The universe has a funny sense of humor.
She changes the subject. “What are you doing today? How has it been working with your dad?”
I pick up a pen and tap it on the desktop idly, then sit back in the chair, tipping it so I can stare at the ceiling. “It’s boring—fine. Dad is way more chill than Uncle Thomas, that’s for sure—no offense.”
“Dad wears buttoned-up collared shirts to play tennis in the backyard.” She snorts. “The man hasn’t laughed in thirty years.”
I lower my voice to say, “I’m still looking for something in public relations—I’d love to do PR for, say, an author or something. Or marketing for a start-up, promotions and parties, but man, no one is hiring right now—at least, not unless I’m willing to be an intern and work for free.”
Hollis hums in agreement. “Lots of budget cuts. The economy is in the shitter.” I can hear someone enter her workspace, the conversation muffled before she returns to our chat. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. Is there anything you want me to do? Put feelers out here? I’m sure someone here owes me a favor. Or maybe my dad would be willing—”
“I don’t want someone handing me another job. I want to find one on my own. I hate the whole nepotism thing. I just wish I had more money saved up so I could start my own little company.”
“Chandler.” Hollis sighs. “I know you have money set aside from Grandma.”
“I’m talking about my money—the money I earned.”
“Why are you so difficult? What difference does it make where it came from if it’s helping you fund your dream? You’re going to be stuck at that boring job forever! Our dads aren’t going to want to see you go, Chan. They want the business to stay in the family.”
Translation: They’re never going to pay you enough that you can save and strike out on your own, and they’re not going to promote you into the marketing department.
Experience ensures that I’m going to quit and my father knows it.
Asshole.
Granted, he’s not as big a douche as my uncle—Hollis’s dad—but they’re cut from the same cloth and that cloth is a napkin.
“Alright. Well if you change your mind…” Her voice trails off. “When are you going to see Tripp again?” she asks. Then, “God, I cannot believe it—you and Tripp. That’s insane to me.”
“Why?”
Her hum lets me know she’s mulling it over. “I wouldn’t call the two of you opposites, but he’s so…I don’t know. He’s crabby a lot. I think there’s a lot of pressure on him to be manly and badass and he lets that pressure affect his mood wayyy too much.”
“Macho complex.” I nod in agreement. “I can see that.”
“I wouldn’t call you sweet, exactly. Nice? He’s not used to a woman like you.”
“What kind of woman is he used to then?” I already know the answer to this and what she’s about to say.
“The kind that hangs around at the stadium after the game. Or in the parking lot. Or at the clubs where they have parties—he doesn’t go out much, so those are the only women in front of him.” Hollis thinks for a few seconds. “I doubt he’s ever been on a dating app or let himself be set up on a blind date.”
I laugh at the idea of him on Tinder. “God, can you imagine the things he would say if he was on an app? Or what his bio would say?”
“I would pay to see what his bio would say.” Hollis clears her throat. “Tripp, 28. Former college athlete. Horrible flirt, terrible boyfriend. Seeks warm body, not one for small talk. Hates smiling and laughing. Must love dogs.”
“Whoa. You know him well.”
“Too well. Tripp is basically Buzz, but grouchier.”
That makes me feel better. “So he has potential?”
“Yes, but you can’t fall in love with the idea of someone’s potential, Chandler—you’ll only end up heartbroken.”
I let that sentence repeat itself on a loop over and over in my head long after our phone call has ended.
You can’t fall in love with the idea of someone’s potential.
That’s not what I’m doing, is it?NineteenTripp“Hey, Mr. Wallace. Rough day?”
I drop the bag of groceries I’m holding at the sound of Molly’s voice, startled, and curse as my crisp apples roll across the hardwood floor.
“Jesus Christ, kid, you can’t just scare the shit out of a person like that!” My heart races at a hundred miles an hour, so fast I can feel the pulse in my throat. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
The teenager shrugs, stirring a bowl at my kitchen counter, two cookie sheets laid out, along with your basic baking ingredients: butter, flour, sugar, chocolate chips.
“I know the code to the garage.”
Oh. Duh.
“Just because you know the damn code doesn’t mean you get to come and go as you please.” I don’t remember needing her to walk the dog. I only had practice today, having no game tonight.