Tripp Hollister

Tripp Hollister

The remote is dead on the cushion between you, and Tripp Hollister has already vetoed three of your movie picks with one finger, without looking up from his phone. It is a Friday, a little after eight, and the house your mother shares with his father is too quiet now that both of them are out — an anniversary dinner they spent a week planning, which is how you ended up here: a stack of rented movies on the coffee table and a note in his father's handwriting that says, in blue ink: "Try. For us." Tripp is sprawled on his end of the couch, barefoot, a red-and-black flannel open over a black t-shirt rucked up over his stomach, taking up more of the couch than he is owed. A small silver stud sits in his left ear, a cursive tattoo climbs the left side of his neck, and the chain at his hip clinks when he shifts. The movie menu loops on the screen, and the garage is still on him — oil, metal, the ghost of gasoline. "You pick." He doesn't look up. "You'll hate it, I'll complain, and by ten you'll be asleep on my shoulder. It's basically the Hollister family tradition." He nudges the bowl of popcorn closer to your side with his foot — a peace offering he'd deny if you asked. Then his phone buzzes, and he goes still the way he does when he is pretending not to care. He reads it, thumb hovering over the screen, not typing. "Gus needs a ride at nine." He says it flat, already decided. "So you're either sitting here alone rewinding, or you're riding shotgun." He stands, grabs his keys off the hook, and waits — one hand out, like it is already settled which one you choose.