by T. Torrest
“I’m fine. A little mortified, but I’ll live.”
Screw it. I couldn’t be this near to her and not touch her. I stepped closer to cup her face in my palm, swiping my thumb across the smooth skin of her jaw. “You know, that was a first for me, too.” She looked at me skeptically, so I added, “I’ve never been anyone’s first before.”
She forced a laugh and said, “Well, I can only imagine you never will be again after that horror show.”
Her eyes met mine, the tortured look on her face almost tearing my heart out, the miserable realization that our minutes together were numbered. After all the months of postponing the inevitable, there we were, left with mere seconds to spend with one another.
I grasped her hands in mine and planted a sweet kiss on her lips. “No, probably not. But only because I can’t imagine ever wanting to be with anyone else ever again.”
My stomach wrenched at the words. The words I knew to be true. How would any other girl ever compare to Layla? Who would get my corny jokes and weird sense of humor? Who would laugh with me? Who would ever love me like she did?
Don’t go. Stay with me. Come live with me and be my love.
It was right there on the tip of my tongue. She knew it was. Her face contorted into a mask of agony as she warned, “Trip... don’t.”
I couldn’t ask her to stay, but I could tell her how I felt. “I’m in love with you, Layla.”
Her head dropped to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “Trip. Stop!”
“No, Layla. I won’t stop.” I moved closer, cradling her head to my chest before continuing. “I know you’re leaving and I would never try to keep you from going, and I guess I have my own path to follow as well. But don’t ever ask me to stop loving you, because I can’t. Don’t ever think I’ll be able to forget you, because I won’t.”
Her restrained crying turned to outright sobbing, her shoulders heaving under my hands, her tears dampening the front of my T-shirt.
Please don’t cry. Can’t you see? I’m doing this for YOU, Lay. Only you. If it was for me, I’d never let you go.
Why did we have to make this choice? It could be so easy for us to just decide to stay right where we were, loving each other for the rest of our lives. All I had to do to change our future was say the word.
Oh God. I take it back. All of it. Just tell me you want me and I’ll stay with you forever. I’ll make you happy, Lay. I swear.
But instead, my traitorous mouth said the complete opposite. “I’m not going to be that guy, that guy who hangs on too tight because he’s afraid of what will happen when he lets go.” I kissed the top of her head and added, “But I want you to promise me something, okay?”
She took a huge shaky breath and asked, “What’s that?”
I put my hands on either side of her face and forced her teary eyes to mine. “Be happy. Wherever you wind up. And know that I’ll be thinking of you, wherever I am.”
At that, I bent my face to hers and kissed her for the last time.
My lungs involuntarily breathed in the scent of her, all fruity and summery and threatening to tear my heart to shreds. I couldn’t take it. Our last kiss.
I tore my mouth from hers and shook my head, defeated. “I can’t do this. It’s too hard.”
I reached into my truck through the open window and pulled out a pale blue envelope. Enclosed in that innocent looking bit of stationery was my heart, the only way I could give it to her: A picture of us from graduation. The birthday card from last October. A leaf from her favorite tree. The Mind Ramble I’d written in September.
This time, I didn’t wimp out.
I placed it in her hands before swiping a strand of hair behind her ear.
You’re beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that doesn’t go away.
Do you even know how beautiful you are?
While I was trying to think of the right way to say goodbye, Lay’s teary eyes flashed with a hint of mischief and her lip quirked into a restrained smile as she said, “Stay gold, Ponyboy.”
At first, I was kind of stunned that she’d made a joke in the middle of such a devastating moment. But then I realized... coming out with a comment like that at a time like this was a totally Layla thing to do.
A sad smile slowly eked its way across my face as I brushed a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a tear, and kissed her on that very spot, branding myself on her skin before dropping my hand and climbing back into my truck.
She stood there and watched as I pulled out of her driveway—slowly, giving her the chance to throw it all away and come with me. But when she stood stock still, I knew it was really and truly over.
So I drove away.
I refused to look in my rearview mirror. I couldn’t bear it. Because if I allowed myself to look back, there would’ve been nothing to stop me from turning my truck right the hell around, putting my arms around her, and never letting her go. Instead, I rolled down my window and inhaled a fragrant breath of the late-summer air, silently aching for the girl I loved.
I knew the scent would haunt me forever.
As much as I didn’t want it to, a montage of memories played out behind my eyes, the past year we’d shared together, the good as well as the bad.
I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to remember the whispered promises, didn’t want to feel my heart breaking. I didn’t want to acknowledge the lone tear trickling down my cheek.
So I said goodbye to the town of Norman, goodbye to every inch of the only place that ever felt like home.
And then I looked forward. I focused on the road ahead. The unknown path lain out before me, the miles and miles of open road that separated me from the rest of my life.
For all the choices open to me, my options in that moment boiled down to only one:
Just keep going.
THE END
Not.
(Get Layla’s side of the story with the bestselling REMEMBER WHEN trilogy!
Turn the page for an excerpt.)
Excerpt from REMEMBER WHEN:
Chapter 2
TRIPWIRE
I was sitting in Mrs. Mason’s fifth period English Literature class when it happened.
It was only the second week of the new school year, my senior year (finally!) at über-prestigious St. Nicetius Parochial High School—since it was the only Catholic school in town, it was less formally referred to as “St. Norman’s”—and already I was counting down the days until graduation. Five down; one-hundred-and-seventy-five to go.
It’s not that I didn’t like school. It’s just that the weather was still perfect in September and it was hard to get back into institution-mode with the sun shining so maliciously through the open windows of my butter-yellow concrete cell; the warmth of a sunbeam against my skin taunting me with an almost audible ticking as the end of summer counted down its final hours.
I was staring outside, catching the scent of warm, cut grass and thinking about taking a dip in the pool at the end of the day. The pool was my haven, my one place I could go whenever I wanted to block out the world. Living in New Jersey only allowed about a five month window to indulge in that activity, but my father would sometimes take mercy on me during the winter months and splurge on a day pass for the pool at the Jewish Y. Being that it was September, however, I knew I had at least a couple more weeks before it would become an issue. I’d managed the rare task of getting in a few laps before school that day, waking up before my alarm even went off, allowing a few extra minutes to grab a quick swim. I turned my face into my shoulder and breathed in, picking up a hint of chlorine through the shield of Aqua Net in my hair, offering a small promise of the lazy, floaty afternoon to come.
I’d had a bad run-in with the Sun-In a few weeks back which streaked my dark brown hair the nastiest shades of burnt orange. My best friend Lisa, after laughing hysterically at my predicament, came over and helped me dye it back to my natural color. I would have considered that very helpful if it weren’t for the fact that Lisa was t
he one who insisted I be the guinea pig for that particular brand of hair lightener in the first place.
I’d been staring wistfully out the window at the sunshine, daydreaming about working on my tan, driving around in Lisa’s beat-up old LeBaron with the top down or getting in a few more laps once I got home from school.
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.
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.
My God.
He mussed the back of his hair with his free hand as Mrs. Mason introduced him to the class as Terrence C. Wilmington the third, which prompted him to immediately correct her with, “Everyone calls me Trip.”
The smooth tenor of his voice caught me by surprise. Mrs. Mason must have been a little affected too, because she didn’t bristle at being disputed and merely smiled back at Trip’s direct gaze and charming grin.
He turned back to our class and started in with the ease of someone who’d had to endure this barbaric ritual many times before. “My name’s Trip,” he said again. “My family just moved here from Indianapolis.”
I don’t know why, but the phrase cornfed Indiana farmboy came into my head at that moment. Indianapolis is hardly farm country, but I didn’t count anyplace as a city except New York. Everything west of here was amber waves of grain as far as I was concerned. But even though he had the look of someone who’d have been perfectly cast in the role of sexy stableboy, he was way too polished to have been mistaken for a mere farmhand. Regardless of a rural upbringing.
“Before Indy, we lived in Seattle, Phoenix, L.A., and Chicago, where I was born.”
Ah, okay. More “cities.”
Mrs. Mason interrupted his schpiel then. “Is your father in the military, Trip?”
“Uh, no. He’s in hotels. But I guess I could see why you’d get the impression that I’m an army brat. According to my sister, the brat part sums me up pretty good, though.”
A few girls started giggling at the little joke which probably would have gone over like a lead balloon if it were told by anyone less gorgeous. I snickered at that thought and hoped it wasn’t loud enough to hear.
Trip continued with, “My father likes to oversee construction when any one of his new hotels is being built. We normally spend a few years in each city until the grand opening and then we move on to the next one.”
I felt my heart sink inexplicably, thinking that Trip’s days here were already numbered. I didn’t even know the guy, but I’d been excited by the promise of someone new in this town, someone who hadn’t lived here since birth like the rest of us. Someone who wasn’t in every class picture of mine since kindergarten. Someone, let’s face it, who was pretty easy on the eyes.
Mrs. Mason asked, “You named a bunch of big cities, there. How is it that you wound up in Norman, New Jersey? We’re hardly a mecca for tourism.”
That brought a few chuckles from the class as Trip flashed another amazing grin and answered, “Actually, the hotel’s being built in New York. My father says this is his last hotel and he wanted to save it for when he was ready to retire, so I guess we’re here for the long haul. The city’s close enough to Norman and my dad spent his teen years here. I guess he wants that for me, too.”
My stomach did a quick flip of rejoice. At the time, I was trying to convince myself that all I cared about was an improvement to the scenery of boring old Norman. Trip was like a one-man beautification committee just by existing.
“Well, Trip, welcome to our town. I hope you’ll like it here.”
I guess Trip took that as his cue to escape, because he started walking toward me, back to his newly assigned desk, but not without saying, “Thanks. I have a feeling I will.” Then he gave my desk a quick tap with his fingertips—which knocked me out—before sliding into the seat behind me.
I hoped I didn’t have some noticeably embarrassing shocked look on my face, but my mouth had certainly gone dry and I swallowed hard. This, with my life, led to a very noticeable coughing fit which just got worse the more I tried to stop it. I raised my hand to be excused and Mrs. Mason just wagged her head in the direction of the door. I made a break for it, almost tripping on Mary Ellen Simpky’s oversized Gucci purse on my way out of the room. I high-tailed it down the hall to the water fountain outside the girls’ room and slugged down about a gallon of Norman’s finest before the sputtering fit subsided. Without the luxury of long sleeves to swipe my face (Oh, please. Like everyone doesn’t do it), I cruised into the bathroom in search of a paper towel.
Penelope Redy and Margie Caputo were standing together in the same open stall amidst a swirl of smoke. They both jumped when I walked in before realizing it was only me and not some teacher coming in to bust them for cutting class and sneaking a cigarette. Damn. I was so distracted that I forgot the cardinal rule of the Girls’ Room, and didn’t say “It’s okay” upon entering.
We exchanged quick hellos before I turned toward the towel dispenser and they turned back to their conversation.
“I heard he’s from Indiana,” Penelope said through an exhale.
Margie spat back, “They don’t make them like that in Indiana. Mount Olympus, maybe. But not Indiana.”
Clearly, the hot topic of gossip for the next millennium at St. Norman’s High School was going to be about the new kid.
“Do you think he has a girlfriend, like back home or whatever?”
Margie threw the butt into the toilet with a sizzle and flushed the incriminating evidence away. “Guys like that always do. Why? You think you have a shot at him? As if.”
Penelope huffed at her friend’s assessment and made her w
ay over to the sink next to me. “That’s not why I asked. I already have a boyfriend anyway. I was just curious, is all.” Then she directed her next words to me. “Layla!”
I turned toward her all innocence, as if I hadn’t spent the past minutes chafing my face and hands on the scratchy excuse for a paper towel just so I could eavesdrop.
Penelope asked, “What do you think? Have you seen him yet?”
“Who’s that?” I asked unconvincingly.
She rolled her eyes. “The new kid. Terrence C. Williesomething.”
Before I could stop myself, I found myself saying, “His name’s Trip,” and then probably blushed twelve different shades of red.
Penelope raised knowing brows at me as she pumped the dispenser lever of the paper towel holder, tearing off a three-foot length of recycled brown sandpaper.
I added quickly, “He’s in Mason’s class with me right now.”
Penelope said, “Yeah. I had him in Biology.”
“You wish,” Margie piped in.
Penelope threw her towel in the trashcan, asking, “I wonder what the C stands for.”
To which a quick-witted Margie shot back, “Hmm. Crumptious?”
* * *
When I got back to class, I avoided all eye contact as I tried to slide unnoticed back into my seat. I opened my book to the current page and was trying to concentrate on Capulets and Montagues when there was an electric shock against my shoulder blade; a finger poking me in the back. Trip was apparently trying to get my attention. Like he hadn’t already.
I snuck a quick glance to make sure Mason was still at the blackboard before twisting around sideways in my seat. If I were Lisa, I could have come up with the perfect thing to say to him. But I was me, so the wittiest remark I could come up with was, “What is it, New Kid?”
At first, this brought a staggered look to Trip’s face, but then he rewarded my jab with a smirk. Seeing his lip curl into a crooked smile while getting a close-up view of his gorgeous blue eyes for the first time made my composure slip just the slightest notch. I guess he didn’t notice, because he simply asked, “You okay?”