35 | the girl
At some point during the evening, the atmosphere of the cookout shifted. The sun dipped behind the trees and almost all of the McKennas' guests who weren't high school students drove their fancy cars off to whatever posh part of Boston they resided in. And in their absence, what was previously a covert graduation celebration for the seniors on Cannondale's lacrosse teams had become an actual high school party.
Or, at least what constituted an actual Cannondale party because such parties weren't stereotypical or mainstream. This probably had something to do with the fact that Cannondale students spent the vast majority of our time on campus, so when there was a house party, there was no room for stupidity. The walls of the McKenna's house didn't pulse with metal music. There weren't any wet beer stains on the carpet or empty bottles collecting on any open surface area. I wasn't struggling to push through a crowd of sweaty bodies that reeked of pot.
This was class.
Trip's parents seemed to be well aware of this fact. They had that mischievous yet experienced look of parents who knew how to facilitate forty teenage lacrosse players at their house. I wasn't great at lipreading, but be safe and have fun coming from Mr. McKenna's mouth didn't require much skill.
"At least Macallan has Jameson because otherwise there would be way more FoMO," Kelsey said as the three of us watched Delaney and Shay take on Grayson and Tony D in beer pong in the spacious basement.
Our girls were winning with only two cups left remaining, and I derived great satisfaction from watching Grayson and Tony D bicker about each other's form. It was a half-decent distraction from my tumultuous internal monologue concerning William McKenna III.
"Regardless of her FoMO levels, she's going to cope just fine," I replied, and smirked when Tony D flicked the back of Grayson's head when he missed his shot. "Mac has the room to herself, so it's a no brainer."
Gianna snorted out a laugh. "You've got a dirty mind Chandler."
"It's what I'd do." I shifted my gaze over to Gianna and felt my smirk expand. "I mean, it's already what I do."
An arm fell around my shoulders, but its familiar weight didn't comfort me the way that it had tonight. "What do you already do?" Trip asked.
As promised, he'd returned to my side after presumably diverting the Kirbys' attention away from his father's grill. I was still reeling from my discovery, but I knew when and where not to cause a scene. It was in my best interest to bite my tongue, even if it drew blood.
Unfortunately, that knowledge didn't change the fact that I felt like I'd just endured a serious car accident, but somehow walked away with no visible injuries. All of my bleeding was internal. I would act normal, smiling through the pain, right up until the moment when I coughed up blood. Though in my case, it would be words. It would be a name that I should've known. I didn't know when that moment would be, but it would inevitably happen.
"Find semi-smooth ways to steal you away from your admirers," I replied, deploying my usual coy tone as I reached up to give the hand he had on me a little squeeze.
"You think you're semi-smooth?"
I shrugged with one shoulder. "When I'm not semi-smooth, I'm actually smooth."
Trip chuckled and shook his head. "If that's what you need to tell yourself, Chandler."
"Kelsey and I are going to team up for the next game," Gianna interjected, nodding in the direction of the pong table. "Do you think you can beat us?"
"Absolutely," Trip answered automatically. He then feigned a sympathetic glance towards his friends. "It's only a matter of time before Grayson and Tony D lose."
"To be honest, I'm not really in the mood for games," I said, and twirled myself out of
Trip's one-arm embrace while still holding onto his hand. "I haven't seen your room."
His lips quirked up into an amused grin. "This is true," he replied, and turned to my friends. "Good luck in your game."
"We won't need it, but thank you," Kelsey said, and playfully stuck her tongue out at me as Trip and I turned away.
On the surface, I didn't doubt that everything between Trip and I looked perfectly normal. We were all coy smiles and clever banter, and everyone in our social orbit had become accustomed to that.
As we made our way up to the second floor, we had to stop a few times to briefly engage with our respective teammates. They talked to us about our championship prospects, prom, and how cool it was that the McKennas had gone out to the diner down the street with the Kirbys rather than babysitting us like children. They talked to us like the two of us together made perfect sense, and always would.
Walking into Trip's bedroom was like meeting a version of him that I never knew existed. It was obvious that he'd outgrown this space. I didn't need to look at the array of photographs scattered across various surfaces to know that he wasn't any older than thirteen in any of them. Lingering trophies from soccer and spelling bees and things he no longer did in his life at Cannondale sat beside some of the photos. The stuff that made Trip the boy I knew was at Cannondale - the place he'd lived for the better part of the last few years.
The walls were a blue-ish gray and the furniture all polished dark wood. And it was clean in a way that only a mother could make it. The dorm room that Trip shared with Jameson at Cannondale wasn't a pig sty, but it was what you'd expect from two seventeen -year-old athletes who didn't care about their room aesthetic.
Trip didn't say anything as I scanned the room and eventually found myself approaching the single frame that sat atop the tall dresser. I stopped in front of it and felt my lips twitch. I was looking at a photo of what looked to be a ten-year-old Trip behind the wheel of a firetruck with his mother sitting in the passenger seat.
"It's...interesting having you in my room," Trip finally said.
I kept my back to him, still looking at the photo. "What's so interesting about it?"
"I'm not sure." He gave a faint chuckle as I heard him move towards me. "I guess it could be because it's my room at home. It feels different."
Tearing my gaze away from the photo, I turned around and folded my arms in front of my chest. If I were to extend them in front of me, I could lay them flat against Trip's chest to feel his heart beating through the fabric of his shirt.
"What kind of different?" I whispered for no good reason.
"Just different in general." The tips of his ears turned pink. "I mean, I haven't brought a girl into my childhood bedroom before."
"Oh." I felt my cheeks warm as I drew my hands together in front of me to fidget with my bracelets. Staying still felt like a chore. "I haven't either. Like, not with a boy in that way."
"It's like looking at one of those photos where everything is in black and white except for one thing that's in screaming color."
My lips turned up into a soft smile.
It should have been easy to simply be with Trip and forget to worry about the outside world, even if it was just for a while. But I couldn't. I'd never experienced anything like this before - a stomach-churning, scorching intensity that threatened to consume me and made me want to grab one of the soft-looking pillows off the bed and scream into it.
The line between comfort and chaos was surprisingly razor thin.
As Trip reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I expected the same warm, fluttery feeling I'd experienced dozens of times before to soothe me. It would flood my system any moment now. Any moment now.
But then it happened.
Just as Trip leaned in to kiss me, I succumbed to my internal injuries and blurted out, "The photo of you and your brother and the Obama sign fell off of your poster board. One of your parents wrote your name and date on the back of it."
Trip quirked a smile as he inched back and lowered his hand. He couldn't be more casually composed. "Yeah, Dad usually does that. That one is usually in a scrapbook."
"Your name was on the back."
The pause that followed my words cut me to the core. I was going to bleed out.
"I see." Trip reached behind me to pick the frame up off of the dresser and carefully slipped the photo out of the back. His eyes scanned the few words on the back. "This one is better. He wrote my full name - William Theodore McKenna III."
I forced my brain to skip over the casual incorporation of his middle name. I only had qualms with his first name. His real name.
"But shouldn't your brother be Trip?" I asked, no longer capable of vetting the quality of my questions. I'd taken my foot off the pedal and ripped out the brakes. "I mean, he's the eldest, and it's your dad's name. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?"
"My mom's dad died shortly before my brother was born. His name was Finnegan. My parents aren't slaves to tradition."
"Okay," I replied with a nod. I understood this specific explanation, but that wasn't what I cared about. "I didn't know your name was William, Trip."
"And you needed to know? Nobody at Cannondale calls me William. Hell, even my school email is [email protected], " Trip responded with a subtle edge in his voice that I'd heard only a few times before. This time it came in the form of an accusation.
"But I'm not just some nobody from Cannondale!'' I exploded. ''I'm your girlfriend, and I guess I just expected you to be honest about your name with me. I mean, it's your name, not some top secret alias that you can't disclose!"
Trip failed to deflect the brunt force of my words and took a few steps away from me. In the absence of his close proximity, a coldness nipped at my skin.
Suddenly antsy, I moved to sit at the foot of his bed with my hands in my lap. However, there was something unsettling about this new positioning with Trip standing in front me that established a disproportionate dynamic. I felt like a child waiting to be told off by someone wiser and irreproachable.
Finally, Trip looked at me with his shoulders squared. "Okay, so while we're on the topic of honesty, I might as well mention that I'm at Cannondale on a full academic scholarship." He paused, and time slowed down. Everything about this moment was fragile and electric. I had just enough foresight to know what was coming next, but not enough courage to speak up before he continued, "But you've known that for some time."
"No, I haven't."
He dragged a hand through his hair as he heaved out an impatient sigh that seemed to move through his entire body. "Please don't insult my intelligence, Chandler."
"I'm not!" I blurted out, jolting in place as if I'd received an electric shock. "This wasn't what I wanted - I didn't know how I was supposed to..."
My vocabulary glitched. Words failed to cooperate the way I wanted them to - the way I needed them to. It was then that I realized with alarming clarity that there was nothing I could say at this moment that would sum up the months I spent emotionally crippled by uncertainty over how to have this very conversation.
"Supposed to...what? Tell me something that I already know?" Trip's calm and measured voice cornered my guilty conscience. "Or tell me something that my friend said behind my back? Take your pick."
I would say anything Trip wanted, but I'd become such a liar that even the truth tasted bitter in my mouth. I was so guilty that I felt sick. I looked down into my hands, half expecting to cough up blood.
"I'm sorry."
Those two words were the only two words I could say. In denying nothing, I revealed everything.
A bout of silence reigned the space between us for what felt like the longest few moments of my life. Even though the faint sounds of the party downstairs found their way through the closed door, I suspected I would still be able to hear a hairpin hit the hardwood floor.
"Look at me, Chandler," Trip finally said.
And I did.
Of course, I did.
But it was strange because I'd never found it hard to look at Trip. Not when his presence had a gravitational pull and he shined hypnotizingly bright.
Yet now, right at this moment, looking at Trip in the dim light of his room felt like having the wind knocked out of me. It hurt in a breathless way in which the lack of oxygen derailed my thoughts and sent my head spinning.
But I still looked at him, unshed tears distorting my vision. And even though he stood directly in front of me, I couldn't see him clearly. Everything that I thought I knew had fallen out of view.
"If you'd asked me about my name, I would've told you."
"And was I supposed to ask you about being on a scholarship?" I retorted, shooting up onto my feet. Standing was overwhelmingly difficult, but maybe it would resurrect some of my confidence. "Why am I being crucified for not asking about something inherently personal, but detached from our relationship? You never told me, and it's not like I'm going to start a financial inquiry based on a reckless insult."
"I'm not crucifying you. It's just that you've made this and too many other things far more complicated than they need to be," Trip said, and the conviction in his voice effectively ended our conversation before he was halfway to the door. "I need to go downstairs. It's my party, and I've been gone long enough." His hand was on the door handle when he turned around, despondent. "Stay as long as you need."
He didn't close the door all the way, but he might as well have slammed it in my face. I counted every step he took away from me until they became inaudible. If this was a movie, maybe I would've chased after him. If this was a movie, maybe I should've started crying. If this was a movie, I could've avoided all of this months ago.
But I didn't know how to fight with Trip, and I had no experience from my sixteen years to help me navigate a situation like this one. I thought I knew where we were going, but now I couldn't be sure.
✘ ✘ ✘
I didn't see Trip downstairs and I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him. Heartache and my shattered pride threatened to tear me apart, and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep it all bottled up for much longer. I couldn't stand myself or stand to stay at this party.
I spotted Gianna and Kelsey just as they stepped out of the hall bathroom, giggling about god only knows what. While there was a part of me that wanted to come clean and tell them what had just happened, I didn't want to ruin their night with my self-inflicted chaos. I held onto my feelings the most when they began to wear thin.
Before they could step into the kitchen, I threw myself in front of Gianna to issue the first believable excuse that I could muster. ''Could I borrow your keys? I left my extra tampons in the backseat.''
''Hello to you too, Chan!" Gianna dipped a manicured hand into her handbag. A few moments later, she fished her car keys out by the leather strap of the Louis Vuitton keychain, but didn't immediately hand them over. ''I saw you and Trip go upstairs, so I didn't think I'd see-''
''I'd love to stay and chat, but I might actually be bleeding out right now,'' I interrupted and held out my right hand with my palm facing upward.
Gianna's expression shifted from coy to quizzical, but she set her keys in my hand, and cold relief washed over me.
''I might have one, Chan,'' Keley piped up. ''My bag's over at the table, so I'll just go-"
I waved her off and put as much distance between myself and them as I could without being rude. "Nope. It's fine, really. I'll be right back."
The moment the words left my lips, I knew I'd lied. I had no intention of coming right back. In fact, I had no intention of coming back at all as I planned to call Dad to come pick me up. The initial plan was for the three of us girls to spend the night at Gianna's house, but I knew he'd treat this as an ask questions later type of situation.
Outside, the air was warm and a gentle breeze shifted through the newly green leaves. I walked out the side gate that we'd entered from, down the length of the driveway, and didn't stop until I reached Gianna's car. After fumbling with her keys and smashing the unlock button a few more times than necessary, I launched myself into the back row to lie flat on my back. My chest heaved as though I'd just played an entire lacrosse game, and I closed my eyes to pretend that this was all just a bad dream. It could have been five minutes or fifty, but I wasn't willing to look at my phone in fear of seeing a message from Trip to tell me that everything had come down to nothing.
Eventually, I summoned the willpower to text Dad and inform him that I'd suddenly taken ill for reasons unrelated to alcohol consumption or drama of any kind. Once I received confirmation that he would be here within the next half hour, I forced myself to exit the car. As much as I wanted to stay far away from the McKenna house, I knew my absence was conspicuous.
I'd just locked the car when I became aware of another person's presence, their cologne unmistakably familiar.
''This looks interesting.''
I pinched the bridge of my nose as I turned towards the owner of the snarky voice. Grayson Kirby was the last person I wanted to talk to right now. I was mildly surprised to find him with a dying cigarette lodged between two of his fingers.
"You smoke?" It was a stupid question, but I wanted to evade a conversation about why I was alone and looking like I'd just had my heart incinerated.
Grayson inspected the cigarette with resigned disdain occupying his features. "I thank the good Lord for my nicotine addiction and bad taste in girls everyday."
"I'm not judging you," I attempted to assure him, hoping I might be able to persuade him to go away.
Grayson dashed my hopes by leaning against the car door and offering up a shrug. "Even if you were, I wouldn't care. I'm not fiending for your approval, though I doubt many people are these days." He closed out his insult by taking a long drag from his cigarette.
"I'm not in the mood to field your petty insults, so I suggest you go take your smoke break elsewhere."
My words lacked their usual bite, but they still seemed to snag Grayson's interest. He looked me up and down as though I was a puzzle with one piece missing. He could still understand the entire picture without actually seeing it.
"Trip's told you, hasn't he?'' Grayson asked, dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. "About what I said to you at Winter Formal."
"How long has he known?" I countered. I had no obligation to answer his questions.
"I told him after you left for Nantucket. It was a shit thing for me to say, and I finally found the balls to tell him about it because I'd rather he heard it from me than you.'' An emotion I couldn't name flickered across Grayson's features, illuminated by the glow of the streetlight. ''He's my best friend, always has been, and you're...you're the epitome of the girl."
"The girl?" I scoffed out.
"Yeah, the girl,'' Grayson confirmed with a weary nod. ''There's always a girl...or a guy. Someone who can eclipse every other relationship for a while but eventually goes away. Enjoy the party, England."
Words evaded me as I struggled to process Grayson's response. He wasn't a poet or prophet by any means, but he'd rendered me speechless nonetheless. I also suspected that even if I'd found the words, there would be no point in arguing with him. I'd railed at him for disrespecting Trip, and all the while, I'd done the same thing.
This realization only amplified my heartache. I was the only person left to point a finger at.
✘ ✘ ✘
no thoughts, just ouch
but also quick note - thank you to everyone who's still reading and more importantly voting! it's been a wild 2 years of sharing this story and i'm uncharacteristically sentimental as the end approaches 🤍
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