Shooting the shit with his teammates.
Whatever it is professional athletes do in the locker room after a game.
Standing at my bathroom sink, I splash cold water on my face, occasionally looking up to stare at my own reflection—eyes tired, mouth downturned. I have a lot on my mind, and it shows.
First I’m mad, then I’m disappointed.
Then…
The tears come.
I cry, washing my tears down the drain along with my makeup, face splotchy, debating my options.
Let it go and pretend nothing happened. Pretend I had an amazing time with his parents watching the game—as I had been, until his mother dropped a truth bomb on the entire evening.
Call Hollis and ask her what she would do, although I have a feeling she’ll try to talk me out of being mad, considering she wants to be cousins AND sisters-in-law.
Text Tripp and give him a piece of my mind, tell him to piss off, tell him I never want to see him again.
Which would be a lie.
But a girl has to have some standards and if I let him deceive me like this, where does it end?
He wasn’t going to say anything!
Maybe I should call Hollis.
I look down at my phone, with its zero text notifications and zero social media notifications, and frown.
Two hours past.
Nothing from Tripp.
Figures—he has other things on his mind that do not include me. Perhaps his parents are staying at his house tonight and he rushed home to meet them.
That would make sense.
Still, it would be nice to hear from him, considering he invited me to the game as his guest.
I scrub my face, getting angrier by the second, mad crying, scowling in the mirror—it’s a face only Tripp would love.
Love.
Ha!
He doesn’t even respect you enough to call.
Jerk.
He is a jerk! Has been from day one and why the hell did I think he was going to suddenly begin making an effort because—
My doorbell rings, stopping my tirade, causing the linen makeup removal rag in my hand to stop scrubbing.
Who the heck is at my door at midnight?
Cautiously, as if an intruder lies in wait around my bedroom wall, I ease up to the front door, going up on my tippy toes to see through the peephole.
It’s Tripp, back turned to me, facing the street, hands stuffed in the pockets of workout pants.
I unlock the deadbolt and chain, cracking the door a few inches.
“What are you doing here?” My words come out sounding salty and bitter, when in reality, the sight of him makes my stupid heart pitter-patter and ache. My feelings are hurt, dammit!
If my attitude surprises him, he doesn’t show it. “I came to see you, silly.”
Silly?
Okay, what is going on here?
“Uh…can I come in?” He looks puzzled, like the next words out of his mouth are going to be, Why am I still standing on your porch?
I look him over good and hard before opening the door wide enough for him to gain entry, skeptically pursing my lips. “Fine.”
Tripp removes his jacket, hanging it on the hook in my tiny little foyer.
“I haven’t been here since I moved you in.” He looks around, glancing into the kitchen as he walks by, removing his shoes before stepping on the carpeting in the living room.
My hands go to my hips. The nerve of him, waltzing in and pretending nothing is wrong when I’m fit to be tied!
“Nope, you haven’t.” Because I’m an idiot and have only gone to his house instead of making him come to me.
Tripp slowly sweeps his gaze back to me, getting his first look at my face.
“What’s wrong, Chandler?”
My chin goes up resentfully. “What do you mean?”
“Your face is all red.”
I sniff. “It was cold outside tonight.”
“You were inside.” His eyes narrow as he studies me closer. “Tell me what’s wrong and stop bullshitting.” Tripp’s arms cross as if daring me to say Nothing as women often do.
That stubborn tilt of my chin goes a bit higher. “You want to know what’s wrong? Fine, I’ll tell you—have a seat.”
“No thanks, I’ll stand.” His legs part in a defensive pose. “I take it you didn’t have a good time tonight? What the hell happened, Chandler?”
My name on his lips makes me squirm.
Just say it, Chandler. Tell him what’s bothering you. Have the guts to say it.
“I was having a good time. And then—I wasn’t.”
“Okayyy.” He draws the word out, waiting.
“Let me see if I remember all this right—I don’t want to screw up the details.” I clear my throat dramatically, winding up for a recitation. “What was it your mom said? ‘I just hate to use the term publicity stunt—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!’”
My voice is higher than usual as I repeat what his mother said, noting with satisfaction his face slightly blanching as my words sink in.
“Then I said, ‘Publicity stunt? What do you mean?’ And your mom said, ‘The Ivy dear, don’t you remember?’” I give him my most piercing, deadliest look, plopping down on my couch. “Gee Tripp, whatever did she mean by that?” I tap my chin theatrically, snapping my fingers. “I know! She meant you had been setting me up!”
“Chandler—that’s not at all what that was about.”
This is the perfect time for me to laugh in his face, so I do. “Ha ha, good one. It’s too late—the jig is up. Your mother busted you.” Feeling sassy, I toss my hair. “It’s probably not a great idea for her to drink alcohol when she’s with your dates. It only serves as truth serum.”
“You have yourself all worked up over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!” I shoot up off the couch. “Ugh! I should have listened to my gut that day. I accused you of planning everything that night and then let the subject drop. You avoided the question, and I let you, so who’s the idiot here? Me.” I stick a finger in my chest, wound up tight.
“Whoa. Just calm do—”
“Don’t you ‘whoa’ me, mister. Your mother literally said, and I quote, ‘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.’ Those aren’t words a woman forgets, Tripp. Those are words that hurt and they’re going to be burned in my brain forever.”
“I did not come over here to fight,” he responds, bulky arms still crossed.
“Why did you come over here, then?” I’m about to make it worse and worse, in no mood to back down, no stopping the train now that it’s in motion.
“I wanted to see you—why the hell do you think I dragged my ass here after busting it for the past three hours? To amuse myself when I could be sleeping? I’m fucking tired, Chandler. I don’t want to argue about this.”
Too bad. Too late.
I’m pissed.
“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” I challenge, getting up in his personal space.
“Against what? What would be the point? You already have your mind made up.”