Page 18 of Wild Card
But this? Tripp’s dad? The universe really decided to fuck me on this one.
“I’m gonna go make some introductions. You good if I leave you here?” Tripp tosses an arm over my shoulder, tugging me toward him in a side hug before dropping a casual kiss on my hair. But all I can do is watch Bash. Slashes of heat appear on his cheeks as his gaze follows his son. He flinches when Tripp kisses me, then he turns his head away from us.
I try to will the tension out of my shoulders. I don’t want Tripp to notice how uncomfortable I am. It’s not as though I’ve done anything wrong, but explaining that night to him? Any explanation would seem trite—it wouldn’t do it justice.
“Of course.” I nod quickly, a light tremor in my voice.
Bash’s brow lifts, and I see him peek at me out of the corner of my eye. Tripp doesn’t notice my discomfort at all. Instead, he just grips Bash’s shoulder and leads him away into the crowd.
To the outside observer, it would appear that I’m staring at the guy I showed up here with.
But they would be wrong.
I’m staring at his dad.
I flit through the party, making small talk with strangers whose names I won’t remember when I wake up tomorrow morning.
It’s beyond painful. This couldn’t be further from my scene if it tried. I’m wearing a thrifted silk dress with no label, while across the lawn, there is literally a woman in a Chanel pencil skirt and matching blazer. Her heels sink in the grass with each step, and I watch her adjust her stride, walking on her tiptoes to make it look like the ground isn’t swallowing her feet.
Everything about these people and this place is an illusion.
Luckily, my leather slides do me just fine as I make my way toward an empty cocktail table on the lawn. It’s covered in a stretchy, pale-blue tablecloth, which makes it feel like a party for a little boy, not a grown professional athlete. But then, the way his mom treats him is downright childlike. Like she shot him out of her vagina to songbirds chirping, a double rainbow arching across the sky, as the hospital staff erupted into a celebratory flash mob dance.
Before today I didn’t realize that Tripp is a full-fledged mama’s boy. And not in the way that means he respects and speaks highly of her. No. Instead he borderline reverts to being a little boy around her.
Suffice it to say, it’s been a weird day. I chuckle dryly as I sit, taking in the party around me. There must be over a hundred people here, and I feel like a total outsider. But it doesn’t botherme. I take it in all the same. I love to travel, to learn and experience different cultures.
And this is just that.A cultural experience.
Tripp and I have been casually seeing each other for a few months. We met when I taught yoga and mindfulness classes for his team during the playoffs. He was charming and determined and seemed like a fun time. He asked me out after every class, and I finally caved on the fifth attempt and said yes.
During the season, he was frequently on the road, and that worked fine for me. I don’t want or need to spend every waking hour with him. I’ve always had a wanderer’s spirit, moving from city to city and filling in at different studios. Settling down is low on my to-do list, and Tripp seemed like a perfectly passable Mr. Right Now.
But now the season has ended, and he’s around. A lot. Possibly too much for my taste.
This always happens to me. I meet someone who seems great, and then they slowly start to annoy me. They get attached more quickly than I do, and I end up feeling locked in, tied down,stuck.
I start envisioning myself as my mother, trapped in a house with her babies and no possibilities on the horizon.
And I run.
At twenty-seven years old, I have figured out this much out about myself. I know it’s not healthy, but I own it all the same. Which is why I’ve been clear with Tripp about where we stand. He knows I have no intention of staying in Vancouver, that I’m here for a good time, not a long time.
So the way he’s trotting me out and introducing me to everyone as his girlfriend feels strangely performative.
Before today, I hadn’t met his parents, and truthfully, there’s been nothing relationship-like about our setup. Him introducing me as his fuck buddy would be a lot more accurate. But instead,he picked me up in his expensive sports car with a laundry list of rules about how to act around his parents.
It would seem that, with the Colemans, perception reigns supreme.
Especially considering he told me his biological dad was a deadbeat who left his mom when he found out she was pregnant.
I glance toward the sprawling house to see Tripp and Bash walking back in my direction. Side by side, I can see the similarities.
It makes me think of that night. My shoulder pressed against Bash’s, gliding backward on the motorized walkway as he recounted the story of the child he never knew existed. Now that story sours my stomach. Because despite all my hurt feelings around Bash…I know what I saw that night in the airport. The grief that touched every square inch of his body.
And the sanitized storyline Tripp fed me is too damn convenient. Turning Bash into the villain makes the Colemans look mature and gracious, downright hospitable to even welcome him into their home. I know that was my first thought when Tripp told me his biological dad was coming today. And now he’s parading him around, introducing him to people and acting like including him makes Tripp worthy of nomination for sainthood.
It’s bizarre. It’s cruel. And it’s alie.
