“Here. For your lipstick.” Tripp Hendrix, a tall, lanky cowboy, with a coif of impressive wheat-colored hair, hovers over me. I should hate another man in my life, but Tripp’s a childhood friend from Resurrection. Neighbors, we often walked each other home from school. When I was twelve, I caught him getting the shit kicked out of him by a couple of classmates. I pulled a fist like my father had shown me and swung. The group scattered. My fist throbbed, but I’d never admit it. “Holy shit,” Tripp gasped, rubbing at his black eye. “You did that.” I sort of laughed at him. “Nothing to it. Got
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