But even barring any romantic inclinations, our relationship was pretty great. I think the Tess thing was always there in the background, keeping us just friends. It didn’t stop me from looking for hidden meaning in the fact that he never discussed her with me, however. It had to mean something that he never wanted to ruin us by bringing up her.
I liked to think that Trip really liked me a lot, and maybe under different circumstances he would have even made me his girlfriend. But it was understandable that he wasn’t about to trade in a Tess Valletti for a Layla Warren.
I still found my knees going weak sometimes (okay, always) whenever I was near him. But it wasn’t like some all-consuming anxiety for me anymore. The more time I spent with him and got to know him as an actual person (you know, as opposed to a Greek God), the more comfortable it was to be around him. Funny thing was, we actually made really great friends.
Lisa chastised me for accepting a “consolation prize”, but truth be told, it turned out I really liked the guy. And not just “like” liked, but genuinely was able to get past the pretty face-somewhat- to see the great person behind it.
Here’s why:
For one thing, he was funny. And I don’t mean he was funny, like some annoying comedian, always on, always delivering a punchline. He was funny in the way you can drink too much Kool-Aid as a kid and get “drunk” and giggly and silly with your best friend across the kitchen table on a random rainy Thursday. He was funny in the way you can crack up watching your little brother try to win a battle with a bag of gumballs, seeing how many he can fit in his mouth, laughing while grey gum juice runs down his chin. He was funny like that. Unexpectedly goofy. And silly. And dare I say it, even a little dorky. Not Anthony Michael Hall, geeky dorky... More like Rob Lowe guest-hosting Saturday Night Live pretending to be dorky. You know, dorky... but still incredibly hot.
Secondly, he was smart. For all his talk about not understanding Shakespeare, he actually seemed to grasp it almost better than I did. Which was impressive, but also a little unsettling. After all, he was the one to come to me for help. I was supposedly the straight-A student (well, in Mason’s class, anyway) who had already consumed our entire year’s suggested reading list in the first month of school. A fact that Trip found fascinating, given that I went to school, had a job, and yet I still managed to get out of the house every weekend.
“When do you find the time?” he’d asked one day during a break from filming.
I had answered back, “I don’t know. I was always a big reader. I guess I just make the time.”
Truth was, I only became a big reader after my mother left. I mean, I always liked to read, but after Kate flew the coop, I started to consume books. Two or three entire novels over a weekend, bleary-eyed and exhausted, bypassing sleep in order to just finish one more chapter, and then break down and read just one more after that.
Fiction, autobiographies, true crime... it didn’t matter. As long as I had something in my hands, something that would grab me, suck me in and hold my attentions for a few hours.
I had always kept a book in my purse. Still do, even to this very day. You never know when you’re going to find yourself in a traffic jam or a waiting room or something. Back in Junior High, however, there was always an indoor recess or crappy TV night where I could devour a few dozen pages.
Our family counselor at the time-a horrid, tiny woman who smelled like chicken soup-had said that I was simply looking for an escape from my reality. Well, DUH. What teenage girl doesn’t want to escape from her reality? Combine that analysis with my borderline OCD and you’ve got an existential dual diagnosis dilemma on your hands. (Did I mention I read Freud at thirteen?)
All in all, I’d have to say that becoming an avid reader was probably the healthiest thing I could have done, given the circumstances. My father seemed to think so, too. It wasn’t long after Dr. Chickensoup’s contemptuous assessment of such “troubling obsessive behavior” that Dad decided we’d had enough therapy. He told Bruce and me in no uncertain terms that we were going to be just fine and we believed him. I’ve worked hard to prove him right every day since.
I mean, jeez, it could have been worse. I could have channeled all of that hurt and anger and obsessive behavior into drugs or violence or sex. The fact is, I had only ever tried pot a few times, gotten into one fistfight in my life (with Bruce) and let’s just not get into my complete lack of experience with that third thing there.
Speaking of sex, however...