I bumped into Roger Freeland from the AV Club and I was grateful to see a somewhat familiar face. “Hey, Rog,” I said.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder before answering, “Oh. Hey, Layla.”
I took a swig of my drink and asked, “What are you doing here? You weren’t in the play, were you? I’m pretty sure I didn’t see you up there.”
He kept shifting from one foot to the other, and it appeared that he was embarrassed to be seen speaking to me. “No. I, uh, I helped with the set.”
I started to get the impression that the whole theatre club had enjoyed having Trip all to themselves the past months, and the general attitude seemed to be that they didn’t appreciate having to share him with someone from his old crowd again. I was being nice enough to everyone, but apparently, only Trip was being treated like an actual human, probably because he had temporarily become one of them.
Even though I thought Roger was being uncharacteristically rude, I decided to let him off the hook. “Oh, that’s cool. Everything looked really great. Okay, see you later!”
I went back out onto the deck, giving Trip the excuse to wrap up his conversation with Nathan, who departed without incident. He headed back inside, leaving Trip and me truly alone for the first time in five months.
I leaned against the railing, took another swig of wine and tipped my head back to take in the night air. It was a gorgeously balmy night and I was with a gorgeously elated companion. Trip was practically floating all evening, high on his performance. I hoped that maybe at least some of that euphoria could also be attributed to the fact that he was there with me.
He leaned into me, gave me a nudge, smirked, and asked, “So... how are you liking your first theatre party?”
I laughed, knowing he was teasing me with one of the first things I’d ever said to him, back in September, waiting in line for the bathroom at Rymer’s party.
I put my glass on a nearby table and mugged his same pose from that night; hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels, and saying in a deep, midwesterner’s accent, “It’s cool. Ever-one’s bein’ reeeally cooool.”
“Jesus, do I really sound like that?”
“Yes. That’s what you sound like exactly.”
That made him laugh, and in spite of my better judgment, it felt great to know that I still had the power to crack him up.
I was starting to feel the effects of the wine, but I probably would have been just as drunk off of my present company. After months of avoiding him, I’d almost forgotten what a drug Trip Wilmington could be. I’d almost forgotten how his grin made this great dimple appear in his left cheek, how his smile reached all the way up to his beautiful, blue eyes. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have him all to myself, the comfort of having him there to talk to, the way we didn’t need to talk at all.
I was curious to ask him about a million things: I didn’t know why he’d suddenly started talking to me again, I was interested to know when he’d decided to be in the play. I wanted to hear about the rehearsals, and what he possibly did in order to play his part so incredibly. But I didn’t want to rock an already unsteady boat. We were hanging out for the first time in months. I didn’t think hitting him with the Spanish Inquisition would go over too well.
So, I asked, “Hey! How’d hockey season go?”
He grinned that lazy, half-lidded-eyes smile at me, making my stomach do a little flip. “Pretty well, actually. We kicked ass all over the state and almost clinched a spot in the nationals, but blew it at the last minute.”
“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 Freeland 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.”
“I’m fine.”
“Layla. You’re defending Barry Manilow with a vengeance. I wouldn’t exactly say you’re ‘fine’.”
I resisted the urge to belt into “I Write the Songs” and instead let Trip lead me out of the party.
On the way through the living room, I saw Shelly, still sitting on the sofa surrounded by her entourage. I broke from Trip’s grasp and walked right over to her, pointedly interrupting whatever lame conversation she was in the middle of.
“Hey, Shelly,” I said, loudly enough to cause her to flinch. She looked surprised to see me there and I could practically see her feathers ruffle. I put a genuine smile on my face and said, “It was good to see you again. Thanks for letting me crash your party.”