Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Did he date?”
“No—those poor high school girls couldn’t even get him to take them to the dance, not for lack of calling. Oy if our phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.”
Roger Wallace sits in the row ahead of us, glued to the game, but glances back every so often.
“There was one time a young woman named Cara stopped by the house—we lived in town near enough to the school so kids would pop in from time to time, mostly boys.” Sip, sip of wine. “Well Cara comes to the door, and Tripp happens to be home, and she has made him a lovely cake in the school’s colors—red and black—and hands it to him when he comes to the door.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘What’s this for?’ And Cara replied, ‘I wanted to wish you luck in your game this weekend.’ Then he handed it back to her and said, ‘I don’t need luck.’ And came back inside the house.”
“He just left her standing outside?”
Sip sip. “Yes, on the porch in the cold. Shut the door on her. As a mother, I didn’t know what on earth to do—go back out and apologize for my rude son? Take the cake? Lecture him about being kind? It was all very horrifying.”
That sounds exactly like the Tripp I know and the number one reason I laid him out on the ground at the wedding.
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.