by Jiffy Kate
“Yeah, your family is probably wondering where you are. Was that your niece and nephew?”
“Yeah, Emmie and Jack,” I tell her, smiling at the thought of the two of them.
“They’re adorable.”
“Thanks.”
“So, tomorrow night?” she asks, never taking her eyes off my face. Normally, that would make me nervous and self-conscious, and I do feel nervous, but not for the normal reasons. I feel it because she notices me and I like it. And because I want to touch her, maybe kiss her lips, even though they are covered in black.
“Yes, I’ll meet you at the streetcar stop by the coffee shop, if that’s still okay?” I tell her, shoving my hands down in my pockets to keep from reaching out and grabbing onto her. We made plans last night at the café. I wish I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow to be alone with her, but I’ve waited this long, so what’s one more day.
“It’s perfect. I’ll see you then,” she says, smiling as she walks backward toward the tent.
I tug on my baseball cap to hide the ridiculous smile on my face and then reluctantly walk away to find my family.
Tomorrow can’t get here fast enough.
I’M NERVOUS. I shouldn’t have left the house so early. I know exactly how long it takes to walk to this streetcar stop, yet I left thirty minutes early anyway, and now I have all of this time on my hands to stand here and overthink everything.
This is a bad idea.
I know this isn’t our first date . . . or maybe it is? I guess that would depend on who you ask. According to my mom and sister, this is the first real date because I asked her out, and we’re going somewhere we don’t normally go. Ben could tell that their fawning and flailing was making me nervous, so he pulled me aside and assured me there was nothing to be nervous about and that we’ve already been on dates, regardless of who asked who.
Loren and I know each other.
We’ve done this.
We can do this.
There’s nothing to worry about, and no matter what, Ben assured me he’d only be a phone call away, should any emergencies arise. I’ve mapped out the entire evening in my mind, thinking of how we’ll take the streetcar down to Canal Street and then walk down Decatur to The Quarter. I’m planning on taking Loren to a small restaurant that sits adjacent to Jackson Square. It’s a family favorite. We used to go there all the time when my dad was alive. We haven’t been there much in the last few years, but it’s somewhere I feel comfortable. Plus, it’s in a great location. There’s so much to do around there—people to watch, music on every corner.
I’m distracted by the familiar pull. When I look up, Loren is approaching with her hands pushed down into the pockets of her jacket. Her long hair is pulled loosely to the side, and her eyes are darker, lips pinker . . . cheeks a bit flushed. She’s gorgeous.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“No,” I lie, because it’s my damn fault I’ve been here for half an hour. She doesn’t need to know that. “The next streetcar should be here any minute. Are you cold?” I ask hesitantly.
“No. I’m great. I love the fall weather.”
“Me too.”
“It was good seeing you last night,” she says, smiling up at me. The sun has already set, and the only light is coming from the street lamp on the corner.
“Yeah, that was a nice surprise.”
“So, where are we headed?” she asks as the streetcar pulls up to the curb. I walk up to the steps, but move aside, allowing her to walk in front of me. Fortunately, there aren’t many people using the service this late in the evening, so it’s easy to get a seat, and the windows are closed, so it’s not too cold.
“Stanley,” I say when we’re seated. “Have you been there?”
“No, I mainly just stick to campus and St. Charles,” she says as she pulls her hair over the side of her shoulder and smooths it down. It looks so soft, like always. Sitting this close, I can smell her sweet scent. It’s also soft and girly, and I love it.
“And Bourbon?” I ask, knowing that all college students head to Bourbon occasionally.
“Maybe twice,” she says with a grin.
“Really?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “I know it’s shocking, but I’m not a lush.”
“I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t trying to insinuate . . .”
“It’s okay, Tripp.” Her hand rests casually on my arm, just like last night. “I’m teasing.”
She may be teasing, but her touch is searing—electrifying.
“It’s not that I don’t like Bourbon Street. I just haven’t been much.”
“Yeah, it’s not my scene either. But I’ve had some good times down there.” I smirk, thinking back on the days before I even had a legal ID. Evan and I had some fun there. I shake my head, refusing to go down that road right now.
“So, where’s Stanley?” she asks.
When the question is out of her mouth, she laughs. It’s that really good laugh, like the night we were walking to the Rat.
“Sounds like a person . . . or like we’re looking for Waldo,” she continues, still laughing.
The way she tilts her head back and her eyes glisten, I feel like this is her—the real her. When she lets go of the sadness and allows herself just to be. I’ve seen it a time or two, and I’m so glad she feels comfortable enough around me to let down her guard . . . or wall . . . or whatever she’s built up around her.
I’m sure I pause for too long, watching her. She stops laughing, but the soft smile stays.
“Tripp? That’s funny, right?”
I smile back at her, but all I can think to say is, “You’re beautiful.”
The blush on her cheeks is instant, and she immediately looks the other way, out the window of the streetcar, and I’m worried I shouldn’t have said that. But when I feel her fingers playing with the sleeve of my shirt, I know I didn’t mess up too bad.
“Thank you,” she finally says and turns back to look at me. The spark in her eyes intensifies. “I’m not sure anyone has ever told me that.”
My brows furrow, and I find it hard to keep a scowl off of my face because she should’ve been told that . . . every day . . . at least once.
“Well, you are.” I decide to play it safe and keep most of my inner dialogue to myself. “And Stanley is on Decatur. It’ll be a few blocks walk after we get off the streetcar. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes, it sounds great! I love walking down to The Quarter.”
When we get off the streetcar and begin making our way down the street, I feel Loren’s hand brush mine. Somewhere deep inside, instinct takes over, and I reach down and link our fingers together. She pauses for a moment but doesn’t miss a step.
“Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect.”
Dinner at Stanley is just as good as I remember it being. The atmosphere is casual and laid back. They used to only be open for lunch, but thankfully they expanded their hours awhile back. For a brief moment, I allow myself to miss my dad and think about how much he would’ve enjoyed the oyster Po-boy with cole slaw and remoulade sauce that I ordered.
“What’s wrong?” Loren asks from across the table, lightly wiping her mouth with her napkin.
I’m not sure if this is the time or the place, but I feel like being open and honest with her. My mom gave me some good advice earlier about being myself. She said if I care about Loren, I should trust her enough to tell her about my past. I definitely care about the girl sitting across from me—my Ania.
“I was just thinking about my dad and how much he would love this,” I say, holding up the last bite of my sandwich.
“That’s who you were visiting that day at the cemetery, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind me asking what happened?”
No. I can honestly say for the first time in a long time that I want to tell someone about my dad. I want her to know how wonderful he was.
“He died a few years ago of lung cancer.”
“That sucks,” she says with honesty and sincerity, and I smile across the table at her, because she’s right. It sucks.
“It does, and I miss him. This was one of his favorite restaurants.”
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Thank you for coming. Do you want to get out of here, maybe walk around the square?”
She nods and reaches for the check, but I stop her. “This is my treat.”
“You don’t have to pay for mine.”
“Yes, I do. I asked you to come here, and I wouldn’t feel right not paying . . . and it’s not because I want anything in return. It’s because I enjoy being with you, and if my dad were here, he’d kick my ass if I didn’t.”
“Thank you.” She smiles and puts her arms through the sleeves of her sweater.
“So,” I begin as we walk back out into the cool of the evening, “do you mind if I ask what you were doing at the cemetery that day?”
She lets out a deep breath. “No.” She hugs her arms across her body, pulling her sweater closed. “I was there at the chapel. I go there sometimes when I need to collect my thoughts, pray, feel some peace . . . I don’t know.”
“You weren’t visiting someone?” I ask, not wanting to dig but knowing that there’s more there that she’s not saying.
“That someone isn’t here. He’s back home.”
He’s, meaning what? A boyfriend? A friend? Right when I’m trying to think of the right way to ask the question, a man in a mime costume walks up in front of us.
He proceeds to act out a scene of a girl and a boy . . . and what appears to be a proposal. The whole situation begins to feel uncomfortable. I’ve always hated those stupid mimes. The way they move and never speak freaks me out. I notice Loren stiffen and move closer, so I pull her to me and walk around him. Neither of us comments; we just keep walking, both lost in our thoughts.
“Gelato?” I ask as we pass one of my favorite dessert shops.
“I love gelato.”
And just like that, the smile is back, and the awkward atmosphere around us lifts.
Loren likes strawberry everything. She orders a double scoop of strawberry gelato, and we find a small table in the corner. My two scoops of limoncello hit the spot, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching people pass outside the window.
The interior of the shop is decorated in vintage signs, mostly related to cars and old gas station memorabilia. I see Loren looking around the shop before she spots a big “VW” sign on the opposite wall.
“Tell me about your car.”
“Well, when I first bought it, it was a piece of shit,” she says, shaking her head and smiling at the memory. “I just needed some wheels, and I only had a few hundred dollars. PJ . . .” Her voice drops, as well as her eyes. She plays with her spoon for a second, drifting off, as if she’s not even here.
“Who’s PJ?”
“My . . . the uh . . .” She struggles with how to say whatever it is she’s trying to tell me.
And I suddenly get it. He is who she goes to the cemetery to visit, the one who’s back home . . . whoever she’s lost . . . PJ.
I just nod my understanding, encouraging her to continue if she wants to.
“He convinced me we could make something out of nothing.” She smiles sadly, looking out the window as she continues. “I didn’t know anything about cars, but over the course of our senior year, we somehow managed to take the beast apart and put her back together. The summer before we came here, I saved up enough money to buy a new paint job and have a little body work done on her. She’s run like a champ ever since. And that’s how I learned to love the classics.” She looks back at me, a proud smile on her face. I’m not sure if it’s just pride in what she accomplished with the car or pride in sharing that bit of herself. Regardless, I return the smile, silently thanking her for telling me.
“What about you? Do you have a classic?”
I swallow hard, trying to think of the best way to answer that question without having a full-blown panic attack. I owe her something.
“I have a ’67 Chevy Impala.” I guess that’s a good place to start. No need to go into too many details.
She nods, looking at me with a face full of questions, but she responds with, “Nice.” Her appreciation of the car is evident in her tone. “Did you rebuild it yourself, or was it already in mint condition?”
“It wasn’t as bad off as your Volkswagen, but it needed a lot of work under the hood.”
“Did you do the work yourself?”
“No, no,” I answer, shaking my head but smiling at all of the good memories that flood my mind of working on the car. Those were good days and ones I don’t mind talking about. “My dad did a lot of the initial work, but when I was about fifteen, I got interested in cars . . . well, that car, in particular. I swore I’d have it finished by the time I took my driver’s test.”
“And did you?” she asks, leaning over the table.
“No.” I laugh at the disappointment I felt. “My sister, Liza, had to work that day, so I couldn’t use her car, and my dad was in court. It left my mom to take me, and the only available vehicle was her Subaru.” I shake my head, remembering her telling me that it wouldn’t be the end of the world. “I could’ve waited, but I had to get my license the day I turned sixteen. There just wasn’t another option.”
She looks down at the table, allowing her hair to fall over her shoulder. “I didn’t get mine until I was seventeen. Didn’t really have a use for it until then,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and smiling back up at me. “So, when did you finish the Impala?”
“Just before my seventeenth birthday. Thankfully, Ben came along and married my sister. He and I would work on the car every day after school when he didn’t have to work; sometimes even when he did, he’d come over in the evenings.”
“He seems like a cool guy.”
“The coolest.”
“Why don’t you drive the Impala anymore?” she asks. Hesitation is thick in her tone, and she fidgets with the wadded up napkin in her hand.
“It needs some work.” I feel the familiar trepidation deep down in my gut, but it doesn’t grow like normal. It stays down, allowing me to think through my answer, to give her something without freaking the hell out.
“Did something happen to it?”
“Could we go?” I ask abruptly. “I need some fresh air.”
She quickly gets up and throws our trash away, offering her hand to me as we walk out the door. No words. Just her hand in mine as we walk down Decatur, passing by Jackson Square. Soon, it’s only our footsteps on the concrete blended with the faint sounds of jazz coming from the House of Blues as we approach the corner at Canal Street.
“I didn’t mean to push,” she says softly, squeezing my hand.
“It’s fine.” And it is. Even though I wasn’t able to tell her everything, I did tell her some of it, and the most important part is that I got through it without having a panic attack.
“I had a great time tonight.” Her body leans into mine, and it feels so good.
“I did too.”
The streetcar pulls up, and I put my hand on the small of her back as she climbs aboard. She turns around and looks back at me, her eyes holding a level of intensity I haven’t seen yet. When we slide into the bench, she remains close, her hand in mine and her head on my shoulder.
The ride back to St. Charles passes too quickly. Before I know it, we’re stepping off and standing awkwardly at the corner where we met just a few short hours ago.
“Can I walk you back to your dorm?”
“Please.”
We make small talk on the way to her dorm. She tells me about a report she has to work on tomorrow at the library, and I tell her about the test I have to study for. When we’re standing in front of the dorms, she stops and turns toward me.
“Who’s going to walk you home?”
“I’ll be fine.” I laugh at her mock concern.
/> “Would you text me, so I know you made it safely?”
“Yes.” My throat tightens, and the familiar feeling is back—a marching band in my chest—as I realize she’s concerned about me.
And she wants me to text her.
I’d like to do more than text her.
I want to kiss her.
She starts to pull away, but I have a surge of confidence flood my body, and I pull her to me. Our bodies flush, I reach up to brush a loose strand of hair off her face, cupping her jaw. Before I know it, my lips are on hers, and the coiling in my stomach is now a blazing fire. I feel hot from my head to my toes. Her lips remain closed, but she doesn’t pull away. I feel her grip the front of my shirt, pulling me closer, but then it’s like a switch flips—her arms stiffen, her lips pull back, and she averts her gaze to anywhere but me.
“I should go,” she says abruptly. “Thank you so much for tonight.” She stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck. It takes a second for my brain to catch up, but when it does, I fold in around her. We stay in the warm embrace until she ends it, taking a couple of steps back. I watch her as she goes into the building, even walking closer so I can see her enter the elevator at the end of the hall. When she’s long gone, I finally turn around and head home.
My heart and my head are battling as I walk. One is elated that I kissed her, but the other is worried I shouldn’t have. She seemed to want it at first, but then it was like she regretted it . . . and then she hugged me. I’m so confused . . . but happy.
A few guys walk past me, reeking of alcohol—all of them wearing Kappa Sig shirts—causing a flood of memories to hit me like a brick wall.
“Come on, bro. Just make your shot, and put me out of my misery,” Evan begs.
Leaning over the table, poised to strike, I wait a few more seconds before sinking the eight ball in the corner pocket right where Evan is standing.
“Next round’s on you, asshole!”
I laugh as he tosses his pool stick down on the table and heads toward the bar, grumbling the entire time.
Evan is nearly as drunk as I am, which makes him a real shitty pool player. I, on the other hand, get better as I drink, which only adds to his humiliation. Maybe his crappy playing is what makes me look good, but I don’t care. I’m winning, and he’s buying, so it’s all good.