Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Out loud.
To Tripp.
Silence stretches between us. I move uncomfortably, unable to stay still. Why isn’t he speaking, and more importantly, why the fuck did I say that? I can’t sort through what’s happening to me, why I’m here with him, and why truths are spilling out, why I told Dusty he could tell Morgan about the stools.
My head spins, my vision blurry. This isn’t me. I’m not supposed to be like this. This is exactly what Dad didn’t want for me and—
“Rhett, look at me.”
Tripp’s deep voice stops my spiraling, and I don’t even pretend I’m not going to do what he says because I can’t not look at him—can’t not see the disgust or disappointment he probably feels about me talking to him this way. At least…those are the things I’d expect from my father.
I meet his blue gaze. See the wrinkles of concentration around his eyes and the curiosity in his stare.
“Who are you?” he asks, and again, in this strange new world I’ve found myself in, honesty spills out.
“I don’t know.” Which is wrong on so many levels. I’m almost forty years old, and I’m fucking lost…but this, what I’m doing today, feels like some of the trees parted, showing me a new path, one that had been right there but I couldn’t reach.
Tripp gives a sad smile. “We’re gonna have to figure that out.”
“We?” How weird is it that I’ve never felt like a we with anyone before, not even Lori. I can’t figure out why we got married in the first place. Maybe because we were both so driven, the type who made a commitment and followed through, so marriage seemed the logical step.
But this isn’t the same. Tripp isn’t the same. I’m not sure what this we with him means, but I want it, want it the same way I crave building and creating.
“Yes,” he replies.
“I’m fucked up. I’m probably not who you believe I’m going to be.”
“I imagine you feel that way, but I don’t think for a second that’s true. I like you, Rhett. I want to spend more time with you, want to get to know you, want to see what you do when you give yourself permission.”
I look away. “I want that too.”
*
My body aches by the end of our workday, but I’ve never felt better. Tripp and I didn’t talk about anything earthshattering the rest of the day, but we did laugh. He told me stories about Meadow, and his family, and wild shit he and Archer got up to when they were younger.
I mostly listened and asked questions because my stories aren’t the same as his. Archer is to Tripp what Dusty has always been to Morgan—only without the romantic love. Since I’ve never had an Archer or a Dusty, I don’t have those same experiences, but I do share a few things from my college days, which was the closest to freedom I’ve ever had until now.
“Tomorrow at eight?” I ask when we’re standing by his truck.
“Yeah. I take Meadow to school, and then I’ll head right over.”
“I’ll bring you a coffee,” I tell him, then can’t help wondering if that was the right thing to say.
I hope he doesn’t argue, kind of need him not to, and I’m granted that wish when Tripp says, “All right. Thanks for that.” Halfway to my truck, he stops me. “Oh, hey. What’s your favorite season?”
“Huh?”
“Your favorite season. What is it?”
I remember what he said about asking me questions, and I literally have to bite down on the inside of my cheeks not to smile. It’s so wild that he’s still doing this, that he really wants to know these things about me. “Late summer to early fall.”
“Why those months specifically?”
“It’s the best time to see monarch butterflies.”
I hope he doesn’t ask for an explanation, and in true Tripp fashion, he seems to read my mind. Instead, he pulls out his phone and smirks. I take that to mean he’s adding it to his list about me. I give him a quick nod in response, then continue to my truck.
I’m both jittery and achy on the drive home. Today was incredible. No better word comes to mind. I grin, which might make me look a little wild to anyone who sees me. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight because I just want tomorrow to arrive so I can start over again.
But when I pull into my driveway, I notice Morgan’s vehicle in front of my house, and I know Dusty must have told him.
I kill the engine, then bang my head on the steering wheel a couple of times. I don’t think I have the energy to do this today, but it needs to be done. I don’t know how to talk to Morgan. He doesn’t know how to talk to me either. Most of the time, our words end in an argument, one or both of us walking away angry. I assume Morgan doesn’t have anything bad to say, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find a way to get there. The two of us are good at that, and East…shit, East has been in the middle of it most of his life, hasn’t he?