by Jiffy Kate
“I was so worried about you,” she mutters over my shoulder. It’s then that I notice her voice trembling, and I feel her desperation in the grip she has on the back of my shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, before I break down. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for exactly; there are so many things I wish I could fix. My mom is the only person who has this effect on me. She loves me unconditionally; I feel no shame crying on her shoulder.
Claire Alexander may be a small woman, but her hugs are enormous. They block out the rest of the world, allowing me to just . . . be.
After a few minutes, I get control of my emotions and wipe my face on the sleeve of my shirt.
“How’d you know to check on me?” I ask.
“Tripp, a mother knows when something is wrong with her child,” she says, her sass back in full force.
“Besides,” she continues. “Liza said she hadn’t seen or spoken to you since Thursday. I tried to give you space, but when you didn’t show up for church or lunch afterward, I knew it was time to beat your door down.” She gives me a small smile as she pats my cheek. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
I walk over to the couch and sit down and she follows. Even though I’ve done nothing but mope and sleep for the last two days, I still feel exhausted.
“I went and talked to Dad,” I tell her, figuring that’s a good place to start.
“Oh?” she asks, her tone even. “It must’ve been really important. You haven’t been to the cemetery in a while.”
“How do you do it, Mom?” I ask, pushing the hair out of my face and looking over at her. “How do you . . . move on?”
“Let me make something very clear. I have not moved on, nor am I over your father not being here.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I know what you meant, but let me finish. I’ll never get over losing your daddy. I’ll miss him every day of my life, but I can’t put my life on hold either. I have to live. We all have to keep living. Your dad would be some kind of pissed if he knew we were wasting precious moments here curled up in a ball, feelin’ sorry for ourselves.”
I know she’s right.
It hurts to hear, but she’s right.
Dad hated when people focused on the negative side of things. He was always a glass half full kind of guy.
“I also know that all of this doesn’t have to do with missing your dad. So, what else has you so worked up?”
“There’s a girl,” I admit, ready to get it off my chest.
“I thought there might be,” she replies, and I can’t help but give her a small smile. I’m surprised she hasn’t called me on this before now. Claire should be short for clairvoyant.
I tell her everything that’s happened between Ania and me since the day of my job interview, and she listens intently. When I’m finished spilling my guts, we sit in silence for a few moments and I eye her cautiously as she thinks about what to say.
“So, you were worried when this girl didn’t show up on Thursday, and that’s why you went and talked to your dad?” she asks, still trying to fit all the pieces together.
“I needed someone to talk to and I wanted it to be him so bad. So, I decided that was where I needed to go.”
“Then it was,” she assures me. “Did it make you feel better?”
“Kinda,” I say, shrugging, but obviously I’m sitting here and still don’t feel like I have any more answers than I did on Friday and when I think about Ania not coming back to the café, it still hurts. “I think it made me miss him more than I was already. I wish he was here to tell me what to do. What do you think he’d tell me?”
“Honestly?” she asks.
I nod my head and swallow the lump in my throat, not knowing what she’s going to say, because I know whatever she tells me, I’ll do it. I haven’t been successful on my own, so I have no choice but to take her advice.
She clears her throat and then levels me with a stare. “I think he’d tell you to piss or get off the pot, and frankly, I agree.”
Ahhh, there’s the Mom-brow I accused Liza of inheriting a couple of weeks ago. My sister’s is good, but it still can’t compare to the original.
After grabbing a quick shower, my mom thinks I need to get out of the house and get some fresh air. So, we take a streetcar that drops us off close to the French Quarter.
As we walk to Jackson’s Brewery to do some shopping, my eyes scan the people we pass. I can’t stop myself from looking for Ania, just like I can’t stop worrying about her. I mean, New Orleans isn’t that big of a place, it wouldn’t be completely crazy to see her on the street.
However, I don’t know what I’d do if I ever did see her outside of the café, but I’d endure whatever humiliation I’d bring on myself just to know she was okay.
Two hours later and my ass is dragging big time. When my mom heads into what she says will be “the last store, I promise,” I find a nearby bench to rest on while I wait for her.
“Tripp, is that you?”
A mild sense of trepidation creeps up as I turn to search for the person speaking, because I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Hey, Evan,” I say, looking up into his familiar face, nerves warring against my desire to appear normal. “How are you?”
“I’m good, man. Whatcha been up to?”
“Just the usual. School, work . . . you know,” I utter with a shrug.
“Well, you look good.” He says this like he’s surprised like he was expecting me to be disfigured or something. Instinctively, I make sure my hair is covering as much of my scar as possible.
“Uh, thanks,” I reply, my eyes falling to the ground.
“My mom said she saw your mom with the twins the other day at the French Market. Sounds like everyone is doin’ good . . . I’m glad.” I look back up when I realize he’s not going to dwell on my appearance. He smiles at me, but it’s for all for show, because behind the smile is a heaviness that never used to be there.
“Yeah, we’re doing as well as we can be. You know, good days and bad,” I reply honestly.
“That’s great, man. Listen, I’m glad I ran into you. Let’s hang out sometime, alright?” he says, already backing away.
“Sure, that sounds good,” I agree, even though we both know it’ll never happen.
When Evan walks away, I’m hit with nostalgia, remembering when it wasn’t so awkward between us.
“Dude!”
“Evan! Man, when did you get back in town?”
Laughing, he slaps my back. “My plane landed a couple of hours ago. You know I wouldn’t miss tonight. Watching the sorority pledges being introduced on Greek Row? Hell, yeah! I can’t wait to add more numbers to my little black book. I mean, as a junior, it’s my collegiate duty to welcome and help any and all fresh-meat, I mean freshman, to Tulane University.” Evan places his right hand over his heart as if he’s saying The Pledge of Allegiance, and I can’t help but laugh at him.
My best friend is a fucking douche, but I know, deep down, he’s a good guy.
“You see any potential yet?” he asks, nodding his head toward the large group of girls across the street.
“Nah, I’m just hanging out because I was bored at home.”
“Sure you are. If you’re here, that means you and Whitney are broken up . . . again. Unless you’re looking to reconcile with her . . . again.”
Not long after my dad died and I quit the football team, I broke up with Whitney. I was still dealing with all the shit in my life while she was starting to pressure me about proposing.
When high school sweethearts are together for as long as we were, especially here in the south, it’s natural for them to get engaged while still in college, or so Whitney told me. She said it made perfect sense to get engaged during our sophomore year so that we’d have two years to plan our wedding, which would occur the summer after we graduate, naturally.
I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment or organization in my life, so I kep
t blowing her off until one day I simply couldn’t take any more. Looking back, I probably could’ve waited another week to dump her. I don’t recommend breaking up with your girlfriend during Homecoming week; I’m just sayin’. We had a huge fight during the annual bonfire, which led to both of us getting shit-faced drunk and hooking up with strangers. I was so hungover and miserable the next day; I missed the parade and the game. Again, not a great weekend for Tripp Alexander.
Since then, Whitney and I have had a convenient on-again, off-again type of relationship, getting together when the need arises, then cooling back off after a few weeks. I still worry about leading her on, but she says she understands that I’m still working through things and that I don’t want to be tied down right now.
“You know you two are gonna make it for real,” Evan continues. “I mean, you have to. You’re perfect for each other.”
Whitney and I did get back together, and for a while, I thought it was going to work.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans, which led Whitney to show her true colors, and I’ve never been happier to be rid of her.
For the past month or so, I’ve had some kind of plan for how to interact with Ania. Things may not have happened the way I’d hoped, but at least something had happened.
This Thursday, I’m at a loss because I don’t have a plan. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. I don’t know what to expect because I don’t even know if she will be here tonight.
Maybe I scared her off or tried too hard?
It’s very possible I embarrassed her or disturbed her solitude so much she decided to find a different place to sit every Thursday evening.
Maybe I’ll never know?
It’s with a heavy and apprehensive heart that I clock in and grab my apron, ready to start my shift. The first few hours go by as they normally do. Nothing too major happens, with the exception of Julie dumping an entire tray of sweet tea on a table of four. Wyatt, ever the professional, offered to pay for the group’s dry cleaning while also not charging them for the food they ordered, including dessert.
“Hey, Tripp! Can you help?” Sarah yells at me when I walk into the kitchen to dump some dirty dishes into the sink.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I have a party of eight, and they’ve all ordered bread pudding for dessert. Can you help me fix their plates?”
Knowing my current two tables will be fine if I neglect them for a few minutes, I hurry to the dessert counter, ready to help. Sarah has already started scooping the bread pudding into bowls, so I proceed to pour the rum sauce on top before setting them aside. The task doesn’t take long, and soon I’m carrying four of the bowls to her table. While Sarah removes the desserts from my tray, my eyes roam the café, looking to see if my customers need me.
I see they’re still fine, and as I start to return my tray back to the kitchen, I catch a flash of auburn in my peripheral vision. The familiar gravitational pull is instant.
She’s here.
Ania is here.
Relief washes over me, but there’s something else too.
Anger?
I don’t know. I’m not sure if I even have the right, but it’s there.
Without telling them to, my feet take me directly to her table. Surprised eyes fly up to meet mine and only get wider when I speak.
“You were gone,” I blurt out.
Her large round eyes then narrow at me, glaring, and I know I need to back the hell up.
“I—I’m sorry,” I begin, my cheeks burning as I begin to trip over my words and I stop for a second and take a deep breath before continuing. “You come here every Thursday, and then last week, you were gone, and I was worried. Now you’re here, and I’m glad, and now I’m rambling because I’m nervous, so I’m gonna leave you alone now.”
Turning to leave, I’m stopped by the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
Ania’s voice.
“Tripp, wait.”
She said my name.
How does she know my name?
I’ve never been overly fond of my name, but the way it falls from her lips makes it shiny and new. I make my way back to her table and pause because I don’t know what to do next.
“How do you know my name?” My voice sounds foreign, questioning. I’m not sure why I’m so bothered by her knowing my name.
Maybe it’s because I still don’t know hers?
Maybe Wyatt told her?
Did she ask about me?
“It’s on your name tag.”
I glance down at the tag attached to my apron.
Of course.
“Oh, yeah, right . . . I forgot.” My face heats up again, and I can feel the embarrassment clear down to my toes.
Why am I such a moron?
“I did see you last Thursday,” she admits, her long hair falling in front of her face as she looks down at the table. I slide into the booth across from her, and her head snaps up—her eyes going wide again—and I’m afraid she’s going to ask me to leave, but she doesn’t. She sits there, her gaze fixed on me as if she’s waiting for me to make the next move on an imaginary chessboard. Her eyes are dark and deep, and I know they hold secrets and stories I’d love to hear, but more than anything, I want her to keep talking to me. She could repeat the alphabet for all I care. So I tell her more in hopes she’ll return the favor.
“But I waited, and you never came.”
The blush that creeps up on her cheeks is something I’ve seen before. I assumed it was due to illness. Perhaps it has something to do with me. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I would love to think she’s affected by me in the same way I’m affected by her.
“I—I didn’t come here. It was later that evening. I saw you going into the cemetery. You were riding your bike. I’d been at the chapel.”
Just as I’m getting ready to respond, Wyatt’s presence catches my attention, and I notice he’s looking our way. His eyebrows pull together, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or confusion crossing his face, but either way, I know I need to get back to work.
“Could I—uh, meet you somewhere? Like on the bench in front of the café? I get off at eight o’clock.” The boldness is a façade. Inside, my heart is racing, and my palms are so sweaty that I have to dry them on the front of my jeans as I wait for her response. Ten seconds feels like ten minutes as her sad brown eyes stare across the table at me, and I can tell she’s thinking it over . . . whether or not she can meet me . . . or wants to.
“Okay.” She nods her head slightly, her teeth trapping her bottom lip as she hides a small smile.
That simple response has me on cloud nine.
As I walk back toward the kitchen, Wyatt passes me with a tray of food and if I’m not mistaken, he smiles and nods . . . like an approval. Maybe? I don’t know, but whatever the look was, it didn’t look like he’s mad. But, honestly, I don’t really care. All I care about is that I talked to Ania . . . and she agreed to meet me after work.
For the rest of my shift, I work fast. In my head, it seems like if I deliver food faster and bus tables faster, the time will pass faster. And the sooner I can finish my shift, the sooner I can meet Ania at the bench in front of the café.
Will she be there?
Will she change her mind?
Does she want to talk to me?
As I perform my tasks, those are the questions plaguing me. The subtle smile she gives me every time we make eye contact is the answer. I physically have to hold myself back from walking over to her table. Now that the verbal barrier is broken, I’m not sure if I can continue to orbit around her every Thursday without talking to her. I’m not sure how she feels about that, but the fact that she agreed to meet me after work tells me there’s something there.
The look she was giving me across the table earlier was comforting. Something in her eyes was familiar, like I was looking in a mirror. It was an unspoken understanding. I still don’t know any more about her, but I decided weeks ago that if all I can be is her friend, then that’ll have
to be good enough. It’ll be hard because I already feel my palms itch when I’m around her, wanting to reach out and touch her long brown hair, stroke her soft cheek. Friends don’t do those things.
I let out a deep breath when I have my last table cleared off and see that Ania is still there. She glances up at me and then back down at her watch. It’s five minutes until eight, and she starts putting her book away in her backpack.
I take that as my cue to put my apron away and clock out. Saying my goodbyes to the kitchen crew and Dixie, I slip out the back door like always.
As I walk around the side of the building, I hold my breath until Ania comes into view. Her body is turned away from me, but I can tell she’s watching, waiting for me. She glances at the front door a couple of times before standing and gripping the straps of her backpack, as if she’s getting antsy or about to change her mind. When she turns around and sees me, the most amazing smile breaks across her face. The corners of her eyes wrinkle, and even though she looks down at her feet as I approach, I don’t miss how the smile reaches her eyes and my heart stutters.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
My heart is in my throat, and all we’ve said to each other is a casual greeting. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this. She’s going to get one good look at me—the real me—and she’s going to be the one to run.
“I, uh—”
“So—”
We both begin talking at the same time and break off into awkward laughs, recognizing that we have no clue what we’re doing. Her insecurity helps put me at ease.
“Could I walk you home?” Somewhere deep within, I conjure up enough courage to spit out those words without tripping over them.
“Uh, well, I drove here,” she says, pointing to a red Volkswagen Beetle in the parking lot adjacent to the café.
“Oh, right. Well, I guess I can walk you to your, uh, car.” I give her a half smile and run my hands through my hair out of nervous habit.
“Okay.”
We walk to the corner and push the button for the crosswalk. I’m fidgeting with the edge of my shirt, trying to think of something to say when she pulls me out of my thoughts.