The Other One

by Jiffy Kate

  I think what bothers me the most is that I know I have an entire week to wait for my next chance to see her. I had hoped, at the very least, to see her face yesterday. Of course, I’m not a big fan of eye contact, but I want to see hers. What if the next time I see her, she still stays hidden behind her veil of hair? What then? Do I wait another week? Can I wait another week? The longer I wait, the more invested I feel, and I don’t even know why or what I’m seeking.

  When I can’t comprehend something or remember something from my past, my therapist always tells me to start with the truth I know and go from there. My truths about Ania are a short list. All I know is that she goes to the café every Thursday, and she intrigues me. Other than that, I’m left with a bunch of questions and unplaced emotions.

  Liza sensed something was bothering me when I came in from work yesterday evening, but I tried to convince her it was the pressure of having a job and adjusting to something new. She gave me the one eyebrow look that says she doesn’t quite believe me, but she let it rest.

  If I’m not mistaken, later that night, I overheard her on the phone talking to Wyatt. I’m sure she was checking up on me, and I know she thinks I don’t like that, but, honestly, it doesn’t bother me. I feel indebted to my family, so if they need to check up on me or keep tabs on me to feel better, then I’ll let them. We all have things to cope with, and I can’t begrudge them their mechanisms. If I were in their shoes, if I had almost lost them, I’d probably be overly protective and somewhat irrational from time to time, too.

  As I roll out of bed, I begin my normal morning routine: make my bed, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, get dressed, then grab my backpack and leave. Performing these tasks in the same order allows my day to start in a calm manner, and I need as much calm as I can get, especially after my dream.

  Biking to campus, I’m still struggling with what to do about Ania. I’m so curious about her, and I know I won’t get any answers until I talk to her, but I just don’t know if I can. I stutter and trip over my words while having a conversation with my family members. What makes me think I won’t do the same or worse if I try to speak to her? And I get the feeling she doesn’t want anyone to speak to her, which makes it even harder.

  Part of me thinks I should give up before I crash and burn, save myself from the embarrassment of rejection, but I don’t think I can.

  What I’d love more than anything is to be able to talk this over with my dad.

  If he were here, he’d know what I should do. He always did. He always had the best advice, even when I didn’t want it.

  “Tripp, how was your study session tonight?” my dad asks as I walk in the back door a little after curfew.

  “Fine.” I shrug as I let my backpack drop off my shoulder and to the floor with a loud thud.

  Both of my parents have a signature expression when dealing with my sister and me. My mom cocks her left eyebrow and purses her lips together. This particular look is usually paired with her hands firm on her hips while her right foot taps a demanding rhythm. My dad, though. His “look” isn’t as dramatic as my mom’s. He simply focuses on my eyes with both of his brows raised expectantly while the words “I know you’re full of shit. Now, ‘fess up” are practically written across his forehead.

  That’s the look he’s giving me right now.

  I learned a long time ago; it doesn’t do me any good to try to bullshit my way out of a conversation with either of my parents, so I let out a long sigh and tell the truth.

  “I wasn’t studying; I was with Whitney,” I admit, deciding full-disclosure is my best bet.

  My dad doesn’t look surprised, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

  “Son, we’ve discussed priorities before, isn’t that right?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand that your girlfriend is a priority to you, as she should be, but you have other things to focus on, too. Mainly, your grades. Unlike the football field, where you play as a team, your test scores are all on you.”

  “Dad, I don’t know why you’re so concerned with that. I’ll get into college because of football. What I score on the SATs doesn’t matter.”

  “What happens if you get hurt and can’t play football anymore? Your mother and I will always help you if you need it, but I’m not going to pay your tuition so that you can party your way through college. It’s very simple. If you want a career that pays well, you’ll need a degree, and to get that degree, you have to pass your classes. You’re a very bright young man, but don’t take things that come easily to you for granted.”

  No one, not even my dad, could’ve predicted just how right his advice to me was that day. Football did get me into Tulane, but it didn’t keep me there, and it most definitely didn’t get me into Loyola. I’ve learned some hard lessons these last few months, but I’ll be damned if I ever take anything for granted again.

  I have a lot of regrets about the past few years and I refuse to add to the list.

  I know talking to a girl might not seem like a big deal to a lot of people. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to me seven months ago. But now, it is. It’s something I want almost as much as I want to feel normal again.

  I want to know her.

  Unlike last week, this week I’m grateful for the seven days I have to wait between her visits to the café. Hopefully, I’ll be able to work up the courage to say something, anything.

  I spend most of the time during my classes on Friday daydreaming about what it’d be like to talk to her. Several scenarios flit through my mind.

  In one vision, I can see the old me walking right up to her with the confidence I was born with and saying hello. She’d return my easy smile. That Tripp would slide into the seat across from her and tell her he’s noticed her, and he’d like to get to know her better.

  But that Tripp is in the past. I no longer have that kind of confidence in myself or in my ability to walk up to a girl and start talking.

  From there, my mind drifts to more likely first interactions, like walking up to talk to her and then forgetting everything I’d rehearsed, stumbling over a chair and falling into her table, spilling water on her—each scenario more embarrassing than the one before.

  I hate this version of me. I hate that I can’t just snap my fingers and go back to what I was seven months ago. The frustration brings tears to my eyes, and I hate that too. I don’t want to feel weak or incompetent, but the more I try to push forward, the more I feel like I’m going backward.

  “What’s got you lookin’ like someone ran over your puppy?” Liza asks, nudging me with her hip as she dries the dishes I’m washing.

  “Nothing.” I look down at the suds in the sink. My mind obviously has been adrift with thoughts of Ania for a while. I thought of her as I picked up the first plate and now I’m down to my last fork.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say, making sure to keep my tone even.

  “Classes going okay?” she continues.

  “Yes, Liza,” I reply, trying not to let annoyance seep into my words.

  I know she’s going to push until she gets her answers. The worst part is I know what’s bothering me, but I don’t know how to say it. And even if I were able just to spit it out, I’m not sure how Liza would handle it.

  “Have you been feeling okay? No migraines or panic attacks?”

  “No. Not in the last few weeks.” There was that moment at the café last week, but I don’t feel like elaborating, and since I was able to get through it on my own, I don’t see any reason to bring it up.

  “Have you been having nightmares again?”

  “Not recently,” I lie.

  “Keeping your appointments with your therapist?”

  I let out an exasperated breath as I dry my hands on her towel. “Yes, Liza. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing—therapist appointments, getting enough sleep, going to class.” My chin falls to my chest, and I drape my arms over the s
ink.

  “Then what’s bothering you?” She crosses her arms over her chest as she leans against the cabinet beside me. “I’m worried about you. You seemed like you were doing so well, and now this week, I feel like you’ve taken a few steps back. If work is adding too much pressure, then maybe we jumped the gun on that. Maybe you just need to focus on your classes for this semester.”

  “No!” My head pops up, and I realize I probably answered too abruptly, but there’s no way I’m quitting work. I like my job, and if I don’t work, I don’t see Ania, and that’s out of the question.

  Liza raises her eyebrow at my tone of voice.

  I laugh, breathing heavily out of my nose, releasing the tension that felt trapped inside.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks, her lips turning up into a curious, but still slightly worried, smile.

  “You gave me the mom brow,” I tell her with a teasing smirk.

  “I did not!” She whacks me with the dish towel, and it stings a little, so I dip my hand in the dishwater and flick it at her.

  “Oh, you’re so gonna pay for that,” she says, her voice playful, but the mom brow comes out again, and it makes me laugh.

  “You started it.”

  Liza sighs and leans back against the counter. “So, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

  “A girl,” I say, simply because I don’t know what else to say, and I know she’s not going to let this go until I give her some answers.

  “A girl?” Liza repeats, questioning with her tone and her expression. I see the twitch of her lips, and I know this conversation isn’t over. “What’s her name?”

  I push another laugh out through my nose, gripping the back of my neck. “I don’t even know.” The admission makes me feel foolish—stupid. How have I let a girl, whose name I don’t even know, get so far under my skin?

  “Hmmm,” she says, grinning at the floor. “But you want to know her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re going to ask her?”

  “Yes—No . . . I don’t know.” I groan, resuming my position against the sink and burying my head in my arms. “I feel like if I say anything I’m gonna mess it all up and scare her off.”

  “You’re not gonna scare her off,” Liza says softly. Her hand comes up to rub my shoulder because she thinks I’m making this about me, and although it is, in part, it’s more about Ania. “She’d be crazy to run away from you.”

  “What if I’ve forgotten how to be with a girl?” I feel my cheeks get hot with my admission, but I can’t deny that it’s a real fear.

  “You haven’t. It’s like riding a bike.”

  “What if it’s not like that for me? What if I never get back to normal?”

  “Who says you’re not normal?” Liza asks defensively.

  I know I shouldn’t go here with her because it pisses her off. I should save this for one of my appointments with Dr. Abernathy, but I can’t help the words that spill out. “Lately, I feel like the more I push myself to get back to where I was, the more I get further and further away.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  Her question hits me right in my gut.

  Maybe she’s right? Maybe it’s not such a bad thing?

  Over the past seven months, I’ve been forced to see who and what matters. The friends I thought were always going to be there bailed on me. The girl I thought would always be there dumped me. The life I thought I was going to have took a hard left turn . . . or maybe it was right.

  “And if this girl is anything special, she’ll see what we see. She won’t stop at the obvious. She’ll look deeper.”

  “I already feel things for her, and I don’t even know her name,” I confess, liking that my chest feels lighter getting that out in the open. “Is that weird?”

  “Not necessarily. What is it about her that makes you want to get to know her?”

  “She’s just sad,” I say, letting my thoughts drift to Ania. “Her eyes always look like she’s been crying or like she could at any second. And if she notices someone looking at her, she lets her hair fall across her face as a shield. You can tell she doesn’t want to be seen. But I see her. And I want to see more. The more she denies me that, the more I want it.”

  I wish I could talk to Ania as easily and comfortably as I talk to Liza.

  “Have you ever stopped to think maybe you see some of yourself in her?”

  “No, I—I don’t know,” I pause for a second, wondering if that’s it. “The only thing I can think of when I look at her is that I’d like to help her . . . make her not so sad.”

  “Well,” Liza says thoughtfully. “The next time you see her, just walk up to her, count to three, and say hello. Just do it. Don’t overthink it.” She pushes off the counter and places her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Most of all, just be you, because you’re good enough.”

  “THE NEXT TIME you see her, just walk up to her, count to three, and say hello. Just do it. Don’t overthink it.”

  Liza’s words from last week have been on a constant replay since I walked into work this afternoon. Somehow, I managed to make it to Thursday without losing my mind or having a panic attack. Tuesday, when I was working, I kept trying to imagine myself talking to Ania. I tried to see myself doing just what Liza said—walking up to her, counting to three, and saying hello—but now that the time is getting closer, I’m not sure I can follow through. I also don’t want to torture myself by thinking about it for another week. I wish there was another place I could see her, some place where other people wouldn’t be watching, but until I grow a pair and introduce myself, that will never happen.

  Taking a deep breath, I glance at the watch on my wrist for the millionth time in the last two hours.

  “Got a hot date?” Wyatt asks, startling me, and I nearly drop the tray of glasses I’m currently carrying back to the kitchen. Thank goodness they’re empty.

  “Whoa, didn’t mean to spook ya.” He laughs, flashing me a wide smile and helping me steady the tray.

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice coming out shaky, like the tray, and I can feel my heart pounding. I hate that Wyatt caught me watching the clock. The last thing I want is for my boss to think I don’t want to be here, because I do. I want this job. If nothing else, it makes me feel more normal.

  “Don’t be sorry, man. It’s all good!” He rests his hand on my back as we walk to the kitchen together. “So, do you have a hot date?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  “No—I was just, uh . . .” He’s the last person I want to admit this to, so I try to think quick, which isn’t an option for me, so I wing it. “I just have, uh—studying. I have a lot of studying to do . . . when I get off work.” My face feels hot from the lies coming out of my mouth, but I can’t stop them.

  “Did you need the night off?” he asks, sincerity written all over his face. “You know, we’re always willing to work with you on your schedule. All you have to do is let Dixie know. School always comes first.”

  “No! No.” I swallow, trying to relieve the tightness in my throat. It’s not like Wyatt is one of those dick bosses who thinks his shit is way more important than yours. He cares about his employees. So, standing here making up a stupid lie feels wrong. “It’s fine. I’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Well, you let me know if I can help in any way,” Wyatt says before patting my shoulder and walking toward his office. When he’s gone, I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax.

  I hate that I lied to him, but what else was I supposed to do? He’s already told me to leave Ania alone, so what would he have said if I had admitted to wanting to talk to her? Would he think I’m defiant or just stupid? I don’t want him to think either of those things about me.

  I’m so lost in my thoughts that I’m on autopilot as I go to greet my new customer. Not registering which table I’m headed for, I walk until my thighs bump into the rounded corner of wood, making the entire surf
ace shake. As I reach my hand out, startled eyes flash to my horrified ones, but there’s something familiar about them. I know these eyes.

  Ania.

  She scowls briefly before turning away, back toward the window, letting her hair fall forward. Naturally, I’m speechless and embarrassed, so I make quick strides to the hallway leading to the kitchen, pressing my back against the wall when I’m hidden from everyone, trying to mold myself into the plaster. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pound my fists against the wall a few times and let out an aggravated growl.

  This is one of those times when I wouldn’t mind having at least some of the old Tripp back.

  “Hey, brah, when are you gonna buck up and ask Whitney out?”

  I inhale deeply, finishing my cigarette before tossing it to the ground and smashing it with the toe of my boot. Rolling my eyes, I laugh while blowing the smoke out of my mouth.

  “Why are you so curious about Whitney and me? I’ve already told you; I’ll ask her when I’m good and ready.”

  My buddy, Tyler, and I are hanging outside, smoking, while the rest of our classmates are inside, celebrating the first football game and win of our junior year.

  “Speak of the devil,” Tyler murmurs. The sound of a screen door slamming catches my attention, and I look up just in time to lock eyes with Whitney Greene.

  Whitney and I have known each other forever, attending the same schools since kindergarten. We’ve always been friendly toward each other but never hung with the same crowd until high school. This past summer was particularly good to her, maturing her body from an awkward teen to a beautiful young woman, and every hard-leg around here has been drooling over her since the first day of school. I was more than pleased to hear she was interested in me, but it hasn’t made me rush to ask her out.

  She gives me a shy smile that blooms bigger after I wink at her. I watch as her friend whispers something in her ear, making her giggle before she glances at me again.

  We’ve been tip-toeing around each other for the past three weeks, teasing each other with smiles and playful eyes, and suddenly, I don’t want to play anymore. Bits and pieces of a conversation I had a month or so ago with my dad come to mind, but I pay them little attention. There is nothing gentlemanly about the thoughts I’m having for the blonde-haired beauty standing in front of me.