He laughed, “That bitch!”
I laughed, too. “I know, right? But the stupid thing meant so much to me.” I caught the raised brow he shot me and explained, “I was eight. Humor me. Anyway, I was such a little pain in the ass about it, asking my mother every day if she’d gotten around to buying it for me. She gave me every lame excuse in the book: not being able to find one, how she was doing her best to scour the stores but striking out, blah, blah, blah. The thing was, I told her that Debbie had gotten hers at the Bradlees right across town.” I ignored the bite that had crept into my tone and just continued rambling. “This went on for weeks and weeks. I couldn’t understand what the problem was. I mean, it was such a simple thing: Go to the store. Buy the lunchbox. It took me years to realize she just couldn’t pull herself together long enough to go get the damned thing.”
Trip’s face was pensive, and I started in again before it could turn sympathetic. “She wasn’t well, my mother. I know that now,” I said softly, feeling Trip’s hand tighten on mine.
My voice had started to shake, the memory turning sour as I continued, “Anyway, years later, right before she left, we’d gotten into some stupid fight or something. I don’t even remember what it was about. I don’t know why, but I brought up how she’d never gotten around to buying me that freaking lunchbox and threw that fact right in her face. Four years later! Like it even mattered anymore.”
I was still trying to make light of it, but the true depravity of the situation spilled out when I added, “Actually, that’s the last time I remember talking to her.”
Trip said nothing through my babbling. I ignored the sting of tears behind my eyes, trying like hell—and failing—to reel myself in. My laugh was a bit maniacal as I forced out a joking tone and delivered the punchline acidly, “The most ridiculous part is, somehow, I managed to tie all of my obvious abandonment issues into that stupid lunchbox. I still can’t watch the goddamned show whenever I come across it on TV, and it used to be my favorite. I have it all moshed together in my mind. Like her unconditional love was personified by a fucking Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox. A stupid, piece of shit-”
“Layla…”
“No. Don’t.”
I let go of his hand and gave a quick swipe to my eyes, embarrassed that I’d gone off on such an indulgent tangent. I’d started the story as an attempt at levity, but in telling it, registered how pathetic it really was.
“I don’t even know how we got into this. I’m sorry. Here you are all laid up, and I’m whining about something that happened a million years ago.”
“You still haven’t seen her?”
“No. And I really don’t care if I ever do. And that’s the truth, I swear.”
I didn’t know where the big rant had come from. Something about seeing Trip as the teenage boy I once knew just opened up all the old wounds. Besides, he was always a really good listener.
It was definitely time to change the subject. I took a cleansing breath and switched gears. “So… Sandy... is she your publicist or your assistant?”
Trip was still looking at me cautiously, his eyes brimming with a compassion I didn’t want to acknowledge. After a moment, he splayed his hand palm-side-up on the bed, and I slipped mine back into it. It was enough.
“Both, actually,” he answered.
“Seems like an uncommon arrangement.”
“It is. But there aren’t too many people I can trust out there, and Sandy was already my assistant when I realized I was going to need a publicist, too. It’s a position she’s more suited for and way more interested in. She offered to play double-duty until she can whip Hunter into shape to take over the assistant role.”
He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, working out a kink and said, “Okay. Enough about my job. Tell me everything. How’s the old gang from St. Norman’s?”
I was able to give a chuckle and answered, “Well, I already told you about Lisa and Pick… Let’s see… Cooper is still down in Maryland, gunning for a junior partner position at his law firm. I haven’t talked to Sargento in forever, and Rymer is… well, Rymer. He still lives in town. I see him every once in a while. Oh! And there’s a reunion next October.”
Trip’s eyes started to look sleepy, but he responded, “Oh yeah? Jesus, ten years.”
“That seems to be the collective reaction.”
He smiled dazedly, and I figured the meds were finally catching up with him. I released his hand and told him, “Hey. I think I’m going to head out now. You need the rest.”
There was a silent pause between us, a recap of the day’s events, a reluctance to say goodbye. But what else could we do? It was time to get back to the real world. “Take care of that skull though, okay?”