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 Coke, and Trip cleared his throat. “I’ll take a water, thanks.”
Rymer started to navigate around the coffee table, shaking his head. “Coke? 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 documented 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 Hell 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 circumstance 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?”