Years before Trip Wiley could be seen on movie screens all over the world, he could be seen sitting in the desk behind me in my high school English class.
This was back in 1990, and I cite the year only to avoid dumbfounding you when references to big hair or stretch pants are mentioned. Although, come to think of it, I am from New Jersey, which may serve as explanation enough. We were teenagers then, way back in a time before anyone, himself included, could even dream he'd turn into the Hollywood commodity that he is today.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you who Trip Wiley is. But on the off chance you've been living under a rock for the past decade, just know that these days, he's the bad boy actor found at the top of every casting director's wish list. He's incredibly talented and insanely gorgeous, the combination of which has made him very rich, very famous and very desirable.
And not just to casting directors, either.
I can't confirm any of the gossip from his early years out in Tinseltown, but based on what I knew of his life before he was famous, I can tell you that the idea of Girls-Throwing-Themselves-At-Trip is not a new concept.
I should know. I was one of them.
And my life hasn't been the same since.
Remember When is the first story in an NA romance trilogy. It will take you back to that time before the real world kicked in, that limbo between adolescence and adulthood, that trial of hanging on to the past while figuring out where the future will lie.
With heart-shredding romance, steamy love scenes and hilarious eighties references, readers of all ages will find themselves rooting for Layla and dreaming about Trip for years to come. It's an endearing journey through the tumultuous world of friendship, family and high school…
…and the memory of that one incredible guy your heart just can't seem to forget.
The second bell hadn’t rung yet and already I was zoned out, slouched in my seat, waiting for Mrs. Mason to get on with Part Two of Romeo and Juliet. I had gotten through the entire book over the weekend, a fact I was forced to keep to myself considering Mason’s explicit instructions that we not read ahead.
My ears perked up when I heard Mrs. Mason speaking over the din of a not-yet-settled classroom. “Thank you. You can take the desk over there behind Miss Warren, by the windows.” Teachers always tried to convey some illusion of respect by calling us by our last names.
My parents had saddled me with the unfortunate first name of Layla. My father has always explained that my mother was in the middle of a pretty heady rock-and-roll phase in the years surrounding my birth, which explains, but doesn’t excuse, the fact that my brother’s name is Bruce Springsteen Warren. I shit you not.
In any case, I hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs. Mason until I heard her say my name. I looked up and saw some new kid hand her a slip of paper then turn toward the direction of her pointed finger. The sight that greeted me was enough to stop my heart.
If I were living in a movie, the opening strains of “Crazy Train” would have piped in, creating a background for this gorgeous boy who was walking slow-motion toward me. Our eyes met for a second before I realized I’d been staring and suddenly looked away.
I tried to look engrossed in my book, flipping pages and avoiding eye contact as he sauntered down the aisle and slipped into the seat behind me. No sooner had he gotten himself settled when the bell rang, signaling the start of class.
Mrs. Mason stood and announced the obvious. “Good afternoon, everyone. You may have noticed that we have a new student today and I’d like to invite him up here to introduce himself.”
God. What kind of sadism seminar do teachers attend that encourages torturing the new kid? If I had to get up in front of the whole class and offer some condensed biography of my life, I’d probably die. But New Kid strolled right up to the front of the room without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. And then, because all eyes were on him, I had the excuse to look right at him.
He had sun-streaked, sandy hair which he wore long on top, but short enough in back that Sister Jean wouldn’t drag him by his ear into her office to shave his head as she’d been rumored to do. I hoped he’d keep on top of it, because it would have been a crime to shave off a beautiful mane such as that.
He bared a smile of gleaming, white teeth as he slid a hand into his back pocket, making the muscle of his arm strain against the sleeve of his white Oxford.
REMEMBER WHEN #1 - ADD TO - > GOODREADS
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. Torrrest is a New Adult fiction writer from the U.S. Her stories are geared toward readers who know how to enjoy a good laugh and a dreamy romance. She likes pina colads and getting caught in the rain. She's not much into health food, but does enjoy talking about herself in the third person. A lifelong Jersey girl, she currently resides there with her husband and two boys.