For him, talking to a woman like a normal human being is foreign, but he has to learn he can’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind. I can’t imagine how shitty poor Cara must have felt getting rejected by a teenage Tripp Wallace.
What a little asshole he must have been. Cocky, arrogant, and full of himself.
Gee, not much has changed.
I chuckle to myself—I’d never say that out loud to his mother!
“I bet he was cute, huh?”
“So handsome. I’ll have to show you some pictures next time you’re at the house.” Mrs. Wallace slyly glances over. “Not to make any assumptions, of course, but Roger and I can’t believe our babies are finally settling down.”
“Tripp hasn’t brought any women around?”
“No—lord heavens no! I think he’s dated one or two. Or his publicist set the dates up. We’re not really sure because his personal life is not something he talks about. But we’ve been able to pry a thing or two out of him about you.” She nudges me with the point of her elbow. Wink-wink, sip.
Genevieve lets out a loud, contented sigh, smiling down at the illuminated stadium filled with thousands of fans.
I contently eat the nachos on my plate, picking through the chips and plowing them through the dip hungrily.
“I’m happy you kids worked everything out,” she’s telling me as I bite into a tortilla filled with guac and chew, a smile on my face. “I was so worried you would block him after that whole social media debacle. Did I mention that boy can be so stubborn?”
Stubborn? That’s putting it mildly, but I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “Which debacle?”
I stop chewing.
There have already been a few involving Tripp and me, starting on day one. Although, now that I’m getting to know him better and he’s softening up, welcoming me into his life (case in point: this evening with his parents, while I watch him play a sport that he loves), those first few dates are a distant memory.
Perhaps not so fuzzy because of the arguing, but they still leave me warm on the inside.
Mrs. Wallace waves a breezy hand to and fro in the air in front of her, poo-pooing the conversation, dismissing the severity of it. “I just hate to use the term publicity stunt. Makes the whole thing sound so cold and businesslike—but can you imagine if he hadn’t taken my advice and taken you out on that first date? You wouldn’t be here with us tonight!”
I need her to backtrack and stop rambling so I can figure out just what the heck she’s talking about.
Whoa, whoa, whoa—back it up. “Publicity stunt? What do you mean?”
The chip goes stale in my mouth as the hair on my neck stands up, prickling.
“What’s another word for publicity stunt? I’m so rusty when it comes to this public relations business—Tripp and Buzz both have people for that.” Another cup of wine appears in her hand by way of the caterer, and she drinks before rattling on. “The Ivy dear. Remember?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Yes?”
“We knew being seen with you there would be good for his reputation after those pictures of you at the wedding surfaced on the internets and the Twitter.” She pats me on the arm.
Is she implying that Tripp took me to The Ivy so we would be seen together, getting along?
The suspicions I had that night with him resurface and the conversation about him masterminding the evening comes rushing back tenfold.
“You think I’m crafty enough to mastermind something like this? The paps showing up and taking photographs of us together? Fans taking videos of us eating? I’m flattered.”
I stared at him like he was an idiot. “Yes, Tripp, I do think you’re crafty enough to have staged this entire evening.” My arms went up, defeated, and I let the subject drop with narrowed eyes. “You can’t stand the fact that a woman is stronger than you.”
My independence and empowerment had nothing to do with that evening and everything to do with his reputation as a player.
But why?
The tortilla chip I popped on my tongue a moment ago tastes like chalk in my mouth, stale and dry, unwilling to go down.
My jaw clenches, fingers itching to text him and chew his ass out, but then the crowd outside goes wild and I remember where I am, who I’m with, and that he won’t be available for hours.
Cocky bastard.
Liar.
I sit, stewing.
“It’s such a relief knowing you grew up in the industry and aren’t a stranger to making tough business decisions and keeping the personal out of it.”
“Business decisions,” I repeat blankly, wanting to say, This is personal—for me. Everything about it is personal. How can you sit there and pretend it’s only about business? And now my feelings are hurt, confidence deflating, anger brewing.
Why is his mother telling me all this? Sure, she’s drunkish, but she must know Tripp and I wouldn’t have had an actual discussion about this. She has to know that if I mention this to him (which I will), it’s going to end in a huge fight.
He must have told her about that night if she knew about it beforehand—from the way it sounds, it was her idea.
She feels guilty, Chandler. Getting this confession off her chest will make her feel better even if it’s making you feel like shit.
Then my mind wonders: is she gossiping because my family is in sports, too, and she’s trying to relate to me? Or is she trying to warn me about how cutthroat it can be?
I know she likes me; how can she sit there and tell me this so casually? My face feels bright red, so it’s probably no secret that I’m stewing.
I barely hear another word she says, going through the motions of watching the game. Standing to cheer when the room and crowd go wild. Booing when they boo. Taking whatever beverages are handed to me and slowly sipping from whatever cup I’m given.
I hug everyone and make my goodbyes with forty-five minutes left in the game, explaining that I’ve developed a headache and want to beat traffic so I can rush home and get to bed.
The ride home is a blur, my brain clogged with arguments and rationalizations and words and horrible, self-destructive thoughts.
I have to stop seeing him—he’s a liar!
Calm down. He only did what he thought he had to do—he likes you.
Does he? Or is he just bored?
Does Tripp Wallace seem like the kind of guy who does anything because he’s bored?
Bored? Seriously, Chandler, the man is a professional athlete. He is so busy he can’t be bothered to walk his own dog, and he doesn’t have the balls to kick the teenager out of his house.
But it started with a lie.
He changed the subject when I brought it up, which means he was hiding it—which means he knew it was wrong. Does that make him selfish? Does that make him too weak to stand up to his mother? Is the media and public perception more important than his personal relationships?
You are way overthinking this, Chandler.
Get home, get inside, take a hot shower, forget about it.
Two hours later, I can’t get it out of my head.
Tripp must be home by now, the game having ended shortly after I walked in the door of my townhouse—factoring in time for him to shower, change, listen to the coaching staff tell them what they did wrong. What they did right. Giving instructions on what they’re going to work on in practice.