Remember When 2 (19 page)

   Always such an
observer
, this man. Always checking out his surroundings, grasping at the details, seeing everything. His ability to notice every aspect of his environment was undoubtedly the reason why he was such an amazing actor. Trip
watched
. He
absorbed
. Then he ran all those little pieces of data through the meat grinder of his brain, processing and pulling out the premium bits, rolling them into the creation of something new before presenting it, ever so uniquely, to the world.

   Standing before my framed Monet print, he completely astonished me by remarking, “Hey.
Water Lilies
. This was your old bedspread.”

   He was right. It was. I always loved that painting, and back in high school, it was the design on the comforter in my old room. Trip had only seen it a few times, and normally right as we were ripping it off the mattress in order to make out. “You remember my bedspread?”

   He stuck his hands into his pockets, turned his head to look over his shoulder, and aimed a ravenous grin at me. “I remember
lots
of things.”

   I felt my heart skip a beat as I tried to keep my knees from buckling. Yep. I pretty much died.

   But Trip didn’t seem to notice as he took note of the towers of books in the corner, running his fingertips over the spines. He moved to look out my window, which offered nothing more than a view of my fire escape and the roof of the restaurant around the corner. He went to open the pane, but it had been caked shut with about twenty coats of paint from over the years and was giving the big strong galoot some trouble. I went over to help him.

   “There’s a trick to it,” I said, as I gave a sharp smack with my palm against the lower right-hand corner, then slid it up with ease.

   The beautiful man in my bedroom nodded his head at me, impressed.

   I felt that familiar stirring in my heart, while my brain chastised me for giving such a damn. I never knew why it always meant so much to win his approval. Even for the smallest of things.

   He stuck his head outside and looked up, asking, “Hey. Can we go up there?”

   “To the roof? Yeah. I do it all the time.”

   His head reappeared, the most adorable smile on his face, like a kid who’d just found a hidden stash of candy. “Ya wanna?”

   I couldn’t help but smile back.

Chapter 19

PICKING UP THE PIECES

   I sashayed into the kitchen, grabbed a couple glasses and an opened bottle of wine from my fridge, then met Trip back in my bedroom. Jesus. He was just sitting there,
waiting for me
, on my
bed
.

   He stood, took the stuff from my hands, and offered, “Ladies first.”

   The
“yeah, okay”
look I shot him was rewarded with a flash of his white teeth. “What?”

   It was so like him. He was still such a boy, trying to arrange a peek up my skirt. “Trip. I’m wearing a
dress
, for godsakes. I’m quite sure that hasn’t escaped your notice.”

   “Well, then, take it off.”

   I punched his arm, causing him to bobble the glassware in his grasp as I said, “I am
not
going first. And the dress is staying
on
. Go.”

   He laughed his ass off as he ducked out to the landing and negotiated the rusty stairwell up to the roof of my building. Pretty impressive that he was able to climb a rickety staircase while holding all that stuff in his good hand, with only his bad arm to steady himself against the railing. 

   “Hey, easy on that fire escape there, Mr. I-Do-My-Own-Stunts,” I called up to him, climbing out the window as well, almost knocking one of my dead plants off the ledge as I followed suit. “We don’t want you to fall and break your other arm.”

   I loved the roof of my building for sunbathing, but at night, the spot took on a magical glow from the neon of the surrounding restaurants and bars. Years ago, someone had strung white Christmas lights around the perimeter of the low brick wall and woven them through the two potted trees in the corners. Between them sat a wooden double chaise, and it was there that Trip had set up shop, sitting on the edge as he poured us our wine.

   Despite the mild evening, a chill ran along my skin as I flashed back to that magical summer of ‘91, when I recalled exactly how much better white wine tasted when licked from Trip’s back…

   …and that’s why my fingers were shaking as I accepted the glass from his outstretched hand.

   I took a sip, leaned against the low wall, and assessed the situation: I was sharing a glass of wine on the roof of my apartment building with, quite possibly, the hottest man this world has ever seen. That same man was lounging out on the double chaise, without a care to be had, as if there were no other place on Earth he’d rather be. 

   I knew the feeling.

   He tipped his head up to the sky, patted the space next to him, and said, “Lay. My God. Will you look at this night? Come sit here with me and watch the stars.”

   I’d lived in the city for close to a decade, and I knew damn well how near-impossible it was to see any stars at night. There was the briefest hesitation as I stood there considering the implications of accepting such a contrived invitation. Dangerous? Yes. Stupid? Probably. But I did it anyway.

   I balanced my glass on the pebbly tar under the seat and stretched out next to Trip, adjusting my side of the lounger to recline, my arms crossed against my chest to avoid any inadvertent elbow kisses. I was looking up, registering the beautiful night and feeling the slight breeze blowing across my skin. So I felt, rather than saw, Trip turn his head to face me. The sound of his voice at my ear caused me to practically melt through the slats of the chaise. “Hey. Do you remember that day you left for school? The day after The Tent?”

   Holy Jesus, he used the
T
word.

  
Do I remember?
How could I forget? It was mere hours after the night—the
only
night—he and I had ever slept together.

   This was perilous territory, but I answered anyway. “Yes, of course.”

   Out of the corner of my eye I caught him swiping a hand through his hair. The move was so familiar, so very
Trip
, that the small gesture actually caused a physical pain deep within my heart. I didn’t want it to, but it did.

   He let out a breath and said, “Do you know what I did that day? How I spent the hours after you left?”

  
Oh God
. Did I even want to know? I know that
I’d
spent that day with my father and brother, getting set up in my dorm room, walking around the campus, checking out the neighborhood. But that night, after they’d gone home… I spent the evening bawling my eyes out. I’d been heartbroken and scared in a strange new place without even so much as one person to talk to, no one to help get me through it. Trip and I had just had our big farewell scene hours before, Lisa was in a car with Pickford halfway across the country, and my father, Bruce, and I had just spent the entire day together. There was nobody to call, no one left to see. My NYU days turned out to be an amazing chapter in my life, but that first night really sucked the big one.

   “No. What did you do?”

   He let out a heavy breath, turned his head back up to the sky. “I drove away from your house and I just. Kept. Driving. I couldn’t go home, I couldn’t stay in town. I knew that everywhere I looked…”

  
…would remind me of you
.

   He didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what he was thinking.

   He swiped his hands over his face, growled into the night air. “I just couldn’t stay there anymore. You were gone, off to some brand new place… It really sucked to be left behind in the same old one.”

   “I hardly left you behind, Trip.”

   I’d said the words before I even realized what I was admitting, but it was true. I took that boy with me, locked safely away in my heart, where I kept him for years following our separation.

   Only Trip took me literally. “I know you didn’t
mean
to leave me in the dust, but you did. You left. You were gone. And I didn’t realize until that minute that you were the only thing that was keeping me there in the first place.” I tried not to crumble from his words as he continued, “My old man… Things had started getting really bad by then, and my mother refused to do anything about it. I’d spent a really long time trying to watch out for her, but by then, she’d already made it clear what her decision was. She wasn’t going to force him to get help and she wasn’t going to leave him and I wasn’t going to stick around to watch. And here she is, faithfully by his side, still taking care of him. But she’s doing it alone.”

   I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” was all that came to mind.

   He turned to his side, propping his head up with his cast arm. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Lay. It’s not your fault.”

   “Yes, but I’m sorry for leaving you. For leaving you to deal with all that by yourself.”

   “You were only living your life. I don’t blame you for that.”

   My head turned toward him on its own, and I really wished it hadn’t done that. Because just then, I caught the look on his face, and it was enough to rip out my insides. There he was, propped up on his hand, looking down at me with that endearing, half-lidded stare, his lips curled into that sweet, crooked smile… and it was like I was seventeen again. Back in a time when our
biggest concern was what to wear to a party or how we were going to spend our night. Back in a time when we loved each other.

   We were both thinking it. I know I didn’t imagine it that time.

   He was the first to come to his senses and break the moment, turning away to sit up and grab the glass at his newly planted feet. His back was to me as I watched him down the rest of his drink and pour another. “You need?” he asked, holding up the bottle.

   “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  
Fine
was about the last thing I was.

   He took another swig before settling the wineglass back down, resuming his lounged position, crossing his feet at the ankles and propping an arm behind his head.

   It’s funny how reassuring that was, to see him doing something so simple and familiar. I mean, I
knew
this man. I knew him inside and out. I knew his every facial expression, knew what his heartbeat sounded like under my ear. I knew how he played, and I knew how he
lounged
. Recalling the small pieces of the Trip that I knew brought me a bit of nostalgic comfort while dealing with the body of this famous movie star lying next to me.

   “Have you seen them at all—your parents—while you’ve been back here?”

   “Yeah. I mean, well, I went to visit my mom a few times. She kind of hinted around how she’d like to make the move out west, but she’s sort of stuck here for a little while longer, taking care of
him
. Drunken asshole.”

   I caught the muscle twitching in his jaw and figured it was best to leave that comment alone. He’d already said all he planned on saying about the old man. It was heartwrenching for me to think of Trip out there in California all by himself, but I guessed he must have had friends. I knew he had Sandy. I knew he had the underwear model. “Hey, how’s your sister?” I asked, suddenly remembering the existence of his older sibling, whom I’d only met once a million years ago.

   “Claudia?” He started to chuckle, and I was glad I’d changed the subject. “She’s good. Moved up to Santa Monica a few years ago, so I see her quite a bit.”

   “What does she think of all this? Of your…” I was about to say
fame
, but it seemed so cheesy. “…of your career?”

   “She’s supportive. Still thinks I’m a pain in the ass, but that opinion lightened considerably when I covered the down payment for her house.”

   It took the extra second to sink in, but that had us both laughing, acknowledging the absurdity that his life had turned into. That he was capable of throwing that kind of cash around. He’d grown up rich, but this was
his
money. I knew it made him feel proud, and all I could think was how
I
was proud
for
him.

   “A house, huh? Not too shabby, Chester.”

   He nudged his cast against my arm, giving me a shove, and I looked over to see him shaking his head. “Still with the freaking Chester. You know too damn much about me, Warren. If the
Enquirer
ever gets ahold of you, my career would be over.”

   I giggled, then said, “Oh, hey! That reminds me. I heard you kinda got arrested last week!”

   “What?”

   “Yeah. Down at The Westlake. I heard you had to be hauled out of there before you started a riot. What happened?”