Page 18 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

“It’s literally dark out,” Tripp states flatly.

“Barely.” I glare down at him with one hand on my hip and one arm wrapped around the tree trunk. “I can still see your ugly face.”

The sky is a deep periwinkle as the sun sits just below the horizon, on the verge of vanishing entirely. I climbed this old tree to hang more twinkle lights over my backyard and garden. Sure, I probably should have tackled this in the morning, but work kept me busy while the sun was up.

I finally closed my computer when I couldn’t stand trying to work while listening to the sound of Tripp mowing my damn lawn again. I told him I liked it long, which is a lie, but he won’t stop fucking doing it.

There’s a cool shift in the air—the kind you’re thankful for as the last days of spring linger before summer hits. I love the green, earthy smell, but the chill makes my arms tingle with goosebumps. I bite my lip and refuse to shiver as Tripp eyes me skeptically.

“You could have at least put shoes on,” he suggests.

My toes wiggle, and I roll my eyes. “What for? Hand me that string of lights. I’ll loop it around this branch.”

Reluctantly, Tripp extends his arm until I’m able to grasp it from him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the solar fairy lights strung along the garden fence flick on. I smile and lean forward to loop the cord in my hands around the sturdy limb hanging right over my Blackfoot Daisies.

The metal buttons of my overalls brush against the trunk of the tree as I carefully wrap the lights. When I’m satisfied that they’ll stay put, I lean back, but the bandana in my hair catches on a sharp twig and I wobble.

“That’s it,” Tripp shouts. “I’m getting a ladder right now.”

I laugh as I regain my balance. He’s walking toward the shed as I climb down effortlessly and land with a thump on the ground. His head turns, and I swipe my hands on my thighs with a smile.

“See? Told you it’d be easy.”

The crickets have already started their nightly rhythm by the time I jog to the vegetable garden and close the gate that’s framed by climbing roses. It’s nights like these I wish I had a porch swing. Not many evenings in West Texas are crisp and sweet like this one.

After I plug the new lights in and admire our handiwork, Tripp follows me inside with a sigh. I don’t miss the small smile curving up the corner of his lips, despite how perturbed he’s trying to act right now. He leaves the solid back door open but closes the screened one behind him.

“If you ever call me from the emergency room with a broken arm, I’m putting a hot fence around the tree.”

“ Sure ,” I say sarcastically. “How’d you get that massive bruise on your ribs, hmm?”

I point at his bare abdomen. The first few times I saw Tripp without a shirt, it took every bit of self-control not to drool.

I think I have every tattoo on his sleeve memorized just from staring at it so long.

Now, I’m not entirely used to it, but at least I’ve come to expect it and can prepare myself ahead of time.

He lifts an arm and looks down at the now-purple splotch covering his side with a guilty grin. I know Heston took a sharp turn while Tripp was sitting on the side of the four-wheeler to get him back for hooking the horn to the brakes on his truck. Entirely his own fault, and reckless. As usual.

Tripp shrugs. “Worth it. Top tier prank.”

I laugh and shake my head while walking to the bathroom. “Uh huh. Don’t lecture me about climbing trees when you have no room to talk.”

I throw my hair up, take a quick shower, and slip on a clean t-shirt and shorts. Tripp is sprawled out on my couch and stifling a yawn when I come back out to the living room—a sight I’ve grown used to since our horseback ride two weeks ago.

Spending more time together started awkwardly because we had to plan it out.

That went to hell on the Wednesday I randomly came to the bunkhouse with ingredients for a taco bar.

Now it feels natural, and we drop in on each other without a formal invitation.

As much as we’ve been hanging out, I’d worry that something was wrong if he hadn’t shown up at my place for more than a day or two.

I like that we can talk about things that interest both of us.

It’s nice to have a distraction from my work at the end of the day, and no matter what crazy idea I have in my head for the night, I know Tripp is going to thrive on the adventure.

He never turns his nose up, even if I’m climbing giant trees after dark.

Seeing him yawn again makes me do the same.

“What time did you wake up today?” I ask, grabbing the TV remote and plopping down next to him.

“About five.”

“Same,” I admit with a sigh. We’re in a constant state of exhaustion somehow. “Did you already eat?”

He nods and steals the remote out of my hand, well aware of my habit. I’ll look for something to watch for an hour until it’s too late to start something, then fall asleep.

A classic rock song plays over the beginning credits of whatever random movie he picked, and I curl my legs onto the couch and pull a blanket over my body. Tripp takes the blanket that’s laid over the arm of the couch on his side and does the same.

“Still wanna go for another ride tomorrow?”

I yawn and snuggle deeper into the cushions with a nod. “Yes, I need more practice.”

He chuckles, but it’s sleepy and light. Silence stretches as we absentmindedly watch the fast-paced action scene. I don’t know what it is about these types of movies that relax him, but I’m starting to like them, too. They make me feel like my life may not be as chaotic as it seems.

“I eat a bowl of cereal when I can’t sleep,” he confesses.

“Me too.” I laugh quietly. “Picturing you searching for a bowl in the dark wearing your jammies is so funny for some reason.”

“Sure, if I wore pajamas.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure why I assumed otherwise. What kind of cereal? I’m guessing Lucky Charms.”

“Nope,” he says through another yawn. “Only had Cheerios at the group home and it’s the only kind I like now.”

My brows draw together, and my eyes flick to his without fully turning my head. He looks like he didn’t mean to say that. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I almost act like I didn’t hear it. My heart won’t let me, though.

“Were you adopted?”

He puts a hand behind his head and pulls the blanket up his chest with the other.

“Nah. Didn’t get put in the system until I was almost two.

Most people want little babies to adopt, so I jumped around from place to place until I was old enough for the group home.

You know the one on the edge of the city?

You can kind of see the barn from the highway. ”

The spring air slips through the screen door, but I savor the cold mixed with his honesty.

I play back his words in my head, searching for evidence that this sudden topic change is normal for him.

All I heard in his tone was quiet grief—almost unrecognizable compared to his typically humorous cadence.

I think for a moment about the group home he referred to, then realize I know which one he’s talking about. My mom has mentioned it a few times because the baseball team does their community service there. I raise my head slightly when the pieces in my head connect.

“Oh my gosh,” I gasp. “Yes, I know which one you’re talking about. That’s why you played catch with those boys in the outfield last month.”

He nods but doesn’t look away from the TV. It’s bright enough for me to see the crease in his forehead in the dim light.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” he says with a half-teasing tone. “I never tell anyone that stuff.”

He doesn’t want sympathy. But he’s my friend, and he just admitted that he never talks to anyone about how he grew up. I’m not about to make him feel like I don’t care about this. I care very much.

“Sure, we do,” I say, scooting closer. “I want to know all about it. My dad abandoned me and left me with a male attention disorder. See? Trauma bonding. Hurts so good.”

I peer up at him to catch his smile before cautiously resting my cheek on his shoulder.

If his voice wasn’t so laced with sadness, I never would have chanced snuggling up to him like this.

But his reaction proves I made the right move.

His chest instantly deflates, and the contact seems to ground him.

It feels old and familiar somehow, trading confessions like this with him. My head spins with ways to make sure he knows he can talk about this stuff with me anytime he wants.

“So, your dad fumbled your mom and missed out on a great kid? What a fucking loser.”

My chest vibrates with a deep laugh. “Truly.”

“You still turned out alright, I guess.”

I swat his arm. “Hey.”

“I’m kidding,” he laughs. “You turned out good. I like”—he pauses to clear his throat and lean his head on the back of the couch—“hanging out with you. Sometimes I feel like my other friends wouldn’t understand this stuff if I talked to them about it.”

“That’s because Gage, Warren, and Heston are men. Most of the male species is emotionally inept.”

He shakes his head, giving up on keeping a friendly distance when he scoots his hips toward me and drapes his arm behind my back. I burrow right into his side. Most of his bare skin is covered by his blanket, but I press the side of my face against his exposed pec.

His heart doesn’t race, and to my shock, neither does mine. In fact, I’m not sure mine has ever been so calm and steady except for when I sleep.

Tripp’s voice is softer when he finally speaks again. “You ever pretend nothing bad ever happened in your life? Just lay there at night, making up alternate realities? Wake up the next day and go about your business like it doesn’t affect you?”

It kills me to hear him ask that. I thought I came to know him pretty well recently, but I hadn’t even scratched the surface until now. The version of him that everyone gets is funny, bright, and wild. Never sad.

This version? I don’t think it’s easily accessed. My chest feels light, hoping I’m seeing a part of him right now that most people don’t get to.

“All the time. In my head, my dad never left. It’s a lot more fun to make up memories that don’t actually exist where we’re super close and he worries about where I am or what I’m up to. Holds a shotgun in the doorway when my prom date picks me up.”

He lifts his hips and angles his upper body so that he’s lying back on the armrest. I stay glued to his side.

“Is it a red flag if I told you I’d kick his ass if I ever met him?”

“Yes,” I whisper sleepily, and my eyes flutter closed. “But I might throw a few punches myself, so our flags can match.”

I smile against the laugh that lights up his chest. “Which parts do you pretend were different about your life?”

He answers right away. “All of it.”

My eyes fly open when the first beam of daylight shines through the windows on either side of my front door. It’s still dim, and I have no idea what time it might be.

What I do know is that I cannot move. If I do, Tripp will wake up. And he’s currently hugging my palm to his chest. I’m trapped between him and the couch. Luckily, he’s facing away from me. Not so lucky, my right leg is draped over his like we’re two ends of an intertwined pretzel.

The last thing I remember is trading secrets while trying not to drift off. It seems I never made it to my bed, and he never went home. This is . . . fine.

We’re comfortable around each other and have had innocent physical contact in the form of a hug or light-hearted snuggle. Our current situation could easily be brushed off.

Oopsie. Fell asleep and ended up spooning you. My bad.

Until he sighs and turns toward me, that is. His eyes are closed and mine are as wide as they’ll possibly go.

My arms have ended up looped around his neck.

The metal of his thin chain feels cold against my skin.

Tripp’s face is buried in the crook of my neck while he smooths his left hand over my thigh.

When his movements stop, I study his even breaths for at least a minute.

I still haven’t come up with an escape plan.

Do I want an escape plan?

Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four.

He’s definitely asleep. His lips are parted ever so slightly, and no one breathes that slowly when they’re conscious.

I eliminated the space between us first last night, but in my defense, I just wanted him to feel safe. Close. I’ve always been a believer in the concept of love languages, even between friends, and physical touch is most definitely the key to making him feel understood.

Daylight fills the living room, increasing in brightness by the minute. I’m still working out my options when I notice Tripp’s body feels more like a frozen statue rather than a living, breathing human being.

He pulls away slowly, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling his hand up to rub the side of his head. He yawns, stretches his back, and then grunts while moving to a sitting position. I stare at his bare back in front of me and slowly reach for the blanket that somehow got pushed down overnight.

I’ve gathered it in my hands and pulled it over my mouth by the time Tripp stands, stretches again, and turns to face me with a lazy, lopsided smile.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” I whisper.

He walks to the kitchen while slowly running a palm up and down his abs. “Coffee?”

“Su—sure. Thank you.” I rise to my knees and turn to lean over the back of the couch, facing the kitchen to watch him.

I’ve barely moved by the time he starts the coffee maker, takes a three-minute shower, and returns to present me with a steaming mug. I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic and pull it to my mouth for a sip.

My eyes continue to follow Tripp over the top of my coffee cup while he gathers his phone, keys, and the shirt he threw over the back of a chair yesterday afternoon. Accidental cuddling should be awkward, so I can’t figure out why he’s whistling and milling about like any other morning.

He tosses his keys in the air just to catch them again before walking toward the front door. “Better go, so I don’t get fired.”

“Yeah, right. You could burn the whole place to the ground and Gage still wouldn’t fire you,” I say with a scoff.

He smiles and pulls the door open. “I know. Catch ya later, Mace?”

“Wait—your coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” he calls over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.