I’m wondering what she could have possibly found in that house that I’d want, when she flings a tiny, perfectly round red ball at me. Catching it on instinct, it takes a minute for me to place it. “Is this the fucking bobble from your sweater last Christmas?”
“I told you that you’d fall for her. You did. Hard enough you changed your entire name. I think I more than won that bet, Archie.”
“Trips. Trips Bergan McElroy.”
She struts toward the kitchen. “Sounds good on you, middlest brother mine.”
“You’re so weird.”
“Takes one to know one.”
She pushes into the kitchen, leaving me on the couch with a cotton pom-pom in my palm, evidence of how much can change in a year.
For good or bad.
But I have to believe it’s mostly good. Once we clean up our last few frayed threads.
Chapter 71
Clara
After we dropped Mattie off, bought RJ a ridiculous gaming set-up, and went back home, Jansen shoved me in the bathroom and told me to get ready for the party. By the time I was primped and polished, a garment bag had appeared on my bed with a note pinned to it.
Jansen had promised this was going to be a low-key evening, and RJ had made him swear he wasn’t planning anything crazy, but a garment bag makes me wonder how seriously Jansen’s taking that promise.
It’s hard to tell with Jansen. It always was. But either what we lived through, what he survived, or his new meds have shifted something in him.
It’s the same thing I see in all of us, if I’m honest. We’ve grown up.
And as much as Jansen will continue to bring his brand of crazy fun to the table, there’s a thread under the levity—onethat whispers that this isn’t just him being himself anymore, but a choice he’s making, forcing everyone to be a little less serious. I’m not sure if it’s a good change, a bad one, or just change in general.
What I do know is that I still love him. He spent half the shopping trip singing along with the music playing over the speakers and coaxing me into a goofy dance/tag game he made up on the spot that ended when an employee asked us to knock it off. The rest of the time, he just held my hand, not even letting go when it came time to pay, even though he looked like a loon getting his card out one-handed.
I haven’t felt that light in months. He gifted me that lightness, and that’s magic all on its own.
God, I love all these guys so much, it feels like my heart might explode from being too full. Curling up in my bed, surrounded by all their familiar scents and sounds has healed some cracks in my soul.
Even though the shape of it is different now. A bit squashed, if I’m being honest. But it’s not bleeding anymore, and for that I’m so grateful.
Opening the envelope pinned to the bag should be easy, but my nerves still aren’t what they were. It reminds me of Bryce’s letters. RJ mentioned he’d continued sending them while I was at that hellish estate, and it pisses me off. He was corrupting Mattie but still threatening me. Why I ever thought he was a good guy will have me questioning my judgement for the rest of my life. Poor girl. Poor me.
So, with shaking hands, I tear the envelope open, finding a card with a painted mask on the front. Strangely, I cantell Walker did the art, and my anxiety disappears. I run my fingers over the picture, surprised to find that it’s watercolor.
I discovered Walker’s new obsession with painting just yesterday, the wall-to-wall mural in his room leaving me breathless. The weight of it felt like I was living inside the raging emotions he’d been so careful to mask from me in those longing looks across a lobby. So much pain, fear, and worry expressed in a place he can hide. I’d held on to him extra tight last night, and he’d held on to me just as tightly. He might struggle with his words, but his art has never held any secrets from me.
RJ, meanwhile, has been so careful around me, like he’s scared that I don’t want him anymore. I can’t figure out how to prove how much I love him, how a future without him would never be a possibility for me. I hope that celebrating his birthday might help with that.
But I also know that I might just as well get overwhelmed tonight or have one of those waves of grief that swamp me, sending me running from the room. Or even the heavy burden of my conscience, whispering that I’m not worth all this love, not after the things I’ve done. My mind has been a mess, for all I want to pretend everything’s fine and settle into a life with my guys. Finding a therapist is on my ‘get my life back together’ list, but I’m not up for addressing the things on that page of my notebook yet. Hell, I’m not even ready for the ‘fun things that make life worthwhile’ list.
Unable to put off opening the card any longer and not wanting to venture where my thoughts are taking me, I flip it open.
I’m surprised by Trips’ handwriting on the inside.
More than a year ago, we got this for no other reason than Summer said you looked great in it. But life went to shit before we could find a reason to see you wear it. So instead of looking for a reason, we’re making one. Tonight is black tie, for all it’ll just be us fuckers drinking and wondering how long we have to wait to see you OUT of this dress.
There’s no salutation, no ‘Love Trips,’ and somehow the absence is perfect.
We. As in all of them.
