by Jiffy Kate
My best friend just rolls his eyes at me. “Come on, man. Tell me what happened.”
“Fuckin’ Whitney, man. I set up a really nice picnic . . . you know, tryin’ to be all romantic and shit . . . and she tells me she was expectin’ me to propose! I mean, what the fuck, man!”
“Damn, that girl will never give up trying to get a ring from you. What did you say?”
“I told her I wasn’t proposin’, that we’d only been back together for a few weeks!”
“Well, my friend, looks like we need to hit Bourbon, STAT.”
I guzzle the rest of my beer and let out a roaring belch before agreeing.
“Let’s do this.”
I sit on my bed and breathe deeply, trying to focus on the here and now. These recent flashes of memories have been shaking me up. First, the flashback of Whitney and me on Valentine’s Day. And now, this.
It feels almost like an out-of-body experience—like the memories are mine but not. It’s like playing with a jigsaw puzzle, taking what my mom and Liza and Ben have told me and piecing it together with what’s coming back to me. Part of me wishes I could keep all of that locked away for good. The bit I do remember already gives me nightmares. I don’t think I want to remember any more than I have to. It feels easier to deal with if I have no first-hand accounts.
Regardless, I’m not going to let this deter me from what I’m planning on doing today. First, I have class, and then I’m planning on waiting for Loren outside her dorm so I can ask her on a date.
As I pace in front of her dorm, I feel like a damn stalker, but it’s the only way I know to contact her. We still haven’t exchanged phone numbers, and I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. I need to see her. At our coffee date earlier this week, she had mentioned having class until three o’clock on Wednesdays, so I’m hoping I’ve timed it right. I rode my bike as fast as I could to make it from Loyola to here before three, so I wouldn’t miss her. Looking at my phone, I see it’s now a quarter after three. For all I know, she could have other plans, but it’s worth a shot. She’s worth it. The more I know about her, the more I want to know about her. I’m hoping that with time, she’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me about her past as well.
After another ten minutes of walking up and down the sidewalk outside her dorm, I decide to have a seat on the bench. I’m tired after being in class all day. Normally, on days I have classes, I go home afterward and take a nap. I probably need to text Liza and tell her I won’t be home. She’ll be worried if I don’t show up to help with dinner.
I quickly shoot a text off to Liza and get a fast response telling me to “be careful and have fun,” with a winky emoticon added to the end. I roll my eyes at my sister’s assumptions but smile to myself, because I always have fun when I’m with Loren. Whether we’re at the café or studying at the diner or drinking coffee at the espresso bar down the street, I can’t get enough of being with her.
With every passing day and every encounter, I find myself wanting more . . . more than I feel I deserve . . . more than I feel I’m worthy of . . . and it scares me. For the last few months, all I’ve thought about is talking to Loren, but I never really thought about what would happen once I did. I guess all along I thought she would reject me, and I would never have to cross the proverbial bridge. I feel like I’ve given her a fair warning. She’s seen me practically lose my mind over a conversation about cars, and she didn’t run. I told her I’m not normal, and she still didn’t run. But I can tell she’s had a lot of sadness in her life, and what if I just bring her more sadness? What if there’s too much sadness between the two of us? She deserves someone who will make her happy, and I’m worried that’s not me . . . And I’m worried that it’s too late to turn back now. She’ll have to be the one to walk away, because I can’t—I won’t.
So, my new fear is Loren realizing all of this and wanting nothing more to do with me.
I have to believe it’s all worth it and that I’d survive if she walked away. Nevertheless, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
“Tripp?”
I’m a little startled by her proximity. Normally, I know when she’s near, but I must have been too deep in thought.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, her voice light with a hint of laughter. “I thought you might be sleeping. What are you doing here?”
I can tell she’s just curious and wasn’t expecting me, because the smile is still on her face. I glance over to see a girl with curly blonde hair standing next to her, and I feel myself shutting down and closing in. I wasn’t expecting her to have company.
“I, uh. Well, I was just . . . stopping by. This is a bad time. I’ll just wait and see you tomorrow at the café.” I keep my eyes focused on the ground beneath me and walk swiftly past the two of them.
“Tripp?” Loren’s concerned voice makes me stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Grace, I’ll see you in the room,” she says, dismissing the girl. I turn back around just in time to see her friend walk through the glass doors, giving me an odd look as she goes.
I don’t know if it’s being caught off guard or the path my thoughts were taking before she walked up, but I’ve lost all the confidence I had when I got here. I suddenly can’t remember what I had worked out in my head—the words are lost on my tongue.
“Did you need something? Did you want to talk?” she asks, slowly walking toward me as if I’m a caged animal. The analogy isn’t far off. My insides feel twisted and unsettled.
“I’m sure you think I’m weird for camping outside your dorm, waiting for you.” I think I’m weird, so why shouldn’t she? In my defense, I wouldn’t have had to do this if I had her number. “I don’t have your phone number,” I blurt out, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
She purses her lips and walks closer to me, grabbing my hand and taking a pen out of her pocket. The ink feels weird on my palm, but the warmth from her touch is something I would pay good money for. “There. Now you have my number.”
She puts the pen back in her pocket and shields her eyes from the sun as she looks up at me. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
What did I want to talk to her about?
Sometimes the way she looks at me makes me feel more stupid than usual.
A date. That’s right. A date. A real date.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go on a, uh, d–date . . . on Saturday?” I ask—questioning her, myself . . . the whole fucking universe.
She looks out across the lawn at nothing in particular, but I can see the side of her mouth turned up in a smile, so I take that as a good sign and continue.
“I thought we could go down to The Quarter, maybe get a bite to eat, listen to some music.” I push my hands deep down into my front pockets to keep from fidgeting.
“That sounds like fun.” She squints an eye when she looks back up at me, and she’s so cute. Her nose is scrunched, and the few freckles across her cheekbones are on display. Her hair wisps around her face as the breeze blows. And at that moment, she’s everything good in life.
And I’d love to kiss her.
I can’t help but stare at her lips. The tension between us is suddenly thick, and we both clear our throats at the same time, simultaneously trying to clear the sudden heaviness in the air.
“So, Saturday night?” I ask, making sure she’s really on board.
“Sounds good. We can talk about the details tomorrow night.”
“I guess I could’ve waited until then to ask you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow.”
When I walk into the house, Liza is cooking away in the kitchen, and my mom has the two rugrats practically tied down at the kitchen table. She has a measuring tape draped around her neck and a few straight pins pinched between her lips. That looks dangerous.
“Uncle Tripp!” Both kids start whooping and hollering and trying to get away from my mom, but she has a pretty t
ight hold on them. She’s no stranger to wrangling kids. I can only imagine what Liza and I were like when we were that little, but at least there’s a nearly five-year age difference between us. These two are hell on wheels. What one doesn’t think of, the other does.
“Oh, look. It’s Chicken Nugget and Big Mac,” I say with a smile, causing Emmie to giggle, but Jack gives me his signature glare.
“I’m not a hamboorger,” he says with a humph.
“Well, you look good enough to eat,” I tell him as I get closer, leaning down and pretending to munch on his neck.
“Tripp, you’re not helping,” my mom admonishes. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and hold one of these?” She hands me a giggling Emmie. Her lime-green fairy wings slap me in the face as she climbs on my lap.
“So, who’s ready for Halloween?” I ask.
“Me! Me!” They both scream.
Another look from my mom tells me that I’m still not helping. I think they’re already hyped up on sugar.
“You ready to scare people with your mummy costume?” I ask Jack with a serious look.
“Yes! Rawwwwwwr!” He growls loudly, both hands out in front of him. My mom does her best to continue tacking pieces of material on to his costume without sticking the little dude.
“I don’t fink mummies roar,” Emmie says from her perch on my lap. Her legs are crossed, and her hands are daintily placed on her knees. “They’re dead.”
“No, they’re not!” Jack yells.
“Yes, they are!” Emmie fires back.
And the fight is on.
“Jack and Emmie, front and center,” Ben barks, the orders sounding like they’re from a drill sergeant. Both kids play the part of the dutiful soldiers, standing at attention in front of him. “There will be no running. No crossing streets. You must be holding a grown-up’s hand at all times.”
“Is Uncle Tripp a grown-up?” Emmie asks, interrupting his tirade.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s a legitimate question.
“Well, that depends on who you ask,” Ben answers. I punch him on his beefy arm, and then we’re both laughing.
“Did you guys see that mosquito that just bit me?” Ben asks, teasing me as he brushes off his arm, but it flies right over the kids’ heads. No pun intended.
“I didn’t see no mosquito,” Jack says, swatting the air.
“Okay, so who’s ready for trunk-or-treat?”
Everyone cheers as we step out onto the sidewalk and make our way toward Audubon Park. Some of the fraternities, sororities, and other social organizations from Tulane and Loyola join forces and put on a trunk-or-treat for the kids, large and small.
I really would rather be sitting at home, catching up on my school work for the week so that I’ll be free to take Loren out on our date on Saturday, but my mom and Liza insisted that I come and participate in the festivities.
One thing we know how to do well in New Orleans is be festive.
Let the good times roll.
While we’re walking down the sidewalk, Emmie sidles up beside me and takes my hand. “Uncle Tripp, why didn’t you dress up?”
“I did.” I glance down to see her looking me up and down. Her little nose scrunches up, and her eyebrows pinch together, just like my mom and sister. “I don’t fink so, Uncle Tripp. Dis looks like your regular clothes.” She drops my hand and pulls at my flannel shirt. I quickly grab her hand back up before I pull a Saints ball cap out of my back pocket and place it on my head.
“There.”
The frown is still on her face, so I unbutton my shirt and show her the Saints T-shirt underneath.
“See? I’m a Saints fan.”
Her giggles erupt, and the frown leaves her adorable face. “But you’re always a Saints fan! You supposed to be somefin’ different!”
I tickle her as I pick her up and carefully place her on my hip, avoiding the green fairy wings. “Well, you’re always a princess, but look at you,” I say, gesturing to her tiara.
“Yeah, but tonight, I’m a fairy!” She reaches into her little purse and throws glitter into the air.
“Sparingly!” my sister yells from behind us.
“I told you that was a bad idea,” Ben grumbles, licking the inside of his shirt to get the glitter off his tongue.
We’re all laughing as we approach the mass of people who have gathered at the park. I hold Emmie a little tighter. She helps me feel grounded and gives me something to focus on besides the crowd of people and the loud noises.
As we make our way up and down the rows of cars, Emmie and Jack flutter between the three of us adults. Sometimes, they’re brave enough to let go of our hands and walk up and get candy on their own, but other times, they’re too shy or scared and need someone to go with them. When we come upon a large tent with flashing black lights, Jack leaps back and grabs my hand. Emmie holds the other. They’re both mesmerized by the college-aged girls hovering around in neon garb with their faces made up like skeletons, but neither of them budges.
“You know those are just people with painted up faces, right?” I ask, bending down to their level. They both nod their heads but don’t take their eyes off of the skeletons. A few other kids come up. Some run right into the tent and come out with candy, but some are hovering around the entrance like Jack and Emmie.
“Wanna skip this one?” I ask, not wanting them to be scared. They both shake their heads but still make no effort to enter the tent.
“Want me to go with you?”
Nods, again, are all I get.
I stand up straight and walk toward the opening, both of their hands gripping mine tightly. The spooky music gets louder, and the flashes of light get brighter. And I get pissed off at myself, because with each step, I feel my palms sweat and my head throb.
Not now.
Not here.
“Ben,” I call over my shoulder, needing him to take over for me.
“Tripp?” a familiar voice asks from deep within the tent. Even with the makeup and odd-looking clothes, I’d know that beautiful dark hair anywhere.
“Loren?” Somehow I manage to keep myself together, holding tightly to Jack and Emmie’s hands.
“Tripp?” Ben asks as he steps inside the tent. “Everything okay?”
“I, uh . . .” Truthfully no, but I don’t want Loren to know that.
“You need to go back outside?” he asks quietly, taking Jack and Emmie’s hands from me.
I look between Ben and Loren a few times, warring with what’s going on inside my head and what I want. That’s when the knowing look falls across Ben’s face. “Loren?” he asks. We both nod. “I’m Ben,” he says, helping the kids get some candy and freeing up a hand to reach out to her. “Tripp’s brother-in-law.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, shaking his hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he tells her. “Tripp, I’m going to give you a few minutes, yeah?” he looks back at me with a worried expression but like it’s a risk he’s willing to take.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Tripp!” Emmie yells as they’re walking back out of the tent. “We can’t just leave him!”
Ben assures her that I’m fine, but I don’t feel fine. I reach up to rub my temples and take some deep breaths, trying to regain some balance and keep a migraine from hitting me full force. I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder, and when I draw in a cleansing breath, it’s her I smell—sweet, light, and comfort.
“You wanna step outside?” Loren asks, her voice like a soothing balm to an open wound.
I turn on my heels and walk outside the tent. She follows close behind until we’re standing between two cars, and the noise and light fades into the background.
“Are you okay?”
I look up to see her stunning eyes shining through the paint covering her face.
“With all the strobe lights and music, I felt like I was getting a migraine, but I’m better now.” Something about her being near calms me, and I feel the throb in my
head begin to subside.
“Good,” she says, brushing her hand down my arm.
I allow myself to get a good look at her. She’s wearing a tight black mini-skirt with tall black boots and a cut-off black tank top. There are white stripes on her that resemble the body of a skeleton, but it leaves little to the imagination. In all the times I’ve ever seen her, she’s always been fully clothed. This is a new kind of overwhelming feeling. The throb in my head has moved further down my body, and it’s taken my voice with it. I can’t think of any intelligent or polite words.
Fuck me.
“So, what are you supposed to be?” she asks, a sly smile on her face as she continues to stand incredibly close to me, her hand still resting on my arm.
I laugh, remembering the lame response I gave Emmie. “Just myself, I guess. Although I told my niece I was a Saints fan so that she’d be happy.”
“I like yourself,” she says, looking down at our feet and then back up. “But the Saints fan works, too.” She reaches up and grabs the bill of my baseball cap. The motion pulls her shirt up even higher, and her bare stomach is on display. There’s a weird pull in the pit of my stomach. Part of me wants to see what else is under there, and part of me wants to rip my shirt off and cover her up with it.
“And you are?” I ask, knowing but wanting our conversation to continue.
“A skeleton.” Her real teeth flash as she smiles. “It was required,” she says, gesturing to the banner that’s hanging on the side of the tent.
“So you’re in a sorority?” I ask.
“Phi Mu,” she says, nodding. “How about you? Are you in a fraternity?”
“Not anymore,” I tell her as I rub the back of my neck, partly out of nervous habit, but also to help the tension subside.
I can tell by the way she squints her eyes and bites down on her lip that she wants to ask more, but just like every other time we hit one of these walls, she doesn’t. We don’t push. We just let the other have their secrets or past or whatever.
“It was really good seeing you tonight,” she finally says.
“You too. I should probably go . . . and, uh . . .”