Remember When 3: The Finale Part 2

I gave her a quick hug and offered my condolences as Claudia reclaimed her jaw from where it had fallen to the floor. I guessed her brother and I had made quite the scene. "So, this is the infamous Layla Warren. You were right, Drip. I actually do remember her." Then she directed her next comments to me. "Let me ask you something. Is this Rymer character an actual person?"

I had to remember where I was and stifled the laugh at Claudia's question and her nickname for her little brother. (I logged it away for future torture.) But her jab had lightened the tone in the room, enough that by the time the first mourners filed in, we found ourselves chatting casually with them. Well, as casually as possible with a dead body in the vicinity. I've always been amazed at the lengths people will go to just to avoid talking about the real reason why they're in that room in the first place. It seems borderline disrespectful to the person in the box. Maybe when someone had been dying for years, it made for an easier time once it finally became official.

Trip kept me glued to his side on the receiving line, introducing me to every family member and business a.s.sociate as "my Layla," leaving no room for doubt just exactly who I was to him. It was incredible that he'd just a.s.sumed we were together, the split decision having been made (sort of) only moments prior, yet there was Trip, treating me like I was his long-time girlfriend.

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 pa.s.sage 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 circ.u.mstances 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 f.a.ggots 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 compa.s.sionate b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

We all laughed as those two hugged h.e.l.lo, breaking the serious vibe of the moment.

Rymer and his filterless mouth. Thank G.o.d 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 unb.u.t.toning 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 p.r.o.nounced, 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 s.p.a.ce. 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, "h.e.l.l 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."

At that, Lisa and Pick shared a knowing look.

Rymer was taking in the scene, his head darting back and forth between the four of us. "For chrissakes! I think I just threw up in my mouth a little." That made us chuckle as he hauled himself off the chair and added, "Alright. I'm getting a drink. Who needs? Ladies? Pick? Trip?"

There was a moment of unease before Lisa and I answered that we were fine, Pick put in an order for a c.o.ke, and Trip cleared his throat. "I'll take a water, thanks."

Rymer started to navigate around the coffee table, shaking his head. "c.o.ke? Water? Jesus. Be careful you don't spill any on your skirts. C'mon you pansies. Let's do a shot or something."

The smile suddenly dropped from his face, realizing what he'd just said. I mean, we were all there because Trip's father had just lost his battle with alcohol. Trip had just recently kicked the habit himself. "Oh, Trip. Man. I'm sorry. I wasn't even-"

"Dude, no. It's alright. Don't worry about it." Trip offered a genuine grin to his friend, who nodded his head before exiting the room.

Trip's drinking was an unavoidable piece of knowledge. In the years since I'd seen him last, he'd gone swiftly downhill, bottomed out, cleaned up, and set his star back on the rise. He'd actually won an Oscar for his role in Swayed, and it was well-deserved. But by that time, he'd also won a spot as cover boy for numerous entertainment magazines, his downfall doc.u.mented at every turn. Hollywood must be a very forgiving town, because only a few years later, those same magazines were lauding him as an unparalleled talent.

However, The Backlot, in particular, wasn't as kind. I couldn't check out at the supermarket without seeing Trip's face splashed across their cover, scathing headlines blaring out "Binging Bad Boy In Bar Brawl" or "Another TRIP To The Bottom Of A Bottle?" I knew that most of the stuff in those stupid tabloids was simply made up in order to sell magazines. But when they attacked a person I actually knew-one who'd been to h.e.l.l and back in order to set his life straight-it seemed extraordinarily cruel.

I mean, he wasn't that same party boy anymore. He'd battled his demons and clawed his way back to the world of the living, taking it entirely by storm. He'd taken all that energy he'd put into drinking and channeled it into philanthropy. He'd started his own charity, and from all accounts, it was a fruitful venture. That circ.u.mstance had turned him into a media darling, which completely negated the previously held image of him as a drunken playboy.

His work was never better; his family life never more secure.

Claudia was walking around with her new baby, introducing Skylar to the room. When she came in by us, Trip grabbed his niece out of his sister's clutches and gave her a soft nuzzle, completely smitten with the little bundle in his arms. Seeing him holding a baby just about made me melt. She really was an adorable little thing. Six months old, a little tuft of black hair on her head, those exotic, heavily-lashed, almond-shaped eyes smiling through her gurgling. Plus, she had that perfect amount of baby fat just made for biting. I wanted to put that kid on a plate and eat her.

Sandy came into the room just then, put an arm around Claudia's shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth.

Oh.

Trip never mentioned that Sandy was family. Although, the trust he placed in her and the way she looked out for him suddenly made perfect sense. She commandeered Skylar from her uncle's grasp, Trip giving an, "Aww. You stealing her away so soon?"

Claudia shot back, "You get to see her all the time. Don't hog the baby, Uncle Drip."

That made us chuckle, Rymer expressing his regret at not having come up with the nickname himself years ago. "What a waste," he lamented, shaking his head.

Trip actually laughed at that, a full, side-splitting guffaw, and it was as if all the tension of the day was finally draining from his body. Rymer was always good for some comic relief, but that day, he helped to turn the glum occasion into more of a reunion and less of a funeral.

Trip's mood continued to lighten all evening as the guys swapped stories and reminisced. "Hey," he said to Rymer. "You remember that time in the locker room when we were playing Pa-ting! And you got hit in the eye with that bar of soap?"

Rymer shook his head laughing. "That wasn't me. That was Sargento."

Pick piped in. "No, man. That was you."

I watched the exchange, finally cutting in with, "Hold up. What's Pa-ting?"

The guys all exchanged a glance, waiting for someone else to speak up. Pickford finally took the honors. "Okay, fine. So, there was this doorway that led from the locker room to the showers, right. And we'd all decide who was gonna be the target, and then we'd shove them into the showers, you know?"

"No. I don't know. But continue."

"Well, the target would have to walk back and forth in front of the doorway, and the rest of us would find random stuff to throw at them as they pa.s.sed."

"Wait," I said. "Like what kind of stuff?"

"I don't know, man. Like shoes and b.a.l.l.s or tape or whatever. Anyway, if the target got hit, he had to yell, 'pa-TING!', and then change direction. You know, like a carnival game."

I asked, "And the point of this was?"

The guys all looked at each other and started laughing. Rymer snorted out, "Who the f.u.c.k knows? It was fun!"

"So... You just all stood around naked and threw stuff at each other?"

That made them bust up even harder, Trip explaining, "No! What the h.e.l.l, Lay?"

"He said it was in the shower!" I defended.

Lisa backed me up. "I was thinking you were naked, too."

"You would," shot Pick, before continuing with his story. "Anyway, this one day we had Rymer in there-and dude, it was totally you-and he's strutting back and forth, pa-tinging away. And Aetine whips this bar of soap at him and bam! Right in the eye!"

"Ow!" Lisa and I squealed in unison.

Pick was practically crying as he started reenacting the scene, holding a hand over his eye and yelling, "I'm blind! I'm blind!"

The guys started cracking up again as Lisa and I exchanged an eyeroll.

Boys were so weird.

"Oh s.h.i.t," Rymer said. "You're right. It was me."

That had us all laughing that time.

"When was this?" I asked.

Trip pulled himself together and said, "I don't know. One day during gym."

"I never heard that story!"

"Why would we tell you? You're a girl."

I shoved him for that.

Chapter 4.

INTO THE BLUE.

A few guests made their leave, stopping in to shake Trip's hand, offer their final condolences, and say goodbye. Eventually, Lisa, Pick, and Rymer cut out too, but the house was still crawling with Mrs. Wilmington's people. I figured the party wouldn't end until very, very late.

I stifled a yawn, and Trip clamped his palm over my knee, asking, "Want the nickel tour?"

Before I could answer, he pulled me in the direction of the stairwell, leading me to the second floor.

I chuckled when he turned the corner and smirked out, "This is the hallway," as he backed me up against a wall and closed his smiling mouth over mine.

I was pretty sure this tour was going to be worth way more than my five cents.

Those lips against mine once again. It was hard to breathe, but who cared about something stupid like breathing when I had Trip in my arms? His hand slid around my neck, pulling my face closer to his, a slight groan escaping from his lips as they parted and consumed mine. My heart was beating in that familiar cadence, my racing pulse threatening a full-on faint. I ran my hands along the linen shirt at his back, up to his shoulder blades, involuntarily sliding to tangle in his hair, my mouth opening to take him in.

Last time he had me up against a wall, we both practically combusted, and this time looked as though it wasn't going to be any different.

Only, back then, I ruined everything by being an insecure idiot. But not this time, pal.

Trip's palm was smoothing against my waist, grasping at the material of my dress, his hardened length pressing against my midsection. The familiar humming in his throat melted me down to my core, and I felt my hands slipping down to grasp his backside, pulling him tighter against me.

Trip braced his palms against the wall on either side of my shoulders, dropped his face, and spat out, "Christ."

He gave a shake to his head, trying to pull himself together. His smoldering cobalt eyes met mine in wonder as he asked, "Are you trying to kill me?"

I giggled as he backed me through a doorway, but I positively squealed in delight when I realized we were in his childhood room. "Your room! Oh my G.o.d. I waited fifteen years to see this!"

Trip chuckled. "Well, I've always wanted to bring a girl up here, so I guess the wait is over for both of us."

He crammed his fists into his pockets, standing there smiling at me as I checked out all his stuff. I looked around at the Trip Museum: the navy plaid comforter on the bed, the tan walls covered in sports pennants from every city he'd ever lived in, the shelf of hockey trophies.

I pulled a "Trip" and made a big show of checking out every little knick-knack on every surface, from the Michael Jordan figurine to the signed Gordie Howe puck to the vintage Nintendo console, eventually grabbing the Magic 8-ball off his dresser, giving it a good shake.

"Will I hit the lottery?" I asked, checking the answer in the little plastic window. "See there? All signs point to yes! Whoohoo!"

The warm smirk he shot me made my knees go weak.

I noticed some high school textbooks still sitting on a corner of his desk, saw his St. Norman's letterman jacket hanging from a hook on the back of his door. It was as though his room had been sealed off with caution tape, frozen in time since the day he'd left the house.

"Holy c.r.a.p. It's like a shrine in here!"

I turned to see Trip staring at me, that lazy, lopsided grin still plastered on his gorgeous face. "What?" I asked, trying not to melt from the sweet, familiar smile he was aiming into my eyes.

"Nothing's changed at all."

I smiled back, knowing his comment applied to more than just the room we were standing in.

I put the 8-ball back down on the dresser and stepped closer to him, laid my hand over his heart. G.o.d. It was so amazing to be able to touch him whenever and however I wanted. Finally. "No. I guess it hasn't."

At that, his hands slipped out of his pockets and wrapped around me, pulling my head against his chest, a palm smoothing my hair. I hugged him back, allowed myself a deep breath, taking in that beautifully sweet, clean scent that was his and his alone. One of these days, I was going to find out what kind of soap he used so I could put it through a cheese grater and snort it like it was c.o.ke. Someday, my body would be found in a dirty alley somewhere, OD'd on the stuff.