Oh. So he’s one of those.
The kind of guy who runs when the pressure is on, who clams up when it’s suddenly time to get serious. The kind of guy who doesn’t want to discuss anything.
Great.
Just great.
Good to know.
“My mind isn’t already made up. I want to know what you have to say about it.”
“Honestly, I have no idea why you’re mad. You brought it up that day in front of your townhouse after leaving The Ivy, then you let it go so I figured you weren’t bothered by it. I thought we were having fun.”
Fun.
Fun?
The word triggers me further and I feel myself spiraling out of control, completely irrational but in full force.
“Oh. Now I’m just fun to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He squints at me.
I take a deep breath. Then another, then another.
Calm. Rational. Do not be that girl.
“Listen, Tripp. Yes, perhaps I’m overreacting—but you have to admit that you should have told me the truth when you had the chance. I want to be able to trust you.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I didn’t say I don’t trust you—I said I want to be able to trust you. Lying out of the gate isn’t a great way to start, and I was…I felt…betrayed when your mom spilled the beans tonight. Really embarrassed. I thought we were on the right track.”
“We are.” His jaw clenches.
“Is that all you have to say? Is there more?”
“I don’t know what else you want.”
“Is your ego so huge you can’t tell me how you feel about me? You can’t tell me the reason you lied? Or why you kept calling me and messaging me?”
“If it’s not obvious, then I can’t help you with that.”
Wow.
I’ve heard of men this headstrong and prideful; I just never thought I’d be on the receiving end of the insolence.
He is not going to tell me he cares; I can see it in his eyes, and I’m no good at prying information out of people.
I want someone who can express themselves. He doesn’t have to write me a freaking love poem, but he can at least tell me he cares.
“Well this night fucking sucked.” Tripp bends to grab his shoes, stepping into each one as he yanks his jacket off the hook.
“I’m…” sorry. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. I have nothing to apologize for except waiting too long to bring the subject back up. Nothing to apologize for except a bit of theatrics.
“You’re…?”
“Sorry you lost tonight.” My voice is nearly a whisper.
He stares at me long and hard. “In more ways than one, I guess.”
And then he’s gone.
Twenty-Two
Tripp
I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that Chandler thinks I don’t give a shit about her or the fact that she thinks I lied.
Neither is the truth.
Sure, omission could be considered lying, but in my defense, she let the subject go after our date at The Ivy, so what would have been the point in me following up to tell her the entire thing was in fact a publicity stunt? At that point in the evening, I’d forgotten I was there for a purpose and was enjoying myself, despite the sometimes tense and awkward conversation. What good would have come from completely ruining it?
So I kept my mouth shut when she didn’t push the issue, never imagining it would come up again.
Boy was I fucking wrong.
“Is your ego so huge you can’t tell me how you feel about me?”
No, my ego isn’t so huge I can’t tell her how I feel. I’m just not the sort of guy who is going to beg. Plus, she was pissed off—it would have looked like groveling for me to start spewing bullshit about how amazing and incredible I think she is.
She wouldn’t have believed that either!
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and that’s how it’s been my whole fucking life.
I cannot win.
Too macho for feelings, too many feelings to be macho. What the hell do people want from me?
I stab the remote control at the television, settling onto the couch for some peace and quiet but not seeing a single channel I’m flipping past. It’s all a blur. Nothing interesting, everything a goddamn waste of time.
I slam down some popcorn but don’t taste a thing. And when a few kernels fall to the living room floor, I whistle for Chewy to come eat them, forgetting he’s not here at the moment.
Check my phone for the eightieth time today, imagining that at any moment, Chandler is going to pop up in my notifications to say she misses me.
Wrong.
She is as stone cold as you are, bro.
And speaking of bros, mine called me this morning to find out how things went last night. He wasn’t there himself, obviously, but he knew Chandler was going to be with our parents and cares enough to call for the details.
“Does Mom have you engaged yet?”
Not even close. “No. It wasn’t great.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t great?”
Why did he have to be so damn nosey so early in the morning? My brain was barely functioning at that point.
“I mean—it all went to shit.”
“What did you do?”
Now see? That’s the shit that pisses me off—everyone thinking any time something goes wrong, it’s my fault. So what if I don’t run around blowing bubbles of joy up everyone’s ass? Does that make me the problem? No.
“I didn’t do anything, jackass. This time it was Mom.”
“Mom?” He didn’t believe me. I could hear it in the way he exhaled and said, “No way.”
“Way.” I sighed, rolling over in bed to stare out the window. “She got drunk and told Chandler our first date was a publicity stunt.”
“Mom got drunk?” There was a long pause on the line. “No fucking way.”
“Way,” I repeated. “Then she hiccupped and giggled her way to the demise of my relationship.”
“You’re in a relationship?”
“Can you not be literal? You know what I mean. Whatever Chandler and I had going is fucking done.”
“Shit. There’s done and there’s fucking done. This is serious.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Aww, now you sound like my wife.”
His wife. Chandler’s cousin and her biggest support system.
Who no doubt hates me after that conversation.
“You just love any opportunity to rub the wife thing in my face, don’t you?”
“Please,” he scoffed. “It’s not like you want one.”
Didn’t want one. Hadn’t wanted one.
But things are different now.
I’d started to have a bit of hope that I wasn’t a complete social idiot after all. Was beginning to wonder if I had what it took to be a good partner to the right person.
Boy was I wrong.
I let the line go silent until my brother couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Tripp—are you saying you want one?”
“What difference does it make? Chandler hates me now.”