s nothing people love more than the downfall of someone famous. Tripp, Dad and I saw some of those signs they had at the stadium at your last game, and they were cringe-worthy.”
Right.
Those signs.
The ones fans made that said “WE FLIP FOR TRIPP” and “WALLACE LIKES IT ON HIS BACK” and, my personal favorite, “HARD FALL FOR YOU #32”.
Constant reminders and those were the supportive ones.
Sometimes I hate that my games are televised—for reasons like this—because if my mother is mentioning it, there’s no doubt Dad will want to have words about it the first chance he gets.
I’m glad he’s at work and not on the FaceTime call; I don’t want to know his opinion about all this.
“It’s only a plaid shirt and a pair of khakis, sweetie,” Mom prattles on. “You look good in plaid. It’s not the end of the world.”
“She wants me to bring Babe.”
“The ox?”
“Yes. And hang him from my pocket and I’ve already let Chewy play with him twice, so one of his eyes is missing.”
Mom winces. Oh, she tries to hide it, but there’s no denying the awkward smile through clenched teeth.
That’s where my siblings and I get that sour expression from…
“People will think you’ve lost your damn mind.”
“No shit.” I roll my eyes at the sentiment, not my mother. “This was your idea—what should I do?”
Mom shrugs. “It’s one night. You’ll get tons of press, especially dressed like a lumberjack.”
God, I don’t even want to know what they’ll write about me, but at least the script will have flipped.
No pun intended.
“I guess so.”
“Look at it this way,” she says, using the knife to push carrots to the edge of the cutting board before dumping them into the pot on the stove. “At least you’ll have plenty to talk about while you’re sitting there.”
“She’s going to make fun of me.”
Mom cocks her head to the side. “Chandler Wallace—oops, sorry. Chandler Westbrooke does not seem like the type of girl who’s going to sit and make fun of you.”
True. But, “She didn’t seem like the type of girl who was going to toss me to my back, either.”
Me: Do you have time to talk?
I text Chandler even though it’s almost midnight, not expecting her to answer.
Chandler: You mean…on the phone?
No, I mean through brain waves telepathically.
Me: Yes, on the phone.
Chandler: Why can’t you just text me?
Me: You’re not even sleeping.
Chandler: So? You’re still disrupting my peace!
Me: I’m calling.
When I do, she lets it ring good and long before picking up.
“What?”
Oh, she’s answering like that now? Because she knows it irritates me?
I see how it is.
“I agree to your demands.”
On the other end of the line, Chandler yawns. “What demands?”
“Tomorrow when we go for our drink, I agree to wear a Paul Bunyan outfit and have my buddy Babe in my pocket.”
“You do?” It sounds like she’s rubbing her eyes.
“Yes. How does seven sound?”
It’s late enough that I can eat before I meet her there and early enough that I can still order food if I happen to get hungry. Also, I can be home, in bed, by nine at the latest if the whole thing sucks.
“Where?”
“I was thinking The Ivy.”
The Ivy is one of the most popular restaurants in town, an institution in this city. Old-school and exclusive, it caters to high-end, well-heeled clientele. Lots of athletes and celebrities can be seen hobnobbing and business-lunching their way through its palm-leafed green carpeting.
Interesting choice,and my mother’s. Since this was all her idea, I’m sticking to the plan.