The Other One

by Jiffy Kate

  “Tripp?”

  “What?”

  “Walk,” she says from a few steps ahead of me.

  I’m already screwing this up. I don’t even know why I thought I could do this in the first place. Mentally berating myself, I follow behind her until we’re across the street on the sidewalk.

  “So, what were you doing at the cemetery?” Her boldness surprises me, and I almost stumble over an imaginary rock.

  “You okay?” she asks, reaching a hand out to grip my shoulder. Her touch feels like an electric shock, and it goes straight to my insides.

  “Yeah, I—uh, I’m fine. Sorry. I, well . . . I went to see my dad,” I admit, feeling awkward the minute the words leave my mouth. I don’t talk about him with anyone except my mom and Liza, and not very often.

  “I’m sorry,” she says with sincerity.

  I nod, unsure of what to say to that. People always say they’re sorry, but they’re not the ones who took him from me. Thanks to Dr. Abernathy, I know it’s just people’s way of expressing their sympathy and that the polite thing to say is “thank you.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  The late summer sun has almost completely set in the sky, casting pinks and oranges over our heads and making Ania’s skin take on a warm glow. She’s beautiful. It’s not that I haven’t noticed before, but being this close to her allows me to see so much more. There’s a patch of freckles along the bridge of her nose, and her lips almost look like a bow when she’s thinking. Her eyes are more than just brown. They have flecks of gold and green in them as well. I could stand here and stare at her forever, but I notice the longer I do, the more the blush on her cheeks grows.

  She nervously tucks one side of her hair behind her ear and clears her throat.

  Trying to think of something to say to keep her here, I awkwardly blurt out, “So, why were you at the cemetery?” My voice squeaks, and I screw my eyes shut, wishing I had thought of something more eloquent. I’m afraid if I don’t keep talking, however painful it is, she’ll retreat to her car, and I’ll be forced to wait an entire week to see her again. That thought alone feels like pure torture, especially after finally getting a chance to talk to her.

  “Well, I go there sometimes. It’s peaceful. And there’s a chapel there. That’s where I had been last Thursday—at the chapel.”

  I want to ask more.

  Why?

  Did you lose someone too?

  Should I apologize for something I had no control over?

  Are you engaged?

  That last thought has my heart racing. I forced myself not to think about the engagement ring. But now that I’m standing here, talking to her, and feeling things I shouldn’t if she belongs to someone else, that’s probably something I need to know.

  “Are you engaged?” I ask, the thought tumbling out of my brain and into the space between us. I didn’t mean to just ask it, without any build up. Looking at the shocked expression on her face, I wish I could take it back.

  I see her swallow hard, a bit of pain crossing her face as she looks away from me. But then she answers, “No.” It’s barely above a whisper and I watch as her arms wrap protectively around her, and I wish I could reach out and hug her. It’s a strange thought and I don’t know where it came from, but like always, I want to take her sadness away.

  I know I’ve overstepped my boundaries—went somewhere I shouldn’t have gone. The look in her eyes tells me she’s shutting down—shutting me out.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she says, her voice firmer as she turns and walks toward her car.

  Desperately, I search for something else to say—something that will fix whatever I just broke.

  “I’m sorry,” I call after her, letting my voice reach out like my hands want to.

  Her steps halt, and she slowly turns back around toward me.

  “I just saw you wearing an, uh, engagement ring one time . . . and I didn’t want to, uh . . .”

  She graciously saves me by interrupting my rambling. “I’m not engaged. I’ve never been engaged. I don’t even have a boyfriend.” A small smile replaces the sad expression she had only moments ago, and I return it to her, feeling relieved but still confused about the ring.

  “Can I see you sometime? I mean, besides here?” I ask, pointing across the street to the café. “I mean if you’d . . . never mind . . .”

  “On Friday nights, I go to the Original City Diner and do homework, sometimes with friends but usually alone. If you want to stop by . . .”

  As her words drift off, I nod my head in agreement, unable to find my voice. She gives me one last smile before she opens the door to her car and slips inside.

  I stand on the curb and watch as she pulls out onto the road, and I continue to watch until her taillights fade into the distance.

  Did she just invite me to dinner?

  A study session?

  Oh, shit.

  I’m going to see Ania tomorrow.

  I’m so excited; I doubt I’ll sleep tonight. But that’s okay, because tonight, instead of nightmares or anxiety, it’ll be because of a beautiful girl and an invitation to meet her for homework.

  “THIS SMELLS AMAZING.”

  My mom came over earlier to watch the twins, and being her, she couldn’t sit still while they were napping, so she started a pot of gumbo. The aroma has been filling the house for the last five hours, and now that it’s finally in front of me, it can’t cool fast enough. My stomach and tongue are having an argument over the appropriate temperature for food. Right now, my stomach is winning.

  “You two act like you haven’t eaten in days,” Liza admonishes. I glance over at Ben and see he’s mimicking my approach: blow, blow, sip.

  Not only am I in a hurry to eat this deliciousness in front of me, but I’m also in a hurry because I’m going to see Ania tonight. She said she usually gets to the diner around eight o’clock, and I don’t plan on being late. Even though it’s just now a little before seven, I want to give myself plenty of time.

  “You’ve been watching the clock all afternoon. What gives?” My mom is eyeballing me suspiciously from across the table.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Liza chimes in.

  Ben snickers behind his spoon, leaving me to the wolves.

  “I, uh, have plans.” I leave it short and simple, hoping they’ll afford me the luxury of not going into great detail about where I’m going.

  “Oh?” Liza and my mom share the same pleasantly surprised expression.

  I nod and continue cautiously devouring my gumbo, until two throats clearing from the other side of the table force me to look back up.

  “What?” I ask, trying to play dumb. I glance over at Ben, but he offers no help, just shaking his head and smirking into his steaming bowl. I silently plead with him to help me out on this one, but he stuffs his mouth with flaky bread and grins. Apparently, I’m on my own.

  “Uh, I’m meeting An—.” Oh, shit. The realization that I don’t know her real name is disturbing to me. A barrage of negative thoughts enters my mind, mostly emphasizing the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.

  “You’re meeting who, sweetheart?” my mom asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “Uh, a friend I met at the café.” I’ve yet to tell my mom or Liza about this. I confided in Ben earlier today, seeking advice and just to have someone to share it with, because regardless of my nervousness and feelings of insecurity, I’m excited.

  No. It’s more than that. It’s like the best thing that’s happened since Ania smiled at me. But telling my mom and Liza sets me up for a huge let down if things don’t go well . . . and more disappointment. They’ll force me to talk about my feelings and try to assure me there will be other girls. The truth is that I don’t want another girl. I want Ania.

  Damn it. I will find out her real name. Tonight.

  “This friend wouldn’t happen to also be your favorite customer, would they?”

  My silence is all the answer Liza needs. There
’s no getting out of this.

  “Tripp,” she gushes. “I’m so proud of you! You have no idea!” While my sister offers her praise, I look over to see my mom’s eyes glisten in the warm light from the candles that are lit on the table.

  This.

  This is what I was trying to avoid—them getting their hopes up and me crushing them, once again.

  “Stop. Both of you,” I plead, trying to sound firm, but I can’t. “Please. Just don’t act like it’s a big deal because it’s not. She told me that she studies at The Original on Friday nights around eight o’clock, so I’m meeting her there. That’s it. It’s not a date or anything. It’s two people being in the same place at the same time.”

  “On purpose,” Ben adds. So now he decides to speak.

  I glare over at him.

  “What? It’s the truth! You can try to play this down all you want, but you asked her if you could see her outside of the café. You did that.” He slaps my shoulder with all the proudness he can muster like I’ve just announced I won the Nobel Peace Prize. As much as this scenario feels so familiar, it doesn’t escape me how so much has changed.

  “It’s been awhile since we’ve done this,” Liza says as her eyes glance around the table.

  “It has, and I’m glad we’re all here.” The tiredness that my mom has seemed to carry for the last nine months finally seems to be lifting. The dark circles under her eyes are lighter than they’ve ever been, and her smile finally reaches her eyes again.

  In comfortable silence, we all begin passing bowls, allowing the familiar aromas to help heal us. This is something we used to do at least once a week before my dad passed away, but all of that went away with him. None of us could bring ourselves to do anything we had done with him. It felt wrong. It’s like it doesn’t work since he’s not here. But for the first time in a long time, this feels like it works. Moments like this make me think that we might make it. Maybe one day the empty seat at the head of the table won’t be a stark reminder of the pain we’ve been through this last year, but a sweet memory.

  I’m glad I have some good news to bring to the table. I haven’t done a very good job of pulling my weight around here. I’ve allowed myself to wallow and drown my grief in everything under the sun, and my bad decisions have caught up with me.

  I’ve been fooling myself into thinking I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and not face consequences for them. Everyone makes excuses for you when you’re grieving.

  The letter I intercepted in the mail a few weeks ago from Tulane was the wake-up call I needed. It was the slap in the face that helped me realize someone is holding me accountable.

  My dad would be so ashamed if he saw where I was a few weeks ago . . . on a three-day bender, skipping class for days, weeks on end, ignoring calls from my family . . . slowly shitting my life away.

  But not anymore. All I have left of my dad are memories . . . and I’m going to honor those. I’m going to make him proud of me. It’s the least I can do.

  After a heart-to-heart with my advisor, I now have a plan to retake the necessary classes to bring up my GPA. He also helped me petition some of my professors to see what I can do about bringing up my grades in my current classes.

  “I’ve declared a major.” Everyone simultaneously puts down their forks and looks up at me with a genuine smile on their face.

  “Baby, that’s great news.” My mom knows the struggles I’ve been facing. I never let her see the letter from a few weeks ago, but she’s no dummy. Even though we don’t talk about it, I know she knows that I’ve pretty much been wasting my life away for the last nine months.

  “I’m going into the Criminal Justice program. I know it’s not Pre-Law, and that’s what dad would’ve wanted, but I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. And it’s something I can get into with my current GPA. Hopefully, I can work hard and bring that up . . . and maybe one day I can pursue Law.” The feelings running through me are all over the place. I feel relieved, nervous, and a little scared. I know that even though I’m not going Pre-Law, I still have a lot of work ahead of me. It’s going to take a lot to get out of the hole I’ve dug myself into. I also feel disappointed that I shit away an opportunity to follow in my dad’s footsteps, but I can’t change that.

  “I’m proud of you, Tripp.” Ben’s large hand cups my shoulder, and he pulls me into a manly side-hug. My sister sits across the table and beams at me. It feels good to make them all so proud.

  At a half-past seven, I’m making my way down St. Charles, even though I know it’ll only take me fifteen minutes to get there. I can’t be late. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m not coming. A brief flash of last Thursday crosses my mind. There is a slight possibility that I’ll be the one who gets stood up . . . I mean, if this were a date, which it’s not.

  “It’s two people being in the same place at the same time,” I quietly repeat to myself, because it makes me feel better.

  When I reach the garden level of the Lavin-Bernick Center, I begin looking for her long dark hair. I’m trying to imagine what it will be like to see her outside of the café. It feels surreal that I’m meeting her here tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. When I attended Tulane, this wasn’t really my scene.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think a marching band has taken up residence in my chest. I take deep breaths with each step, willing myself to not run.

  I want this so bad.

  I can do this.

  As I make my way inside the diner, I look more for Ania but don’t find her anywhere. There’re a few girls at a table in the corner and some guy sitting by himself, but no Ania. I sit at the table closest to the door but then change my mind, because it seems too out in the open. So I stand back up and scan the room for the perfect spot. I wish I had waited a little longer before leaving the house. If I had let her arrive first, she would have picked our table. Our table. I wonder if this could become our thing—meeting here on Friday nights.

  I’m getting ready to go back outside and hide around the corner to wait for her, but then I feel her, and a second later, I hear her call my name.

  Turning around, I immediately see her. She’s giving me a half-wave and smile to match, and she’s gorgeous. She motions for me to follow her, so I do, almost certain that I’d follow her anywhere.

  “You came,” she says as a smile spreads across her face.

  I take it that it’s a good thing I’m here, so I return her smile.

  “There’s no place I’d rather be,” I admit.

  My boldness catches us both off guard. I feel the tips of my ears burning, and her cheeks are a lovely shade of pink.

  She clears her throat before asking, “So, where do you normally spend Friday nights?”

  “Uh, well, I—”

  “What can I get y’all?” The waitress interrupts our awkward exchange, thankfully, giving me a chance to just look at Ania and get a grip on myself.

  She orders first, and I’m surprised by the fact that she’s eating. She never eats at the café. Not only does she order, but she does it up right, asking for a strawberry milkshake and a pancake with strawberries on top. I guess she likes strawberries.

  “And for you, darlin’?” the waitress, asks. Her name is Sally, according to her name tag, and I decide that fits her. She’s an older lady with a bun on the top of her head and a friendly smile.

  “Uh, coffee?” My order comes out like a question, but she just writes it down and says she’ll be back shortly.

  “You’re not hungry?” Ania asks, after Sally leaves. “They have the best pancakes.”

  “Do you always eat pancakes for dinner?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?” Her quick retort makes me smile.

  Once again, I feel the need to pinch myself. Am I sitting across the table from her, having this conversation? If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.

  “I already ate . . . earlier . . . with my family.”

  “Do
you do that a lot?” Her expression is soft but hard to read.

  “Well, we usually eat together on Friday nights and Sundays after church.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “It is. They’re great.” I inwardly want to slap myself for being such a dork. They’re great? Who says that?

  A few minutes of awkward silence and I’m getting ready to bolt, looking behind me toward the door, resigned to the fact that I’ll never be able to talk to girls like I used to. Not just any girl, Ania. She’s the only girl I want to talk to, and I can’t. Just before I make a run for it, Sally saves the day, coming back with our order.

  “One strawberry milkshake and one coffee,” she says placing the drinks on the table and giving me a wink. “Need cream and sugar, Sugar?”

  “Uh, no . . . Thank you.”

  After she walks away, Ania throws her head back and laughs. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. It’s better than the jazz band I love to listen to down at Marketplace. It’s better than the lullaby my mom used to sing to me when I was little. It’s better than thousands of fans chanting my name at a football game. It’s like a bowl of Lucky Charms . . . marshmallows only. I’m not sure what made her laugh, but I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life.

  “She was so flirting with you.” Her eyes are sparkling as she looks across the table at me.

  “Who? Sally?”

  “Oh, are y’all on a first name basis? Did she secretly slip you her phone number when I wasn’t looking?”

  “What? I, um . . . no. She wasn’t flirting with me.” That’s ridiculous. She was just being nice. She’s a waitress. Waitresses are nice. Generally.

  “Yes, she was.” A small smile stays on her lips as she begins taking books out of the brown leather bag I’ve seen a dozen times.

  “Here ya go, Loren,” Sally says, setting down a plate that’s holding a pancake the size of my head . . . No. I take that back. It’s the size of Ben’s head—huge!

  Wait. Did she say “Loren”? Is that her name?

  “You sure I can’t get you anything else, darlin’?”

  “No, thank you.” I can’t quit staring at the girl across the table from me. She wastes no time digging into the pancake. The first bite that touches her lips makes her moan in appreciation, and I shift in my seat, adjusting myself. What the hell is wrong with me?