Tripp (The Life Series Book 2)

Prologue

Present

Life is a series of choices. Like a basketball game—we all make decisions that push our playing status forward or backward, and we all have to live with the consequences of our choices. Do we want to be the guy with the ball when that buzzer is about to go off and we need a big play before it does? Can we handle being the person who takes the shot and misses? Or do we want to be the one who passes the ball and takes orders because we’re great at giving support, but not so great at owning the choices we make and their results?

I’ve always wanted the ball. I don’t mind passing or setting the screen, but then I’m going to roll out into the post with my hand up and demand the ball because I trust myself and my instincts, and because I don’t want to regret letting someone else take that shot.

At eighteen, there are very few things that I regret, very few moments when I asked for the ball and didn’t get it—and no, that’s not because I’m a guy and selfish, as more than one girl has been apt to point out. I don’t regret a lot of things; I grew up in a house and a family where regret wasn’t talked about—success was. And not in the be successful or die kind of way, but in more of a work for what you want and overcome what stands in your way type of mentality.

I don’t let things or people stand in my way; when they try, I work to get around them, and if that doesn’t make a difference, I do my best to go through them. When that fails, I call my two older brothers and together, the three of us can get through pretty much anything.

Anything, except Rachel, that is.

My story isn’t mine alone. It’s mine and Rachel’s, which might make me a giant pussy, but I’ve learned to accept what I’m unable to change—and I’ve tried to change it, trust me.

We became friends in elementary school. It was a day when I desperately needed a win for my recess football team, so the dumbass fifth graders would stop razzing me about being a pretty boy with no throwing arm. Not for the first time in my nine years did I curse the long and somewhat-girly eyelashes that were a constant source of teasing for me.

No matter how short I kept my blonde hair, or how regularly I handed out an ass whooping to those who dared to challenge me, they were always able to needle me with that one fact. On a side note, said lashes have since been praised by females and definitely given me a stronger game with the opposite sex. Suck it, Kyle Myers; I hope you’ve enjoyed the company of your hand thanks to your pizza face.

This particular day at recess I was done—done being hassled, done being called a pale comparison to my older brothers and their legendary recess wins, and done losing. While I had grown over the summer between third and fourth grade, none of my friends had. Who can throw a pass to a midget when the guy guarding him has an easy three inches on him?

I was standing on the blacktop, ball in my hand, scanning the crowd of people and looking for someone that was going to be able to see the ball and catch it when I heard someone yelling at the top of her lungs. My eyes tracked the sound and landed on a petite blonde head—Crazy Katie Bowers was screaming. I scanned over her; cute as she was, she was always screaming about something—and quite honestly, she terrified me. My eyes lighted on the dark, lean, and oh so tall girl next to her.

Rachel Reynolds, another pretty girl, but also one that had a reputation for being kind of a badass, in athletics and everything else. Boys didn’t mess with her, which was why she and I had never really spoken before. I didn’t like wasting my time, and a girl who wore don’t touch me as a shield was pretty much a guarantee of that. Although we’d never met, I knew who she was. Corvallis isn’t a big town. Even if it was, we lived a block from each other. I saw her when she was running, and when she played in the pickup games at the park.

Those memories had me calling out to her.

Hey, Reynolds, come be on my football team.

Crazy Katie turned her eyes on me, but I ignored her. I had my target in sight. Something told me Rachel was the girl who was going to save my nine-year-old pride.

Rachel stared at me for a second, and though she finally relented and walked over, her face was not what I was expecting. Even at nine, I was used to girls responding with smiles and laughter—shy praise followed by the occasional hair flip before they ran away—but Rachel gave me none of those things. Instead, she stared at me—damn near eye level in fact—and her light-gray eyes gave away no sign of shyness or intimidation.

I stood there staring right back, with a mouth that had gone suddenly dry, working to ignore the tickle of recognition at the back of my neck.

Katie rolled her eyes and spoke first, giving me the reaction I was used to. Tripp Jones, you rang? She giggled and nudged Rachel, causing her much-taller friend to frown down at her.

I ignored Katie, though her comment had eased that dryness in my mouth and given me a little of my confidence back. Rachel’d eyes bore into me, as steady and unreadable as they were before.

Neither of us said anything, and I had to hand it to her, she was amazing at the silent-intimidation game. Her face showed nothing—no interest, no question, no annoyance. It was straight. I was starting to sweat because as much as I wanted to prove to this girl that I was boss, I also really wanted her to be on my team.

Unable to take the silence any longer, I cracked first.

So, you’re athletic, I’m an idiot, and big.

I might have been young, but I knew these were not the things to say to a girl. I mean, when Tanner and Griff talked to girls, things like tall and big were absolutely not what came out of their mouths. Crap, even when I talked to girls these things didn’t usually come out of my mouth. What was wrong with me?

Oddly, though, Rachel’s expression didn’t turn offended. Instead, she almost looked like she might be smiling. Did you have a question to ask me?

Her voice was low and direct, and though relief rushed through me that she wasn’t punching me in the face—something I instinctively knew she’d be able to do well and without hesitation—I tried to play it cool with a little head nod. I need someone tall. You’re a girl, but you’re taller than anyone on my team, and I need someone who can catch.

It took what felt like forever before she nodded. Okay. But you better be able to throw. I’m not only tall, I’m a winner.

I may have fallen a little in love right there.

Just like that, we were friends. It didn’t take long before word got out, and by fifth grade she was on my actual flag-football team and we were doing everything together, even fighting. I think the reason we became so close so quickly was because Rachel was a lot like my brothers—unafraid to throw a punch or take a hit if she thought the situation called for it. She was tougher than almost all of my friends, and smart, too—a better athlete who also happened to be a hell of a gamer.

By middle school, she was my closest ally, the person I confided in and the only person whose opinion mattered. We fought, because Rachel could pretty much find idiocy in anything I did, but we never stayed apart. We had our own lives, but we were always there, just within reach whenever the other needed us. People used to question us constantly, sure that we were dating, but I would just laugh. Date Rachel? No, because I dated girls I could lose and I couldn’t lose Rachel.

Even when I hit my stride in the seventh grade and figured out just how great girls could be—hello French kissing and second base—I never touched Rachel. Yes, I’d noticed just how gorgeous she was, with her near-black hair, olive skin, and ever-changing sea-green to gray eyes, but I didn’t let myself think beyond that because she was off limits. She wasn’t someone I just wanted to be with when we were at the movies or a dance, I wanted to be with her all the time, and that meant I couldn’t kiss her.

Being the youngest of three boys put me ahead in the social game. I understood there were girls you dated, girls you flirted with, and girls you didn’t give the time of day to because they weren’t worth the headache—thank you, Crazy Katie, for teaching me that in one hard lesson our first day of seventh grade. I understood Rachel fell into none of these categories.

Rachel was my best friend—beyond that, outside of family, she was the person I cared for most in the world. I made a pact with myself never to touch or look at her as anything but a friend. I understood it wasn’t about what I wanted; it was about what I needed, and for whatever reason, I needed her in my life more than I needed any other person.

Maybe that’s why my story is as much about her as it is about me; Rachel’s that girl who—no matter how I tried not to—I fell in love with. Maybe on that first day in fourth grade, maybe a different day when we were together, it doesn’t matter when I fell, as much as it matters that I did.

I fell for Rachel Reynolds, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fall back out.

Chapter 1

Past

You did not just say that.

The hell I didn’t. Hey, eat another one of my Sour Patch Kids and you’ll be learning to shoot a ball left-handed.

I’m sitting on Rachel’s bed, shoveling in candy and seriously questioning her taste in movies. Because I’m fifteen and always freaking hungry, I think about reaching for the candy again despite her threat of pain, but then I look at her. If there’s one thing she’s serious about other than volleyball and being the best at everything, it’s her candy. Stronger men than I have paid the price for testing her. Still, I study her a moment to judge the sincerity in her words.

Her gaze is steady and her brow is raised as if challenging me. A part of me is tempted to battle her, to go for it and make her fight me, because as scary as she is, I’ve always been that much bigger and stronger. Since I know I’m as likely to get a knee in the balls as I am to get her candy, I settle for my water and the memory of my Skittles, which are long gone.

How can you even think that Friends with Benefits is better than Failure to Launch? One’s J.T. and the other’s McConaughey. It’s like comparing apples and oranges.

She snorts in her ever-so-ladylike fashion. Don’t you think it’s weird how much you like McConaughey?

Um, you see how B.A. he is, right?

Still, it’s not like he’s James Bond, she says and shoves another Sour Patch Kid in her mouth. For a second, I’m distracted by the small white grains of sugar that get stuck to her lip. I stare at them, mesmerized by the way they cling to that perfect mouth. She sweeps her tongue out and collects them; everything inside of me tightens and coils. Sweat pops out on the back of my neck and when I hear her voice, it sounds distant and far away.

Suddenly, the hunger inside of me is for far more than candy.

Jesus Christ, this is Rachel. She’s my best friend. Am I seriously turned on by her right now?

My answer comes when she shifts, leaning over me to grab the remote hanging limply from my fingertips; my body stands at attention, each hair on my arm prickling as her warm brown skin slides across mine, my mouth going dry when I inhale her scent. Then she’s gone, and I’m left sitting here, wound tighter than a string.

Hey, Earth to Tripp. What’s wrong with you?

I jerk and spill water all over myself, causing her to cuss me out as it splashes on her and then her covers.

Jesus, butterfingers, get a grip. And a towel.

I stand, grateful for the excuse to walk away for a second and get myself together. I don’t know what’s going on, but it needs to stop. Now. That’s Rachel in there. Rachel who’s been my best friend for almost eight years, Rachel who knows everything about me. Rachel who is hotter than freaking hot, and Jesus Christ, why do I keep thinking that?

I grab a towel out of the bathroom and head back into her room, wincing when I see her splayed out on her bed in nothing but running shorts and a tank, the same thing she wears almost every time we’re together. But this time I’m noticing things—like how long her legs are and how smooth her skin is—and it’s wrong for more reasons than the fact that I have a girlfriend.

Girlfriend. Lauren. Right. Time to go.

I throw the towel at Rachel when she turns her head my direction, laughing when it smacks her in the face.

Hey, I’m gonna take off. Lauren just texted and said she might come over in a bit. Why did I just lie?

She takes her time blotting at the almost-dry sheets and nods, her head down. I can’t read her face. Sounds good.

That’s all she says, even though it’s only nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Usually, when I leave early, she’s trash-talking and asking me if I need to be tucked in. Then again, things haven’t exactly been the same since I started dating Lauren a few months ago. I learned quickly never to mention Lauren’s name in front of Rachel— it appeared to make her uncomfortable. Why was a question I didn’t have an answer for, as it often is when I’m faced with Rachel. Why won’t she say anything? Why won’t she look at me? Why do I care?

I wait some more, willing her to look at me and speak, because for whatever reason, her easy acceptance of my excuse has me wanting to stay.

As per usual, she stays silent and I end up speaking first. You sure? I know we planned to watch a movie.

She nods, throwing the towel to the ground and settling back against her pillows without looking my way. Sure thing, captain. Be safe.

I stand in the doorway for a few seconds longer, waiting for… I don’t know, something, but it never comes, and she never looks my way again. Okay, well, see you later.

Yep.

I walk out while she scrolls through the channels, her head already on the pillow I had been using. Walking home with my hands stuffed into my pockets, I wonder why I just lied to my best friend. And then I wonder why she let me.

Chapter 2

Present

Owning a classic car has its ups and downs. The upside is, if you own one, it means you know how to work on it, or you have the cheddar required to pay someone else to work on it—which is just as important if not as cool. For some reason, girls love a guy with grease on his hands as long as he can wash it off at the end of the day. The second positive aspect of being a classic-car owner: you’re automatically upgraded in the social hierarchy that is high school. You’re not like the majority of other guys out there who drive the hand-me-down Honda, or the overly-pricey suped-up truck that screams compensation.

A classic is just that—vintage, retro, unique, and a little badass.

The downside of owning a classic? It breaks as often as it works, and until you find the free time, you’re without wheels, and therefore, without the ability to get anywhere. Like I am right now.

Betty is my classic Ford truck. She’s broken again, as she has been for most of the month of January. She’s been a work in progress since I bought her. My parents own a garage, and I helped both of my older brothers with their rebuilds when they turned sixteen. I figured my own would be easy. The rebuild wasn’t bad; it’s the maintenance that’s killing me. I play two sports and am getting ready to graduate—free time isn’t of the excess in my life.

I usually don’t have trouble getting a ride. Rachel lives right down the street from me, and my girlfriend, Lauren, is usually free after school. This morning I hitched a ride with my older brother, Tanner; he came over after seven-thirty when I called him and let him know Betty was leaking fluid again. Mom would skin me if I left her in the driveway all day.

Tanner swung by and took me to school on his way to grab the tow. He promised he would get the truck out of the driveway and to the garage. I could work on her this weekend. Which just leaves me without a ride home and a ride to school for the next two days.

Sitting on a bench in the locker room after my shower, wearing a clean pair of sweats and no shirt, I take out my phone and text Rachel to see if her club-volleyball practice is done yet. I would ask Lauren, but I know she’s going to dinner with her friends, and I don’t want to go. If I ask for a ride, she’ll ask me to go—when I say no, she’ll be mad, and I’ll feel guilty. Should I feel guilty for declining an invitation to have dinner with six girls who do nothing but squeal and talk about clothes?

My phone buzzes. I look down to Rachel’s reply—whether she’s still here or not.

Rachel: parking lot about to leave

Me: hold up, I need a ride

Rachel: k

Sexting with your girl, Big T?

Shoving my phone in my bag, I shake my head at our starting guard, Huey; basketball and girls run his life.

Rachel.

Ah, with your other girl. Well, that’s cool. She’s super fine, man. Don’t be afraid to drop my name into a conversation.

I laugh because we both know Rachel requires way more work than Huey has ever put in. She would require conversation and that he remember her name. And, if he got out of line, Rachel wouldn’t hesitate to punch him.

No promises, I tell him and he laughs.

You know I’m kidding. I wouldn’t poach man. Flow’s yours. Hands off.

I shake my head at the nickname that’s followed Rachel since middle school and a public period incident. Yeah, not going there. I always just call her Rachel.

Rachel’s not my girl, Huey. She’s not anyone’s girl. He gives me a look that clearly says I’m lying, but shakes his head as I stand and yank on my long sleeve.

Whatever you say, brother. Whatever you say.

I salute him and walk out of the locker room, not bothering to respond. The hell of it is, and I know this makes me an egotistical asshole, I don’t mind that people keep their distance from Rachel. Which is probably why Lauren hates her so much. Well, that and she knows for one brief period of time, Rachel and I were more than friends.

Yep, remember that promise I made to never touch my best friend so she would remain my best friend? Turns out what I said was ridiculous because should never crossed my mind when I learned about want. And my god did I want her—it was a desire like no other in my life at that time.

My feelings for Rachel are confusing—or not, if you want to get technical. Yes, I feel way more for her than I should as someone who owns the title best friend, but I don’t act on those feelings because I understand that if I do and things go wrong—she feels nothing for me that I feel for her—my life will be worse. I wasn’t lying when I said I needed Rachel. I do need her. I can’t explain it. Rather than take the chance and go for it, I keep my hands off. I’m a little territorial sometimes, but for the most part, I’ve learned to compartmentalize with Rachel. I only acknowledge the things I’m allowed to feel.

She’s my best friend. She and I play video games, we share Sunday-morning runs, and we talk about sports and family. If I think of her like that—my friend with whom all of my greatest interests are shared—the wanting isn’t as heavy or persistent. We don’t mention certain things, like the night we hooked up our Sophomore year, or my relationship with Lauren—mostly because I don’t think either of us wants to look too closely at those things and ruin the balance we’ve learned to maintain in the past few years.

Being with Rachel when we were sixteen and stupid was…unexplainable. Everything got both bigger and smaller until nothing and no one existed outside of my world, except her. When I touched her, I saw everything from who I was then to who I would be in the future. When I finally came up for air, I realized there were no guarantees in life, and that scared the shit out of me. Scarier than that, Rachel gave me nothing: no soft words, no encouragement beyond what we were doing, no guidance as to how much she felt. I was too much of a pussy to risk it. So, I went back to the friend zone, and I’ve added one more compartment to my relationship with Rachel: the night we don’t talk about. Ever.

For almost two years, this has worked. I think part of it is because directly after our worlds collided, I went back to my girlfriend. Cue the gasps and unholy hatred for me—yes, I’m an asshole. Being Rachel, she didn’t take my rejection lying down—at least not alone. When I went back to my girlfriend, Rachel found her own comfort somewhere else, and a couple months later, she got news that trumped even our passionate moment together, news that rocked both our worlds and changed the course of hers forever. While she was dealing with the idea of being a mother at seventeen—nope, baby wasn’t mine—I was dealing with my newfound knowledge that friends was all we would ever be.

We’re eighteen; we’re still best friends, though, admittedly, there are moments where the air between us gets heavy with memories and thoughts and things we can’t and won’t act on or verbalize. But when those moments pass, we’re back to being Rachel and Tripp and the world is right again.

Until something else upsets the balance—like it did a moment ago when I walked out of the locker room to the parking lot and saw her baby daddy hanging around. Nothing and no one upsets the balance of my world more than the guy who stole Rachel’s virginity and sent her world into a tailspin.

Marcus