“Aww, man.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. It sucked.” He tossed his empty beer bottle into the garbage pail and added, “But the coach was awesome. He actually asked me to be a part of his MVP team in the fall. If I join, I’ll get to travel all over, meet pro players and stuff.”
“Wow. Are you going to do it?”
Trip gave a shrug and shot a sham dirty look at me from the corner of his eye, which always managed to turn my insides to mush. “Still thinking about it.”
I downed the last sip in my glass, and Trip offered to go get us another round.
I stood and looked out over the back yard, smelling the sweet, night air and feeling the tingly, numbing warmth of the wine taking effect in my legs. It was surreal, being there with Trip, picking up right where we had left off, wherever that was. I decided that whatever was happening, I wasn’t going to rack my slightly alcohol-impaired brain trying to figure it out right at that minute.
It was hard to concentrate on anything other than watching Trip walk out of the house anyway-dressed sharply in a tan Henley and black slacks and grinning in my direction-because the sight was even more intoxicating than the drinks he was holding in his hands.
He placed them on the table, and gave a check over his shoulder before offering, “I just saw Vreeland trying to hit on Shelly Markham.”
“No way!”
He came over to me, leaning his face close to mine. I shuddered at his nearness, feeling the delicious sensation of his breath at my ear as he added, “She turned him down flat.”
“Lucky guy.”
We both cracked up, then Trip grabbed my glass and handed it over to me. I took it, saying out the side of my mouth, “Whatrya trying to get me drunk tonight, Chester?”
I took a sip through a giggle and then realized he wasn’t laughing, just standing there staring at me, holding his beer frozen in midair halfway to his lips. My brain did an automatic rewind, and when I hit play, I realized what I’d just said.
I looked at him wide-eyed, until the most obnoxious “PPPPHHHFFFFFTT!” escaped from my mouth and I doubled over laughing, Trip still looking at me thunderstruck.
He finally lowered the beer bottle and laughed out, “Are you kidding me? How the-How did you... Wha-Are you freaking kidding me?”
I didn’t think I was going to be able to take my next breath; I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt. “Oh my God! Trip! I can’t believe I just called you that. I-“
“How in the hell did you know that?”
I managed to get my breathing under control, fanned myself with my hand and then steadied myself against the table. “Okay, lemme just... Whoo! Okay. I’m okay now.” I took a sip from my drink (as if I really needed one at that point) and confessed how I’d seen it on his driver’s license way back on the day he filled out his application to work at Totally Videos.
“Are you serious?” He asked, looking at me like I’d just found the cure for cancer. “Do you know that I’ve managed to keep that under wraps in every school in every city I’ve ever lived in?”
“Yeah. I figured as much. Am I the only one who knows?”
He shook his head, still in disbelief that I had managed to sleuth him out. “Ho. Ly. God. Layla Effing Warren! Unbelievable. You know I have to kill you now to keep you silent, right? I mean, seriously. I have to end you now. So what will it be? Death by Manilow?”
I put the glass back on the table and found it took a little more concentration than necessary to stand back upright. I hoped Trip didn’t notice, but I was definitely getting a tad tipsy off of the wine. “Firthst of all,” Shit. Was I slurring? “my middle name is not ‘Effing’.”
Trip totally sniffed me out, realizing that I was definitely feeling the sauce. “Ya okay there, Lay-Lay?”
I dismissed his question with a wave of my hand. “And B...” I continued, “I kep that little tidbit of information to myself for...” I started counting on my fingers, Trip smirking at my impaired math skills. “...eight whole months! I didn’t tell anyone. Not even you.” At that, I poked a finger into his chest, adding, “So there, pal.”
Jesus. I was definitely drunk. How the hell did that happen? I guessed my immunity was only built up against cheap beer. Either that, or homemade wine packs more of a punch than storebought. I was only on my third glass!
But there was no stopping me now. “Thirdly... Oh, hey! Doritos!” I spotted the bowl of chips on the very table I’d been using to prop myself up and popped like three or four into my mouth before continuing. “I happen to wike Bawwy Maniwow-” (tortilla chips spraying from my mouth) “-and Mandy is the best song in the history of music! So there!”
Without thinking, I picked up my wine with a flourish, intending to punctuate my rebuttal with a dramatic final sip, when Trip intercepted my glass on the way to my lips with a, “Whoa there, pardner. I think it’s time to cash in our chips.”