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CHANGE YOUR TICKET
The plane soared high in the air, barely making a sound from where I was watching. It was early and the birds were already out singing their morning melodies while the sun shined bright in the sky. Standing at the kitchen window watching it all gave me some peace of mind, helping me cope with the decision I'd made.
It was all one blur really. One second I was celebrating my going away party and the next Tripp was asking me to stay. When I'd told my mother she'd all but sent the rest of my things to L.A. Paige screamed for ten minutes straight, trying to deafen me it seemed. She was partly jealous, but more so excited for me. And after telling me about the new boy across the street she too encouraged me to stay. My father agreed with my mother, and my brothers weren't really interested in the topic, both muttering to have fun.
Really it seemed like no one wanted me back.
I guess it was no surprise when I accepted Tripp's offer.
Standing at the kitchen window, I sighed, wondering what I'd just gotten myself into.
"Coffee?" I recognized Tripp's voice behind me before I even turned around.
He was standing at the island counter, wearing a plain white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. His hair was in its usual perfectly tousled state. He appeared well rested, enough so that if someone were to take his photo for Better Homes and Gardens, he'd be ready. It was morning, why couldn't he look half-dead like a normal person?
I ran a hand through my hair, knowing I didn't look so good in comparison, and made my way over to the island counter.
"I don't like coffee," I said, taking a seat at the counter.
"Yeah, me neither," Tripp replied. "Tea?"
"Isn't that for the British and the sophisticated?"
Tripp grinned. "We're sophisticated. Let's try a cup, what flavor do you want?"
I'd always been able to tolerate raspberry flavored tea, so I went with that.
Tripp started making the tea while I leafed through a cooking magazine on the counter. The food porn was too much, making me realize I was also hungry. As if psychic, Tripp went over to his cupboard and furnished a box of Danishes, coming and setting them on the counter. Once the tea was done he grabbed us each a mug and poured two servings.
"Do you want actual breakfast?" Tripp asked, sliding over some of the Danishes.
Maybe it was all the tabloid magazines getting to me, or the fact that he had a chef, but I highly doubted Tripp Rivers could cook. And as hungry as I was, I was not going to chance it.
