Which, I guess, in a way, I kinda was.
There were a few times Trip would crack and start tearing up again, normally at the sight of a particularly close friend of his dad’s or a family member he hadn’t seen in years.
But when Lisa and Pickford strolled through the door, he positively broke.
The boys didn’t hesitate to throw their arms around each other, Trip just crumbling against his old buddy Pickford. The two of them used to have quite the bromance back in the day, and the passage of time obviously hadn’t done anything to break that bond.
Lisa and I held hands as the tears ran down our cheeks. It was so amazing to have the four of us in the same room again, even if the circumstances weren’t quite so ideal. But having us all there was exactly what Trip needed in that moment. What he’d needed for years.
I was lost in that thought as a familiar voice behind me said, “Aww. You two faggots finally making it official?”
We all stopped for a beat and turned to find Rymer standing there, giving us the finger and wearing a wide grin. At a wake.
Trip was the first to crack up. “Rymer, you compassionate bastard!”
We all laughed as those two hugged hello, breaking the serious vibe of the moment.
Rymer and his filterless mouth. Thank God for him.
*
The repast was at the Wilmingtons’ house. The burial was set for the following day, but the cemetery was way out on Long Island, so Mrs. W., Claudia and Trip intended to make it a private affair. Originally, they’d planned to have the dinner at the country club one town over, but that idea was squelched once they realized the press had caught wind of the news. The club sent all the food over to the private estate instead, escorted by their entire waitstaff.
Mrs. Wilmington entertained everyone in the solarium at the back of the house. It was a large room with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the rolling, snow-covered lawn of the backyard. I’d only been to the house twice in my life, and both times, I’d never made it past the foyer. It was interesting to finally get to see the full layout of the place. But even from my incomplete glimpse, the house turned out to be just as huge and imposing as my memories. I had a stab of guilt at how comfortable I felt, knowing Mr. Wilmington wouldn’t be lurking in some darkened hallway with a jab at the ready.
Trip refused to let me leave his side, and if I wasn’t so thrilled about it, I would have felt a little smothered. But after all those years apart, I was anxious to make up for all the time we’d lost. I guessed he was, too.
Eventually, he led the five of us into a parlor off the main room, ditching his jacket over the back of a couch before slumping to sit down on it. Just the simple act of watching Trip unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his black shirt up to his elbows was enough to liquefy my insides. I knew I was supposed to be focusing on the solemnity of the day, but my stomach wasn’t cooperating, flipping uncontrollably at the sight of Trip lounged out on the sofa. He was pure, unadulterated male sitting there.
He was wearing his hair a bit longer than usual; still perfectly golden, artfully mussed, and practically begging me to run my hands through it. There were some new crinkles at the corners of his fathomless blue eyes, and the dimple in his left cheek had become more pronounced, but the new lines only added an effective ruggedness to his almost-pretty features.
His feet were crossed at the ankles on an ottoman, his elbow propped casually on the arm of the couch, his fingers at his temple. The emotional upheaval of the day played out on his face, his eyes taking on a smoldering squint, making him look a little sleepy. He flexed his fingers together and gave a yawn against an outstretched bicep.
Yeah. You’re right, Chester. Let’s go to bed.
He pulled me to sit down next to him, practically on his lap, throwing an arm around my shoulders. I caught Lisa’s eye and bit my lip. It was like not a single day had gone by. Right there were Lisa and Pick, sitting on the sofa across from us. And there was Rymer, occupying the easy chair in between. If Cooper and Sargento were there, I would have sworn it was 1991.
Pick slung himself across the couch and settled in at his wife’s back, his stretched form leaning into the sofa, his mile-long legs taking over the space. He waggled a finger between Trip and me and said, “So… I see this is happening again.”
Lisa elbowed him in the ribs, and I could have cheerfully strangled him, but Trip just chuckled. He met my eyes, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and answered, “Hell yeah it is.”
I melted at the satisfied grin he aimed at me.
“Took you long enough,” Pick jeered.
I was smiling into Trip’s eyes, but directed my reply to Pickford, “Some of us weren’t as smart right out of high school.”