“Good. Still unpacking.” A server comes by to fill our water glasses, and I thank him. “Work, obviously.” I take a sip of the water. “How about you?”
Tripp sighs, sitting back in his chair, crossing his big, bulky arms. “Molly the meddler won’t leave me alone.”
I raise my brows. “What has she done now?”
“She broke into the house and was baking chocolate chip cookies on Monday.”
“What?! She broke in? How?” The questions come rapid fire. I cannot believe that kid broke into his house!
“Well, I mean—she has the code for the house, so technically she didn’t break in? But I didn’t know she was going to be there and she scared the shit out of me.”
Oh, well that makes more sense than what I came up with—a back window, perhaps? Prying it open with a crowbar? Squeezing through the doggie door in the laundry room?
No, using the code and letting herself in unannounced sounds more like Molly.
I chuckle, picking up the menu and scanning it. Everything sounds good, and I settle on breakfast for lunch. Eggs benedict on avocado toast.
Nom.
Tripp orders a cheeseburger and fries with extra lettuce, extra tomato, and extra pickles with a side of Cajun mayo.
“Why did she break in? She must have had a reason.” A cute little basket of small cornbread muffins appears and I unfold the napkin in the basket to steal one away. Hot from the oven! Mmm.
I pop it in my mouth as Tripp explains.
“Her parents were arguing and she didn’t want to stick around for the fighting and the make-up sex.”
I consider this information. “Everyone’s parents argue from time to time. I’m guessing it was just an excuse for her to hang out at your place. You should probably give her some boundaries before it gets out of hand.”
I get it that Molly is young, but she can’t just show up willy-nilly, especially at the house of a man who lives alone. Jeepers. No.
“Good idea. Maybe you can help me think of some.”
I warm to the suggestion, the insinuation that he wants me around.
“Sure, I can do that.”
We eat the muffins in silence. Then,
“My parents will be coming down this weekend for the game on Saturday.”
I glance up, butter knife in hand. “Oh?”
Tripp shifts uncomfortably in his chair, squeezing the brim of his blue baseball cap, shaping it. Tips his head from side to side, cracking his neck.
“Yeah. Um…” He fidgets, tearing at the corner of his napkin to keep his hands busy. “Want to come?”
Do I want to come? “To the game? With your parents?” I emphasize that last word, choking on the cornbread in my throat, reaching for the water glass and chugging half of it down.
That feels huge. He wants me at the game and sitting with his parents? His parents.
Like, his mother and father, the ones who gave birth to him.
Calm down, you’ve met them both.
“Yeah. I think I can manage a family box if you want?”
If I want… What does that mean? I get to decide where we all sit? Me, the girl he’s taken out twice and had sex with on the first date?
“Whatever works. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He shakes his head. “Not an inconvenience, I just have to let my manager know so he can let will call know.” Tripp pauses. “Come to think of it, my mom’s going to want to talk your ear off, so maybe regular seats won’t work. Then Dad can eat without getting pissed he has to pay eight bucks for a beer.”
I can tell he’s not done talking, so I wait him out, pretending to be focused on everything except his awkward fumbling.
“I…” Tripp clears his throat. “Want you there. I mean—I would like it if you came.”
Whoa.
That admission had to have been hard for him; he’s revealed so little about himself, his past relationships, and what he wants for his future.
“I’d like it, too.” I watch as he eats another muffin, then another, reaching for the basket and sticking my finger into the linen cloth. It’s empty. “Hey, you ate all the muffins.”
“I told you I was hungry.”
The mood is ruined when I glare at him, breaking the spell. “Why do you eat like a human garbage disposal? Do you even taste the food going down?”
“Honestly? Not really.”
“Then save some for me!”
He looks abashed, shoulders sagging a little. “You’re right—I should be more sensitive and should have asked if you wanted another one before I plowed them down.”
The admission gives me pause, stopping my outrage in its tracks.
“Huh?”
“I mean…that’s what Molly said.”
“Molly told you to be more sensitive?” I want to laugh, but he’s dead serious.
“The words were that I had to be nicer, but like—same thing? Sharing is caring and clearly that’s something I need to work on. Sorry.” He leans forward and plants a kiss on my gaping mouth.