Trip - Chapter 1 (Pre-Release Draft)

Trip Williams – Tucson

The streetlights had just flickered on across the neighborhood when Trip Williams walked up the concrete path to a smallish one-story ranch-style house with tan stucco and dark brown trim. The desert evening was still holding onto the day’s heat, that particular May warmth that made Tucson feel like a slow-cooking oven even after sunset, the kind of night that reminded him why people talked about moving somewhere with actual seasons before the mortgage and inertia convinced them to stay. Trip was in his mid-thirties, with a tightly groomed dark stubble beard and short-cropped dark hair that still held its shape despite the day’s stress. His frame was solid, broad shoulders beneath a fitted polo that had probably cost more than it should have, the build that came from years of hard work rather than time in a gym. He had sharp, watchful eyes of a man who’d seen too much and trusted too little, and his expression was calm but guarded, like he was always bracing for the next punch life might throw.

Don Henley’s voice drifted from his phone speakers in his jacket pocket, the last few notes of “Everything is Different Now” providing an ironically perfect soundtrack to the scene.

Of course that’s what’s playing. The universe has a real sense of humor about timing. Here I am, walking up to what used to be my house, carrying my son who I only get to see on weekends, about to face another round with Paige, and Henley’s singing about being happy and taking things to the wall. Yeah, everything is different now, all right. Different and completely fucked up. Screw you, Don.

He reached over and turned off the music as they approached the front door, not wanting to give Paige any additional ammunition for tonight’s inevitable confrontation.

A small four-year-old boy was snuggled down into Trip’s shoulder with an arm around his neck as they approached the house that had once been their home before the divorce papers made it just another address.

This place used to mean something. Now it’s just another stop on the custody circuit, another reminder of how spectacularly I managed to screw up the one thing that actually mattered.

The weight of Asher against his chest was both comforting and crushing; comforting because the kid still trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms, crushing because every visit felt like borrowed time he didn’t deserve.

He had been willing to give up almost everything he owned to get away from his ex-wife when the marriage finally imploded. He had felt like a badger caught in a trap, willing to chew off its own leg to get away from the constant criticism, the weaponized silences, the way she could make him feel like a failure just by existing in the same room. In his haste to be free, he had left her with custody of his son, Asher, thinking that maybe some distance would help them all heal, maybe give the kid some stability while the adults figured out how to be human beings again. In retrospect, he regretted that decision more and more with each passing day, each awkward handoff, each reminder that he was now a visitor in his son’s life instead of a constant presence.

He walked up to the front door and awkwardly rang the bell while trying to balance the sleepy child in his arms, shifting Asher’s weight so he could reach the doorbell without dropping him. The sound echoed inside the house, followed by the familiar click of heels on tile that meant Paige was making her way to the door with that particular stride she used when she was already annoyed before the conversation even started.

“It’s about time you got here,” she grumbled while she answered the door, a striking woman in her mid-thirties with sharp blue eyes and a perfectly styled copper-red bob that framed her face like a weapon designed specifically to cut through his remaining self-confidence. The roots of her dyed hair hinted at her natural blonde, but nothing else about her appearance was accidental or unplanned. She wore a tight-lipped smirk and an expression that could cut glass, equal parts bratty defiance and simmering contempt, the same look she’d perfected during the last three years of their marriage when every conversation became a battlefield neither of them could win.

Trip smiled that too-tight, too-late smile he always defaulted to under pressure, the one that had gotten him through countless business meetings and family dinners but never seemed to work on the people who actually mattered. “Traffic was a nightmare, Paige. Tucson forgot how to merge again, which, honestly, I didn’t think was possible since most people here drive like they’re fleeing the scene of a crime anyway.”

“I was about to call the cops,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest in that particular way that meant she was gearing up for a fight whether he wanted one or not.

Trip blinked, genuinely confused by the escalation. “It’s ten minutes, not a manhunt. I mean, unless there’s some new child abandonment statute I missed in my legal education, which admittedly consists of watching Law and Order reruns and that one episode of Judge Judy where the guy tried to sue his neighbor’s chicken.”

“Drop off was scheduled for 6 PM. Not 5:50, not 6:10. You’re late,” she said, her voice taking on that particular edge that meant she was about to turn this into a whole production instead of just accepting that sometimes the universe didn’t revolve around her carefully crafted schedule.

Here we go. She’s got that look, the one that means she’s been rehearsing this conversation in her head since I left Friday night, probably writing out little index cards of grievances to hit me with the moment I walk through the door. God, I used to think this woman was the love of my life. Now I can’t figure out if I was just really bad at reading people or if divorce turns everyone into their worst possible version of themselves.

Trip eased the sleepy child onto the couch with gentle, automatic movements, brushing hair from Asher’s forehead with the kind of tender touch that came naturally when it was just him and his son, away from the performance anxiety that Paige brought to every interaction. “And I’m sorry about that, I really am. Traffic was a complete clown parade, and the kid fell asleep in the back about twenty minutes ago, so I didn’t exactly hit the brakes on purpose to wake him up just so I could deliver him on the exact minute you specified in your carefully itemized custody schedule.”

“Whatever. Stop making excuses,” she said, dismissing his explanation with a wave of her hand like she was swatting away a particularly annoying fly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Trip said, the words coming out more tired than he intended, like he’d already given up on the conversation before it really started.

“Don’t ‘yeah, yeah’ me!” she said, raising her voice to that particular pitch that meant the neighbors were about to get another free episode of the Trip and Paige show, the ongoing drama that had been running in this neighborhood for the better part of two years now.

Trip turned slowly, exhaled as if he were putting down a weight that had been pressing on his chest all day, maybe all year.

Okay, she wants to do this dance again. Fine. Let’s get it over with so I can go home and pretend my life isn’t completely falling apart one custody exchange at a time.

“Okay, you want straight talk? When we split, I didn’t fight you on custody because daycare costs the same as child support, and I figured… you’d be better at this whole parenting thing than I would be. You work from home, you’re here, you’ve got the stability thing figured out, and back then, hell, I thought Asher deserved someone who had their act together instead of someone who was still trying to figure out what the hell happened to the last ten years of his life.”

“Sure, Trip. I’m sure that was your reasoning… and keeping me trapped at home away from the world had nothing to do with it,” she accused, her face becoming a mixture of anger and indifference.

Trip flinched, just barely, a micro-expression that flickered across his face before he managed to mask it with a flat chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. Because I masterminded a grand domestic prison scheme using a joint checking account and a split-level house in the suburbs. Come on, Paige. You’re giving me way more credit for strategic thinking than I ever actually possessed, and we both know I couldn’t organize a conspiracy if it came with a PowerPoint presentation and color-coded flowcharts.”

She refused to look at him, her gaze locked on her own image reflected on the TV screen, like she might find someone else there, someone she didn’t resent quite as much as the person standing in her living room trying to navigate this conversation without setting off whatever emotional landmine she’d been carrying around since the last time they’d tried to have a civil conversation.

“Look,” he said, voice tighter now, the business-casual charm starting to crack around the edges, “I didn’t ask you to take custody. You did. You and your lawyer said it was non-negotiable, remember? I signed the line because that’s what you wanted, what you said would be best for everyone involved. So, if it’s not working out the way you planned, don’t hang that on me. You’re mad at a mirror, not me, and I can’t fix whatever you see when you look at yourself.”

“Don’t lecture me on what I did or didn’t want. We were married for ten years, and you weren’t any good at figuring out what I wanted then, so I don’t know why you’d think you’d be better at it now,” she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of bitterness that comes from spending too much time rehearsing old arguments instead of figuring out how to move forward.

Trip rolled his eyes, rubbing his temples like she was a spreadsheet that refused to balance no matter how many times he ran the numbers.

And here we go with the revisionist history again. Like I was some kind of control freak puppet master instead of just a guy trying to keep his head above water while his marriage imploded in slow motion. But sure, let’s make this about my grand conspiracy to trap you at home instead of acknowledging that maybe we were both just really bad at this whole thing.

“How was I supposed to figure out what you wanted when you didn’t even know what the hell that was? You sic’d your lawyer on me, Paige. You made it a condition of the divorce that you got primary custody. And now you’re mad that I gave you exactly what you asked for? That’s like ordering a sandwich and then getting pissed off when they bring you food.”

“Whatever,” she said, the word coming out like a deflated balloon, heavy with the accumulated disappointment of every exchange that left both parties emotionally unsatisfied.

He let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Right. Sure. That’s your go-to now? You hit me with ‘whatever’ like it’s punctuation, like it’s some kind of conversational Swiss Army knife that can cut through any actual discussion we might accidentally have about what’s actually going on here.”

She turned away, but he kept going, the words spilling out faster than he could stop them. “You can’t expect me to be a damn mind reader, especially when you’re still rewriting your own memories in real-time. And besides,” he said with a smirk and just enough venom to sting, “if you remember, I failed mind reading in college. Right after ‘Healthy Communication 101’ and ‘Advanced Emotional Intelligence for Dummies.’ Real shame, would have saved us both a lot of time and money on therapy bills.”

“Fine, as usual it’s all my fault,” she said, her voice taking on that martyred tone that meant she was about to make this about everything wrong with the world instead of just admitting that maybe they were both terrible at this.

Trip’s smile dropped completely, the mask finally slipping enough to show the exhaustion underneath. “I didn’t say that. But let’s not pretend this was some cosmic injustice that happened to you without any input from your end. You wanted custody. You pushed for it. You made it a condition of the divorce settlement. So yeah, Miss Johnson, it is your own fucking fault. You made the play, and now you’re pissed you got the ball and have to actually figure out what to do with it.”

“Bastard,” she said, the word coming out sharp and clean, like she’d been saving it up for just this moment.

“Bastard enough, and stupid enough, to marry you and have a kid with you,” Trip muttered, hands on his hips like he was trying to physically hold the conversation back from going completely off the rails.

And here we are again, same script, same ending, same feeling like I’m trapped in some kind of cosmic joke where the punchline is that we both lose and Asher gets to watch his parents tear each other apart every weekend for the rest of his childhood.

“Fuck you,” she said, crossing her arms again like she was building a fortress out of her own anger.

He didn’t flinch this time, just looked at her with the kind of tired resignation that comes from having this exact fight too many times to count. “Luckily for him, despite your absolutely weaponized genetics and your Olympic-level emotional sabotage skills, he turned out great. Must’ve skipped the part where you passed down your infamous borderline personality disorder and your advanced degree in making everyone around you feel like they’re walking through a minefield.”

“I don’t have borderline personality disorder!” she snapped, her voice getting higher and more defensive.

Trip smirked, sharp and cold, the expression of a man who’d finally found the button he’d been looking for. “Fine. Then you’re just toeing the line with a disordered personality. Must be a relief to know you’re only mostly unstable instead of clinically certified.”

“My personality is just fine when I’m not around you!” she shot back, like it was some kind of victory instead of just another way of admitting that they brought out the worst in each other.

“I’m sure,” he said, dry as sandpaper, his voice carrying the weight of every conversation they’d ever had that ended with blame instead of solutions. “That’s the trick, right? Just remove every human variable and voilà, functional adult. Works great until you have to interact with literally anyone else on the planet who doesn’t automatically agree with everything you say.”

She glared at him with the kind of hatred that comes from knowing someone too well and resenting them for it. He stepped closer, dropping the grin and letting some of the real exhaustion show through.

“I just hope you don’t screw him up out of spite. He deserves better than to be the rebound from your latest grudge match with reality,” he said, his voice quieter now but carrying more weight than any of the previous insults.

“Your fault for leaving me with custody,” she said, like it was some kind of trump card instead of just another way of avoiding responsibility for the choices she’d made.

“Yeah, well… it’s not his fault he got stuck with us,” Trip said, his voice dropping a notch, quieter, more honest than he meant it to be.

And that’s the truth, isn’t it? None of this is his fault. He didn’t ask to be born to two people who can’t figure out how to be adults, can’t figure out how to love each other, can’t figure out how to stop hurting each other long enough to actually be parents instead of just people who happen to share DNA with a kid who deserves so much better than this.

“So maybe let’s not punish him for how bad we are at being grown-ups.”

“I’m his mother, I’ll do what I want,” she said, her voice taking on that possessive edge that always made Trip’s stomach clench with worry about what that might actually mean for Asher.

“You always have… how’s that worked out for you?” he asked, arms crossed like he was waiting for a punchline that they both knew wasn’t coming.

“Not bad, I’d say,” she snapped, her voice getting sharper. “I’ve got the house, the car, the kid, and most of the furniture. Once I find another man, I’ll even be fucking him in what used to be our bed, so I’d say I came out ahead in this particular business transaction.”

Trip gave her a mock-impressed nod, the kind of expression he might use if she’d just told him she’d won a prize for most creative self-destruction. “Classy. Real power move, Paige. But honestly? I’m not sweating it. Your attitude’s gonna do most of the work for me. Once he spends five minutes listening to you unload that venom, he’ll be diving out a window like it’s a fire drill, and you’ll be right back where you started, except with more cats and a stronger prescription for whatever you’re taking to sleep at night.”

“Fuck you,” she said again, like it was the only response she had left in her arsenal.

He raised a brow, reached for the door handle, and looked back at her one last time. “No thanks,” he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of ten years of marriage and two years of divorce. “That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”

Then he pulled the door shut behind him, not quite slamming it but closing it with enough force to make his point, and walked back down the concrete path toward his car with his jaw clenched and his hands shaking just enough to prove he wasn’t nearly as cool as he’d pretended to be during that entire conversation.

And there it is. Another successful co-parenting interaction for the books. Another reminder that I’m exactly as good at this as I was at being married, which is to say not good at all. Asher deserves better. Hell, even Paige deserves better, though I’m pretty sure she’d disagree with that assessment. And me? I deserve exactly what I got, which is this wonderful little slice of suburban purgatory where I get to pretend I’m a father for thirty-six hours a week and spend the rest of my time trying to figure out how I managed to screw up the one thing that was supposed to make me a better person.

The desert night stretched out ahead of him as he reached his car, the streetlights casting long shadows across the asphalt, and Trip Williams sat behind the wheel for a long moment before starting the engine, trying to figure out how to drive home to an empty apartment and pretend that everything was fine, that he was fine, that any of this was sustainable for more than another few months before something gave way completely.

The clock on his dashboard read 6:47 PM, and somewhere in the distance, the city lights of Tucson beckoned like a promise he wasn’t sure he believed anymore.