“Sounds intriguing,” Tripp says blithely—interested, but nottoointerested. “I’m listening.”
“The situation over there in Westlake is a bit delicate,” Griggs says, a conspiratorial grin spreading over his villainous face. “So here’s what you need to understand—”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck yes.I want to pump my fists in the air, victorious.
“I think we got ’em,” I can’t help but call out to Holly over the headset. “Deal’s going down, and Griggs is about to spill.”
Holly starts to reply, but her words are drowned out by none other than Virginia, striding across the lawn, crying out, “There you are!” I’m too dumbstruck to react, much less stop her as she steps down to the courtyard below, where the men are assembled. “We’ve been lookingeverywherefor you.” A youngman trails after her in a black football jersey, the phraseMEAN MACHINEstitched in red over a white number 18.
Tripp reaches out a hand to the newcomer, his voice dropping to a deep baritone as he recites what must be a line from a movie, “We may not have the most talented team, but we’ll definitely have the meanest.”
“Who we gonna crush?” the guy calls back.
“The guards!” Tripp exclaims in response, as both burst into laughter. “I loved that damn movie,The Longest Yard.”
“I knew you’d hit it off.” Virginia claps in delight. “This is Little Shuggy. Remember? I told you about him at the derby party?”
I clutch the railing with sweaty hands, trying to steady myself. How can this be happening? Why is Shuggs here?
“Your cousin, right?” Tripp’s eyes go wide, but he still manages to paste on a welcoming smile. “I thought you were off on a European adventure.”
“Had to cut it short,” Shuggs says. “Turns out they don’t love Americans who carve Greek letters into walls in Pompeii.”
“You didn’t,” Virginia exclaims, aghast.
“Hell no,” he replies. “I’ve got better sense than that. But my buddy Tabs, not so much.”
The whole crowd laughs in a shared understanding that boys will be boys, and on occasion, they’re entitled to a little bail money. Meanwhile, I’m sweating buckets and my mind is racing to catch up. Little Shuggy was decidedlynotpart of our surgically stitched plan for this evening. I force my nerves to remain calm and think clearly: How can I remove Virginia and her cousin from the picture before they inadvertently blow up our scheme?
“Sorry to hear,” Tripp says, laughing as he grasps hands with Tripp, then pumps twice. “I’m Tripp Bedford.”
Shuggs’s head tilts sideways. “Tripp Bedford?” he asks, his laughter dying off as he grasps hands with Trip. “From Ole Miss?” He releases Tripp’s hand.
“The very one,” Virginia adds, stepping beside Tripp, resting one hand on his bicep.
“Theodore Reynolds Bedford the Third,” Tripp says, his voice faltering slightly.
Shuggs stares at him, confused.
I blink repeatedly, a sense of foreboding rising from deep in my gut. My pulse quickens as I take in Shuggs’s mystified expression. He cuts his gaze to his grandfather, the judge, then back to Tripp. “I don’t know who you are, man,” he says, more certain this time. “But you’re not the Tripp Bedford whose family is from Greenwood—the guy whose grandfather everyone calls ‘The Colonel.’?”
I watch, panic-stricken, as if having an out-of-body experience.
“What do you mean?” Virginia asks, her tone still light, half laughing at her cousin’s confusion. “Of course he is.”
“I’ve met Tripp Bedford,” Shuggs tells his cousin. “Last fall, at an Ole Miss alumni event for premed students.” Then to the judge, he says, “He’s one of those Doctors Without Borders types—was on his way back to some jungle in Cambodia. But he gave me his contact info, said he’d write me a letter if I decide on Bama for med school.” Shuggs pulls out his phone, begins to scroll.
My stomach bottoms out. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Even from a distance, I can sense the tension building below. The friendly banter has vanished, replaced by a shroud of suspicion and hostility.
“Oh, I know that guy,” our Tripp says dismissively, an attempt at regaining control. “People always confuse the two of us.” He removes his phone from his suit, too, pretending to scroll, surely buying himself some time. “I’m pretty sure I have a picture of us together. At a frat party, way back when.”
There’s no such photo. I know because I would’ve been the one to create it. Why the hell didn’t I think of it before?
“So, you’re a Phi Delt, too?” Shuggs asks, still befuddled.
“Sure am,” our Tripp says, trying his best to project confidence. I recall all that Holly has taught him about the fraternity and start to feel the tiniest flicker of hope that this will get back on track.
“Well, then, we can clear this up right now—” Jim Wade says, gesturing to Ol’ Mags.
