Page 31 of Rhett

“I’m good to keep going.” I want to keep going, enjoy this fire of excitement that’s burning inside me. I’ve accomplished a lot of things in my life, but none of them felt like this. Law school didn’t make me soar the way this kitchen does.

“You need to eat, Rhett. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t feed you?” His tone is light and playful like it so often is. I can’t imagine what that’s like, wish I had it in me to be as easygoing as Tripp.

When his stomach growls, breaking the silence between us, a laugh tumbles out of me. “Apparently, it’s definitely lunchtime.”

“Finally. I’ve been trying to tough it out, but you’re too hardcore for me.” He nudges me with his arm, making a spark of…somethingshoot up my arm. I pull back, my hand immediately going to the spot and touching it, but Tripp doesn’t act like he felt anything.

We grab our lunch containers, and then I follow Tripp, who walks right over and sits on the floor in the living room, his back against the wall. I stand there and watch him for a second before he pats the floor beside him. “No table and chairs, man. Have a seat.”

I do as he says, leaving about a foot of space between us, then wonder if I’m sitting too close and he’ll think it’s weird. But that worry is subsumed by the realization that I’m taking my lunch break on the floor of a half-built house, dirty and covered in sawdust, with space heaters and Tripp Cassidy. For the second time in just a couple of minutes, another laugh spills free.

“What’s so funny?” He pulls a sandwich from his container.

“Just thinking how strange life is. I’m used to going to work in a suit and tie every day, shmoozing at fancy restaurantswith lawyers, political leaders, people my father thought were important, and…I fucking hated it. I was miserable. And now I’m sitting on a wooden floor, scratches on my hands and sawdust down my pants, while I eat a cold lunch, and…it’s incredible.”

It feels like white-water rapids of blood rush through my ears. My heart bangs against my chest as I realize what I just said.

Out loud.

To Tripp.

Silence stretches between us. I move uncomfortably, unable to stay still. Why isn’t he speaking, and more importantly, why the fuck did I say that? I can’t sort through what’s happening to me, why I’m here with him, and why truths are spilling out, why I told Dusty he could tell Morgan about the stools.

My head spins, my vision blurry. This isn’t me. I’m not supposed to be like this. This is exactly what Dad didn’t want for me and—

“Rhett, look at me.”

Tripp’s deep voice stops my spiraling, and I don’t even pretend I’m not going to do what he says because I can’tnotlook at him—can’tnotsee the disgust or disappointment he probably feels about me talking to him this way. At least…those are the things I’d expect from my father.

I meet his blue gaze. See the wrinkles of concentration around his eyes and the curiosity in his stare.

“Who are you?” he asks, and again, in this strange new world I’ve found myself in, honesty spills out.

“I don’t know.” Which is wrong on so many levels. I’m almost forty years old, and I’m fucking lost…but this, what I’m doing today, feels like some of the trees parted, showing me a new path, one that had been right there but I couldn’t reach.

Tripp gives a sad smile. “We’re gonna have to figure that out.”

“We?” How weird is it that I’ve never felt like awewith anyone before, not even Lori. I can’t figure out why we got married in the first place. Maybe because we were both so driven, the type who made a commitment and followed through, so marriage seemed the logical step.

But this isn’t the same. Tripp isn’t the same. I’m not sure what thiswewith him means, but I want it, want it the same way I crave building and creating.

“Yes,” he replies.

“I’m fucked up. I’m probably not who you believe I’m going to be.”

“I imagine you feel that way, but I don’t think for a second that’s true. I like you, Rhett. I want to spend more time with you, want to get to know you, want to see what you do when you give yourself permission.”

I look away. “I want that too.”

*

My body achesby the end of our workday, but I’ve never felt better. Tripp and I didn’t talk about anything earthshattering the rest of the day, but we did laugh. He told me stories about Meadow, and his family, and wild shit he and Archer got up to when they were younger.

I mostly listened and asked questions because my stories aren’t the same as his. Archer is to Tripp what Dusty has always been to Morgan—only without the romantic love. Since I’ve never had an Archer or a Dusty, I don’t have those same experiences, but I do share a few things from my college days, which was the closest to freedom I’ve ever had until now.

“Tomorrow at eight?” I ask when we’re standing by his truck.

“Yeah. I take Meadow to school, and then I’ll head right over.”

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