by Jiffy Kate
After leaving the frat house, we found a parking spot on a side street in The Quarter before making our way to Bourbon Street. Seeing that I was too drunk to drive, Evan was more than happy to take the keys to my Impala and drive for us. Bourbon is party central any time of day, but after walking the strip a couple of times, we were bored and decided playing pool was the way we should spend our evening. After turning a few corners, we found ourselves at Mollie’s Pool Hall.
Even at five o’clock on Valentine’s Day, Mollie’s has a nice crowd, but it’s not crazy packed, so we can enjoy our game in peace.
As I rack the balls for another game, I feel a small hand slide up my arm and grip my bicep.
“What’s a guy like you doing all alone on Valentine’s Day?”
I turn my head and see an attractive girl with very glassy eyes looking up at me. As politely as I can, I remove her hand from my arm and grab the blue chalk, applying it to my pool stick.
“I’m not alone. I’m hanging with my buddy tonight.”
“I should’ve figured a pretty boy like you isn’t into girls. My mistake.”
“Oh, I’m not gay. My girlfriend and I had a fight, so now I’m having a guy’s night instead of a romantic one,” I explain. I mean, I guess Whitney’s still my girlfriend. We didn’t officially break up. We just had a huge fight, resulting in me leaving her ass at the park to clean up the picnic I’d made for us, while I drowned my frustrations at the Kappa Sig house.
Fucking Whitney.
Fucking Valentine’s Day.
The girl’s eyes light up, and she licks her lips before telling me to find her by the jukebox if I decide I want some female company before walking off.
Yeah, no thanks.
Evan finally shows up with our pitcher of beer and pours us both a glass.
“What took you so long?”
“I was just seeing if you were going to hook up with that chick that was after you,” he laughs.
“Fuck you,” I tell him before breaking the balls and sending two stripes and one solid into their respective pockets.
Evan groans before saying, “This is the last game, fucker. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Fine, pussy, but you’re still driving, so lay off the beer.”
Loren
I WATCH WITH excitement as Wyatt sets a warm bowl of bread pudding in front of me.
“Here’s your usual, darlin’.”
“Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” The first bite melts in my mouth, and I don’t even try to quiet the moan that escapes. “So damn good. Wyatt, you must share the recipe with me.”
“If it were up to me, I would, but you know my Livie . . . She’s very protective of her creations, especially when they make her a lot of money. I bet she’d make an exception for you, though.”
Wyatt gives me a wink before walking back to the kitchen, whistling a happy tune.
“I don’t know how you can eat all those sweets, Loren. I guess that’s why you’re so sweet, huh?” PJ smiles at me and grabs my empty hand because he knows better than to grab my spoon-hand. “How was your day?”
I finish my dessert before answering, trying to hold on to my sugar-induced joy for a moment longer.
“It was fine. School was good, as usual, but my hours at work were cut back again for next week, which means another week of struggling to make ends meet. Maybe I should take a break from school. You know, work a year, save some money, then finish my degree. Doing both at the same time is getting hard.”
“You can’t do that, Lo. You’re so close to graduating; you only have a few semesters left. Soon, you’ll be out of school and making your own money, but until then, let me take care of you.”
PJ’s dark eyes are so earnest and full of love, and it kills me I can’t look at him in the same way. I’ve tried for so long, but I’m beginning to think it’ll never happen.
“You do take care of me, PJ. You have for a long time. Sometimes I worry that I’m taking advantage of you.”
“That’s crazy. You’re my girlfriend, and one of these days, you’ll be my wife. Why wait until then to live together? Move in with me now, and that’s one bill you won’t have to worry about paying. As an added bonus, we’ll start celebrating “Naked Sundays” like we always dream about. What do you say?”
I quickly grab my glass of water and take a drink, avoiding all eye contact with PJ. It’d break his heart if he saw the panic in my eyes. I’ve obviously allowed this to go too far if he’s thinking about marriage. I can’t marry PJ, but I don’t want to hurt him either.
I have to tell him we can only be friends, but not tonight.
Tonight, I want to enjoy his warmth, his smile, and his positivity, because I doubt he’ll want anything to do with me after I break up with him. So, I’m going to be selfish this one last time.
“Loren?”
I look up to see Tripp standing over me, eyes full of sadness and concern.
He’s so beautiful. I know he doesn’t realize it. I can tell by the way he hides behind his long bangs. But he so is—so beautiful it hurts. His green eyes are like marbles; they’re mesmerizing. I have a hard time looking at him and remembering to speak.
Angrily, I wipe away the tears that have fallen. I’m not sure if I’m mad at the memory or the feelings I can’t shake, but I’d give anything to be free of the guilt and grief that have consumed me for the past nine months. Well, technically, the guilt has been lingering longer.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I nod my head in response because I don’t trust my voice not to break, and because I want to tell him. He’s slowly claiming my heart. He should know how it got in the condition it’s in now. He may not want me after he hears what I have to say, but he deserves to know. I feel like he’s opened up to me so much—telling me about his dad and his ex-girlfriend. But I feel like there’s more for him to share. Maybe he’s waiting for me, or maybe I’ve been waiting for him. Regardless, it’s time, because the secrets are holding us back.
My therapist tells me the truth will set you free.
I hope he’s right.
As Tripp and I begin walking down the sidewalk, he tangles his fingers with mine. This has become my favorite thing about walking with Tripp. He has no idea how just being close to him makes me feel. I’ve never felt this way about anyone . . . and here comes the flood of guilt again, so powerful, it almost knocks me over.
When we cross the street, I realize he’s leading me to the park.
It’s probably only seven o’clock, but the sun has set. The park is dark except for the light posts, which is probably a good thing because I’m not sure I can make it through what I need to say without falling apart and I’m not a pretty crier.
This will be the first time I’ve told anyone about this, except for my therapist and Grace, and that realization is making it hard for me to breathe. Internally, I want to retreat—forget all of this—and go back to whatever this is we’ve been doing for the last few months.
A pseudo-relationship with Tripp is better than no relationship at all.
His cool fingers brush along the side of my face, and the familiar tingle I get every time he touches me comes along with it.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads. The tone in Tripp’s voice is pained as if he can feel what’s inside me. “I hate seeing you sad, and I’ve been worried about you ever since I kissed you the other night . . . I shouldn’t have done that . . . or I shouldn’t have done it without asking first. I’m sorry, An-”
He stops himself, and his hands leave me and go straight to his hair. His expression shifts, and I wonder what he was about to say. It wasn’t my name.
“Don’t be sorry.” I’m still confused about what he was getting ready to say, but the last thing I want is for him to feel guilty about Saturday because that night was beautiful. Everything about our date was perfect and made me fall for him even more than I already had. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The date, the
kiss—it was . . . Well, it was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, if not ever.” I pull my jacket tighter, trying to keep the chill out, while holding myself together. Leaning over on my knees, bracing myself, I begin.
“I don’t even know where or how to start, so it’s probably going to come out a jumbled mess. But,” I pause, hesitating. “Please, just promise you’ll hear me out.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Loren.”
“You haven’t heard what I have to say yet.”
“You could tell me anything, and I’ll still be sitting right here when you’re finished.”
I give him a weak smile, hoping he’s right. Clearing my throat, I start from the beginning.
“My dad is a fireman in the small town I’m from. He put a roof over my head, but that’s about it. My mom never wanted kids, which is why she left when I was eight. Funny thing is I didn’t even miss her after she was gone. She wasn’t ever the ‘bake cookies, curl up and read a book with you’ kind of mom. She only ever cared about herself . . . still only cares about herself. My dad was raised by his dad, who was a widower, so he didn’t have a nurturing bone in his body. In his defense, he did as well as he could, but he was a shitty parent . . . still is a shitty parent. From the age of eight, I made my own meals, got myself up and dressed in the morning, and put myself to bed at night. When I was fourteen, I got a job at the local diner. I worked there all through junior high and high school. I bought my own clothes, anything school related, and then eventually a $200 car.”
Taking a deep breath, I collect my thoughts and release a long exhale. Tripp’s patience and gentle strokes on my hand are what help me continue.
“The diner I worked at is also where I met PJ. He was my best friend. He stood up for me when kids at school would bully me for not wearing the right clothes or when they would make fun of my family, or lack thereof. He was my family. I spent every holiday and summer vacation at his house. When he decided to apply to Tulane, I applied to Tulane. I knew he was my only ticket out of the small town we’re from, and truthfully, when I thought about living there without him, I wanted to kill myself. There was no way I was staying behind. So when we both got accepted and I was able to secure a little financial aid, I took the biggest leap of my life, loaded down my car, and left Texas for good. I used up all of my savings by my sophomore year. I didn’t realize how tough it would be to make it without financial support from home. PJ had his dad, and even though they weren’t well off, they had enough. Plus, he had a college savings fund to dig into when he needed it. Occasionally, he would spot me cash, but I tried to always pay him back. The beginning of my junior year was when things got hard. I was close to dropping out of college and saving up some money, but PJ talked me out of it. He encouraged me, gave me options, just like he always did.”
I pause, swallowing the enormous lump in my throat. “I always knew that he liked me as more than just a friend, and we tried to have a relationship. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever tried so hard at one thing in my entire life. I wanted it so bad.” I turn to look Tripp in the face, begging him to understand, and I’m met with nothing but soft eyes and comfort. “I wanted to fall in love with him, and I felt like there was something wrong with me when I didn’t. The guilt I felt almost pulled me under sometimes, and I was finally ready to tell him that it just wasn’t working . . . I loved him, but I wasn’t in love with him. I needed him to know that . . . to clear my conscience. He’d always been such an amazing friend to me. I felt like I was lying to him and holding him back from finding someone who could love him the way he deserved to be loved.”
Fresh tears are pouring down my cheeks. When I think about PJ, I miss him. I miss my confidant and protector. But most of all, I miss my friend. I might not have been in love with him, but he was the best thing that ever happened to me up to that point. I felt like I had been walking around with a black cloud hanging over my head until he walked in—very similar to how I feel about the guy sitting beside me. But, unlike PJ, I can see myself loving Tripp . . . being in love with Tripp. That epiphany hit me a couple of weeks ago, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’ve watched dozens of sappy love stories and read about them in countless books, and everyone says that you’ll know when you know . . . and I know.
“Did you tell him?” Tripp asks.
“No,” I say, with overwhelming sadness, and it’s hard to get the next few words out because they carry with them so much guilt and regret. “I never got the chance.”
“What happened?”
This is the horrible part—the part I don’t even know if I can talk about without breaking down and becoming an incoherent mess. But here goes nothing.
“I was supposed to meet him for dinner.”
“At The Crescent Moon?”
“Yes,” I tell him, recalling the day in my mind with such clarity. Sometimes, it feels like it was only a month or so ago, but other times it feels like years.
“What happened?” he asks, prompting me to continue.
“He never showed. I waited and waited . . . for almost two hours I sat in the booth at the café, just waiting, but he never came. About the time I was giving up, figuring he’d gotten tied up somewhere and forgot to call, my phone rang.”
“Was it him?” Tripp asks.
“No, it was the New Orleans Police Department asking me to come down to the station. At first, I thought he’d been in a fight or maybe gotten drunk on Bourbon Street . . . something . . . anything except for what they told me when I got there. Not that. Not PJ . . . that’s what I kept saying over and over and over . . . Not PJ . . . Not PJ,” I repeat, much the same way I did that night.
“What happened?”
“He was going through a stop light when a car ran a red light coming from the opposite direction. He was hit on the driver’s side. He died at the scene.”
“Oh, God. Loren . . .” Tripp says, anguish in his voice.
“One of the police officers finally took my phone and called my friend Grace. She came and got me, but I barely remember anything after finding out the news. I stayed in bed for three days, until she forced me out and drove me home for the funeral. That entire day is hazy. I couldn’t look at anybody . . . or talk to anybody. My dad didn’t even try to console me. It was the worst day of my life and all he could offer me was a side hug,” I tell him, my body reacting to the memories and starting to shake.
Tripp rubs my arms, warming me from the outside, but it’s not enough to stop the tremors I feel on the inside.
But I continue, “PJ’s dad, Jess, walked up to me and dropped a golden ring in my palm. That’s when I hit rock bottom. I thought it was the night at the police station when the officer told me he was dead, but I was wrong. It was that moment. The moment I realized PJ was actually going to propose—that he’d bought a ring and everything. It killed me. I passed out. The last thing I remember was Jess placing the ring in my hand. I vaguely remember Grace driving me home, but the next real thing I remember is waking up in my room and three days had passed.”
“I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry,” Tripp says, his voice is tortured, breaking. And I hate that I’m burdening him with my past, but I don’t know what else to do, except keep going until I’ve told him everything.
“He was going to propose to me . . . and I was planning on breaking up with him. He didn’t even know.”
“That’s why you go to the cafe every Thursday?” he asks.
“I honestly don’t know why I go to the café. I guess I go to force myself to remember him. Guilt?” I say, shrugging, because as crazy as it sounds, I know that’s a big part of it. “Sometimes, it still feels like he could walk through the door.”
“So, you’re punishing yourself?”
“Wouldn’t you?” I ask, my voice rising an octave. The precarious grip I have on my emotions is slipping. “I was going to break up with him, Tripp. And then he died! He died thinking I was in love with him, and I don’t know if I�
�m supposed to be happy about that or hate myself for it! It’s a horrible feeling. The worst part is that everyone who knew us as an us thought we were in love . . . They all think I’ve been mourning my lost love for the last nine months. But I haven’t been. I’ve been mourning the loss of my best friend and the lost opportunities to make things right. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Sobs wrack my body, and Tripp’s strong arms wrap around me tightly. He pulls me onto his lap, holding me, allowing me to cry until I can’t anymore—until my throat feels strained from the onslaught of emotions.
When I begin to shake from the chill in the air, Tripp slips his arms out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. He lightly kisses my cheek, inhaling deeply as his lips touch my skin before I settle my head back on his chest. Being this close, I can hear and feel his heart beating wildly.
“It’s not your fault, Loren,” he says, nearly choking on his words. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Now he’s shaking, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s cold from giving up his jacket or something else. “Sometimes, the universe steps in and makes decisions for us, and we don’t get a say. It . . . it sucks, and it’s not fair. I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you lost your friend . . . and I’m sorry you’ve carried this guilt all on your own, but it’s not your fault.”
The words coming out of his mouth are similar to words other people have told me—my friend Grace, my therapist—but they sound different coming from him.
I want to believe him.
After we sit in silence for awhile, me trying to convince myself that what Tripp said is true and him probably trying to process all the shit I dumped in his lap, he quietly asks, “Why don’t we get you home?”
I nod and slowly stand up, unwrapping his jacket from my shoulders.
“No, you keep it. I’m fine,” he says, helping me slide my arms into the sleeves.