by Jiffy Kate
She still looks like she could use a friend, and Lord knows I could too, so if that’s all I can be to her, then that’s what I’ll be.
The next six days are torturous. My mind is spread thin with scattered thoughts of what I should be thinking about—work, school, and my daily routine—competing with thoughts of Ania.
Is she engaged?
Is she married?
If she were married, wouldn’t she wear that large sparkly ring on her finger instead of on a chain around her neck?
Why didn’t I notice it before last Thursday?
Wyatt could tell I was distracted at work on Tuesday, more than normal. He pulled me to the side and asked me if everything was okay. I told him it was and that I just had a lot on my mind. The look he gave me made me think that he didn’t quite believe the line I was feeding him, but he didn’t push.
Wednesday, during my classes, I was so lost in thought about Ania, I didn’t even notice when one of my professors had ended class. It wasn’t until someone bumped into me with their bag that I was pulled out of my haze and realized I was the last one sitting in the classroom.
Today, going through my normal routine of getting ready for work, I’m seriously contemplating asking Wyatt about Ania. I know that seems crazy, but if she’s married or engaged, if she’s technically someone else’s, he’d be the most likely person to know. And I know he instructed me to leave her alone, but my mind won’t rest until I know more facts about her . . . until I know what I can let myself hope for when it comes to her. So, I’m going to find a way to talk to him.
As I poke my head inside the back door of Liza and Ben’s, I give the door a knock to let them know I’m there.
“Hey, Tripp.”
“Hey, Liza. Where’s Jack and Emmie?”
It doesn’t escape me that the house is too quiet.
“Ben had the afternoon free, so he took the kids to the zoo.”
“Sounds fun.”
“So, how’s your week going?” she asks. “Any progress with your favorite customer?” This has become a normal conversation between the two of us. I almost confessed the nickname I’ve given her, so she’ll quit calling her my “favorite customer”, but I decided I didn’t want to share it . . . or her. I don’t want to share Ania.
“I think she’s engaged.”
Liza’s head whips around and her eyes are large and questioning. “Really? Did you talk to her? Did she tell you that?”
“No, I still haven’t had the nerve to talk to her, well, not like a real conversation. But last week, I noticed a ring hanging around her neck. It looked like an engagement ring. Maybe she’s married? I mean, would she wear it around her neck if she’s married?” My nerves start getting the best of me as I verbalize my fears, and I find myself pacing as I’m talking.
“Tripp, stop. You’re going to worry yourself right into the ground . . . or wear out my wood floors.” She places both hands on my shoulders, forcing me to stay in one spot. “Listen, quit making assumptions. Remember what Dad always said?”
“Yes, ass . . . you . . . me . . . I remember.”
“Right. So, stop assuming. Wait and find out for yourself. I know it seems scary, but if this girl means that much to you and you don’t even know her name yet . . .” She pauses, her blue eyes staring at me pointedly. “You owe it to yourself to be patient and find out more about her.”
“I’m not giving up,” I confess, remembering how I felt last week when I first saw the ring—resolved. No matter what, I still want to be her friend. I want to know her. I can’t just walk away and forget she exists.
At this moment, I realize my life has been sectioned off by so many events, and the day Ania and I walked into the same café is one of them. There will always be before her and after her . . . It’s up to me to make a move and let her know how I feel, then let her decide the rest.
But, none of that can happen unless I talk to her.
“I’m glad you’re not giving up,” Liza says with a soft smile. “It’s good to see there’s still some fight left in you. I like it.” By it, she means Ania. I can see it in Liza’s eyes every time she brings her up. It’s funny how a girl I don’t even know has already woven her way into my life.
Later that evening, while I’m at work, Ania slides into her booth at just a minute or two after six. We’re having our first few days of cooler temperatures, and she’s dressed accordingly, wearing a light gray sweater with a thin scarf wrapped around her neck. It may still be seventy degrees outside, but to us southerners, that’s cold.
The few times I walk past her table, I try to see if I can catch a glimpse of the ring again, but she must have it tucked into her sweater. I also notice there’s nothing on the ring finger of her left hand, which is something I’ve been thinking about since last week. I thought maybe I had been so distracted by her sad eyes that I overlooked it.
The wanting to know is starting to gnaw at my insides. I feel questions on the tip of my tongue, and it’s killing me that I can’t slide into the booth across from her and say, “Hi. My name is Tripp. Is this seat taken?”
The old me would’ve done that.
At almost eight o’clock, I notice Ania is still sitting in her booth. My shift will be ending in a few minutes, and normally, she’d already be packing up her things and leaving. But the journal she usually has in front of her has been replaced with an actual book tonight. She’s been preoccupied with the words on the pages all night, hardly glancing up for more than a second and that’s usually between page turns. So, I guess she’s so wrapped up in the story, she’s lost track of time.
As I walk back toward the kitchen to put my apron up, I notice Wyatt walk from the opposite side of the dining room and slide into the booth across from her, casually, without any fanfare—just like I had thought of doing only moments earlier. She lifts her head from her book to look at him, and he smiles. And I can only guess that she’s smiling back at him, and that makes my insides twist. And my chest ache.
Bringing my hand up to rub the tightness away, I feel a flash of something else surge through me as Wyatt reaches across the table and puts his hand on hers.
I know this feeling.
It’s been a while, but there’s no denying what’s coursing through my body this very moment—pure, unadulterated jealousy.
Not trusting my restraint and afraid I’ll make a scene, I walk quickly through the kitchen doors, slamming my apron down on the counter, before exiting out the back door.
I can’t get my bike unlocked fast enough, my hands fumbling with the chain. As soon as it’s free, I start peddling before my ass is even in the seat. I ride so hard and fast that I’m pulling into the long drive of Liza and Ben’s house in half the time. My chest is heaving and my hands are shaking, partly from the exertion and partly from the incredible amount of jealousy I can still feel pumping through me along with the adrenaline from my ride.
Normally, I’d go into the main part of the house and warm up leftovers Liza always leaves for me, but tonight, I head straight up the stairs to my apartment. The need to be alone and release the pent-up emotions is stronger than the growl in the pit of my stomach.
I want for just once to feel like the universe isn’t completely against me.
I’d like to handle situations like a normal fucking person for once.
I want to scream.
I’d love to hit something.
Fuck.
I slam my fist down on the counter in my bathroom, hard enough to feel the shooting pain up into my elbow. If I stand here and look at myself, things could get really ugly. So, instead, I skip my normal nightly routines and walk to my bed. Falling face first into my pillow, I muffle the scream that comes from the pit of my stomach. It’s attached to every emotion I’ve been feeling, practically making my toes curl on its way out. And it doesn’t stop until my throat feels raw and the tension in my chest eases.
At some point, after endlessly berating myself, I drift off into an unrestful sleep, ac
companied by the unsettling dreams that I can’t seem to shake.
The next morning, when I wake up, my head is throbbing, and I consider skipping class. But, since I’ve already missed a couple of days, thanks to my last episode on Bourbon Street, I know I can’t afford to.
Fortunately, this feels like a regular, run-of-the-mill headache, so hopefully a hefty dose of Tylenol and coffee will do the trick.
After my normal morning routine, I walk out of my apartment and down the stairs, inhaling deeply as I try to continue to clear my head. Last night got to me. I don’t know why I thought I could talk to her, and now I think that maybe I can’t.
Liza and Ben have already left for work when I let myself in the back door, which means the kids are with my mom. I normally rush around so I can spend at least a few minutes with them, but after the night I had, I’m sure I look like shit, and I don’t feel like fielding a bunch of questions, especially regarding Ania.
Seeing her interact with Wyatt last night was too much.
After spending the last few weeks wanting nothing more than a casual conversation with her, watching someone else get that instead of me pissed me off, pure and simple.
Now that I’m thinking more rationally, I know their chat was platonic. I should be grateful that someone can talk to her and check up on her.
Wyatt is a good guy and a married one, and he doesn’t seem like the type who would cheat on his wife, especially in his restaurant. But my mind is an irrational place sometimes.
For the next few days, I try to put all of my focus on my classes and catch up on my school work. Finals will be here before I know it and I want to be prepared. Being so caught up in Ania has put me a little behind, and if I’m ever going to do more than attend school and work, I’ve got to learn how to balance everything. Prioritize, as Dr. Abernathy would say.
By Tuesday, I don’t feel as worked up as I did when I left work last Thursday. When I walk through the back door of the cafe, Shawn tells me Wyatt is up front and wants to speak to me. My stomach feels like it’s going to fall out of my ass. It’s never a good sign when your boss wants to speak to you first thing through the door.
Oh, shit.
“Hey,” I say, finding him at a table and trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Hey,” Wyatt says, looking up and acknowledging me.
He gathers some papers and stacks them into a neat pile, setting them to the side.
“It’s been a pretty slow day. Thought I’d get caught up on some of the less-fun parts of this job,” he adds with a smile as he casually drapes his arm over the back of the seat, pulling at the yellow suspenders with his thumb.
I smile awkwardly, unsure if he’s expecting me to say something or if I’m just here to listen. So, I just wait, nervously.
“So, what’s up? How’s life?” he asks, his demeanor calm, but I don’t feel calm. I feel like I’m walking in front of a firing squad. I’m afraid he’s going to put me on blast for the few almost-incidents regarding a long-haired brunette who often sits at the booth behind him, and my nerves are about to get the best of me.
Maybe I should just come clean and confess my sins?
No, stupid idea.
“Uh, good, I guess.” I finally respond as I fidget with my apron, retying the string around my waist, trying not to panic.
Wyatt motions for me to have a seat across from him, so I do, taking a deep breath in and exhaling, putting Dr. Abernathy’s techniques into practice.
So not working.
“So, you’ve been here for what, a little over a month now?” he asks but doesn’t wait for a response. “How do you like it so far?”
“I like it.” I nod my head, but my eyes stay focused on the table in front of me. When I realize I’m not making eye contact, I quickly look up and try again. Not looking at people can also be a sign of lying. But I’m not. “I really like my job,” I tell him with all the sincerity I can muster, making sure to look him directly in the eyes as I say it.
“Good, good,” he says, tapping his hand on the back of the bench. “Well, we really like having you on board, and I wanted to tell you I think you’re catching on pretty well. But I also want to make sure you feel the same and to see how you’re handling balancing work and school. Are you keeping your grades up?”
“Did Liza call you?” I question because I’m trying to figure out exactly what’s going on. He did say I’m doing a pretty good job, so I’m guessing he’s not firing me. Hopefully. And he hasn’t brought up Ania . . . yet.
Wyatt laughs as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, similar to how he was the other night when he was talking to Ania.
Not now.
I can’t think about that right now.
“No. Surprisingly, she hasn’t called to check up on you in a while,” he says with a wink and a chuckle. “I just wanted to check in with you and make sure everything is going well and that you like your job. I like my employees to be happy.”
“Well, I finally feel like I’m not messing up every order,” I tell him, trying to relax. “So, there’s that.”
“We all make mistakes,” he says, waving off my comment. “Don’t sweat the small stuff, Tripp. I haven’t fired you yet, have I?”
I swallow hard, wondering if this is where he answers his own punch line and gives me a pink slip.
“You’re doin’ great,” he says, smiling.
“Thanks,” I reply, letting out a nervous laugh.
“Do you have any questions or concerns?”
“Uh, no. I don’t guess so.”
“And, your grades, they’re good?” he asks, following up on his original question.
“Yeah, pretty good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He stands from his seat and pats my shoulder as he passes by, and I let out a deep sigh of relief.
That was a close one.
And even though I know this would be a prime opportunity to ask him about Ania, I can’t do it. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t. Because that conversation might not be so easy and after nearly pissing myself, just thinking I was in trouble. I can’t go there, not today.
As I walk back from my Wednesday afternoon class, I’m already thinking about her and the fact I’ll see her again tomorrow. Deep in thoughts of long brown hair, I nearly run over the lady who sells flowers on the street corner.
“Flowers for your lady?” she asks, holding a long-stemmed bloom in my direction.
Its petals are exotic, branching out in every direction. I notice the unique flower matches her—covered in bright reds, blues, and oranges.
“I—I don’t have a lady,” I say, attempting to walk around her.
“A handsome fella like you doesn’t have a lady?” she asks, her pale gray eyes doubling in size with surprise. “Maybe you don’t have a lady because you haven’t given her one of these.”
Her tone is suggestive as she twirls the flower between us.
My dad climbs into the front seat of the Impala, with three bottles of beer.
“I figured now’d be a good time for you to have your first beer,” he says, popping the top of one of the bottles before handing it to me. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair for Ben and me to drink one in front of you, and Lord knows we need one after all the hard work we’ve done today. Just don’t tell your mama.”
I guess now would also be a bad time to tell him I’ve had my fair share of beer . . . among other things.
“Uh, thanks, Dad.” I try to make my words sound grateful and privileged, like this is a really big deal because it is. I’m sitting in the front seat of my dad’s Impala, and if I turned that shiny key over in the ignition, this baby would purr to life. The three of us have been working practically every weekend over the last few months to get her running.
Two years late, but who’s counting?
Me, that’s who.
This car means everything. It’s a dream come true, for my dad and me. And it’s freedom because now I won’t ha
ve to ask to borrow anyone’s car.
“She’s a beauty,” Ben says from the backseat.
“Hey, don’t spill your beer in my car.” I see him in my rearview mirror. His lips smirk around the mouth of his beer bottle before his hand comes up to slap the back of my head.
“I think your old man and I have just as much right to this thing as you do!”
“Whatever, dude! This baby is mine!”
My dad is chuckling from the passenger seat. “Was it worth the wait?”
“Hell, yes,” I tell him, running my hands along the steering wheel, soaking it in.
“So, who’s gonna be the first lucky girl?”
“Oh, she’s already gotten lucky,” I say with a smirk, earning me a low five from Ben, so my dad doesn’t see.
“I hope you’re not being a manwhore,” my dad says, sipping his beer. “Please tell me you’re at least using good manners . . . and protection.”
Manwhore? Has he been reading Liza’s Cosmo or something?
“Dad,” I groan, rolling my eyes.
“I’m just making sure. And you know, Tripp . . . it’s not all about sex. If you really wanna get a girl’s attention, you should try a little courtship from time to time.”
“Courtship?” Now I’m the one falling over laughing. “Dad, seriously. That’s so 1950!”
“Tripp, courtship is a lost art, and trust me, if you can master it, girls—and their parents—will be eating out of the palm of your hand.” His voice gets lower as he continues like he’s giving me the directions to the Holy Grail. “It’s all about wooing a girl. You can’t just ask a girl out; you’ve gotta sweep her off her feet.”
“Well, I don’t know how to do any of that.”
“Which is why I’m going to tell you.”
I notice Ben leaning up against the back of the seat. He’s suddenly all ears like he needs any of this. My sister is already eating out of the palm of his hand. Ben Walker can do no wrong in her book. It’s disgusting.
“First, always be yourself. Anything else is second rate,” he begins, talking low and slow like we’re on an undercover mission. “Second, make her laugh. Girls love to laugh, and it puts them at ease. Always dress to impress. I’m not saying you have to wear shirts and ties or any of that bullshit, but don’t look like you just rolled outta bed. Always compliment her. But not just any compliment. Make them specific to her. Which brings me to my next topic: listen. You’ve gotta listen to the girl, Tripp. Make her feel like she’s the only girl in the world. Like you only have eyes for her . . . and you should only have eyes for her,” he says seriously, giving me the look.