The Other One

by Jiffy Kate

  As we begin to walk toward campus, Tripp’s hand slips into mine. With my free hand, I pull the jacket tighter around me and inhale. It smells like him—clean, spicy . . . manly. It soothes my frayed edges and calms my soul.

  Tripp seems to be deep in thought as we walk, but he never lets go of my hand, sometimes squeezing tighter or rubbing circles with his thumb.

  When we arrive outside of my dorm, I don’t want to let him go. I wish I lived somewhere I could invite him in, ask him to stay the night. Falling asleep in his arms would surely keep the bad dreams away.

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking . . .” Tripp starts.

  I shake my head, encouraging him to continue. I’d rather get everything out in the open tonight so that we can move forward from here.

  “When was the accident?”

  “Valentine’s night,” I tell him, realizing just how horrible the date alone makes it.

  “This year?”

  “Yes,” I reply, but I can hardly focus on my answer because Tripp is now squeezing my hand, and it looks as though the color has drained from his face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I’m fine.” He drops my hand and leans in to place a kiss on my cheek. “I just . . . I’ve gotta go.”

  “Text me when you get home?”

  “Sure. Goodnight, Loren.”

  “Goodnight, Tripp.”

  This is the first time I’ve seen him walk away. Typically, when I step into the elevator, I can still see him watching me from outside the building. But not tonight. He walks hastily, and I’m now the one waiting until I can’t see him any longer . . . until he eventually fades into the black of the night. A weird feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to grow, but I wrap myself up in the jacket Tripp left behind and try to ignore it.

  I hope he’s not too cold on the way home.

  I hope he texts me when he gets there.

  I hope I didn’t ruin everything.

  Tripp

  “SLOW DOWN, FUCKER. You crash my car; I’m gonna beat your ass.” The slur of my words is softening the blow, but I mean every one of them. If Evan puts even a tiny scratch on the Impala, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

  “What are you laughing at, Tripp?”

  “Donkey Kong,” I tell him as if it should make perfect sense.

  “Oh, man. That game is the best!”

  See, that’s why Evan is my friend. He gets me.

  I hold up my palm, but when he moves to return my high-five, the entire car swerves, causing him to grab on to the steering wheel with both hands while I hold on to the “oh-shit” handle for dear life.

  “Dammit, Evan,” I yell as passing cars honk at us.

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t think I was this fucked up. I’m good now, though.” He slows down at a red light and lets out a deep breath. “Nothing like nearly slamming into a parked car to sober you up, right?”

  The sound of tires screeching and metal crunching catches my attention, and I look over Evan’s shoulder just in time to see another car coming straight for us. There’s no bracing for impact, no time to prepare. The words “Oh, God” barely leave my mouth before the collision. Glass explodes around me as my head slams into the windshield. The loud horn blaring keeps me alert long enough to register that something bad has happened, but too soon, the bright flashing lights overwhelm, and my brain does what it can to protect itself: it shuts down.

  My screams pull me from my restless sleep, while my body is tangled in my sheets and covered in sweat.

  No.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  It can’t be the same.

  It’s not possible.

  I close my eyes and try to remember more, but my brain is at war with itself. One part is struggling to remember, to free the last of my memories, while the other part is pushing back just as hard to keep me ignorant and protected. To be honest, I don’t know which part I want to win. For a while, I’ve wanted to remember and get the pain over and done with, but it’s obviously not going to be that easy. And no one could’ve expected this—for mine and Loren’s lives to be connected, entwined, like this.

  I immediately recognize the sight, sounds, and smells of the hospital, and for a moment, I assume I’m here to visit my dad, but no. This time, I’m the patient. In between my mother’s and sister’s cries, I hear words like “trauma,” “brain injury,” and “wait and see.”

  This time, my stomach wakes me, and I hurry to my bathroom to empty its contents. After cleaning myself up, I slip on my shoes and head to Liza and Ben’s house. It’s barely six o’clock in the morning, but I need answers. Now.

  I let myself in through the back door and walk into the kitchen. If I’m going to wake my family up this early, the least I can do is make them coffee. Soon, I hear the sound of shuffling feet, and when I see the sleepy faces of my sister and brother-in-law, I feel guilty for doing this to them. But I’m too impatient for answers to turn back now.

  When Liza sees me, her steps quicken until she’s right in front of me, completely alert.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She’s demanding but still gentle, with her hands gripping my arms.

  “I’m ready to talk about the accident.”

  Liza turns to Ben and points to the stove. “You start the bacon, and I’ll call Mom.”

  Considering we have a lot to talk about, the four of us are quiet as we eat our breakfast. It’s as if we’re carb-loading, preparing for battle. To be honest, I don’t know what to expect. I have so many questions, but I also have to deal with the answers I get. I don’t know what I’m dreading more.

  The dirty dishes are left in the sink as we each refill our coffee cups and walk to the living room. I watch as the people I love most in this world—my family—sit on the couch in front of me, patiently waiting for me to begin. I know I owe them so much. I’m about to learn exactly how much, though.

  “Tripp, son, what’s brought this on all of a sudden?” my mom asks.

  “I’ve been having flashbacks—memories—leading up to the accident. They started shortly after I started spending time with Loren.”

  “Who’s Loren?”

  “She’s my new . . . friend. We met at the café.”

  My mom’s eyes flash over to my sister, and they share a subdued smile, but I can see the excitement all over their faces. I want to share in their happiness, but I’m not sure if it’s possible right now.

  “Anyway, these flashbacks have been about things I’d never remembered before . . . things about Evan and . . . Whitney.”

  At the sound of my ex’s name, Liza starts grumbling under her breath.

  “Last night I remembered what happened . . . the wreck . . . but only parts of being in the hospital afterward. Can y’all help fill in the blanks? I need to know what happened that night.”

  My mother immediately starts wringing her hands and taking deep breaths, making me realize this is still traumatic for her too.

  “Mom, if it’s too hard, we can wait—”

  “No,” she stresses. “If you’re ready, then so am I. I’ll be fine.” She steadies her breathing and continues. “You and Evan were in a car accident. You’d both been drinking a lot, but that’s not what caused the wreck. In fact, strangely enough, it’s probably what saved your life.”

  My eyebrows draw together at her odd statement while Ben explains.

  “You know how statistics show most drunk drivers survive when they’re involved in a crash because their bodies are so loosened up by the alcohol? Well, you and your buddy supported those numbers. You were both inebriated, and you didn’t have time to tense up or react before you were hit. Fortunately for you, but unfortunately for another guy, the driver that hit you crashed into another car first. It slowed his car a bit, but he still had enough speed to slam into the Impala, throwing you into the windshield because you two idiots weren’t wearing seatbelts.”

  My stomach flips at the mention of another guy.

  PJ. Loren’s
boyfriend. I know it’s him, but I need them to confirm it for me.

  A cold sweat trickles down my back, and I close my eyes tightly, willing the nausea away. Slowly, I lower myself to the floor, and when I feel able to hold my shit together, I look back up at my family.

  “Was I in a coma?” I ask. I know it sounds crazy, but I haven’t wanted to know anything about the accident, until now. Now, I need to know. I have to know.

  This time, Liza speaks. “Yeah, for about a week. You had a mild brain injury, but other than that, you were fine. It’s a miracle, actually,” she says brightly.

  I rub the scar on my forehead and laugh, but there’s no humor there.

  “Sure. A miracle.” I might not know the details of how my brain got this way, but I know all about the condition, and I don’t feel like it’s a miracle. It’s why I can’t remember things, why I have to set alarms just to make it to class or remember I have a test . . . why I have migraines and panic attacks. It’s the reason I get confused and irrational. “I know all about the brain injury. I live with it every day,” I spit out.

  “But you’re getting better every day. I see positive changes, good changes, every day,” she says, leaning forward, pleading with me to believe her words. “Like Loren.”

  I stand up and begin to pace, feeling the anger building inside me. Stupid fate and destiny and all the fucking stars that align.

  “Yeah, well, when she finds out the truth, she’ll probably never want to see me again.” The second the thought is in my mind and the words are out of my mouth, I feel sick. I want to make it all go away. I want to go back to me and Loren just being me and Loren. I don’t want all the rest of the shit that goes with it.

  “Why do you say that?” my mom asks.

  “The first guy that was hit,” I continue, needing to know every detail. “Did . . . did he die?” I’m still hoping that somehow my calculations are off—that somehow it’s some other guy.

  Liza nods. “He was killed instantly.”

  “What was his name?” I ask, dread thick in my throat as the words come. I close my eyes, waiting for the response I know will come.

  “Peter Jacoby,” my mama says reverently. “I’ll never forget his name or the sacrifice he unknowingly made that saved your life.” When I hear her voice quiver, I’m done.

  I can’t do this.

  I stumble out the back door and run straight to the garage.

  I don’t know why I instinctively come here, but I do. I need to see my car. I need to remember. I want it all—every regret, every fear, every failure, every what if.

  My hands are shaking as I touch the dust cloth that’s been covering the car.

  I haven’t looked at it since the night of the wreck. I couldn’t. Too many memories and the thought of seeing it banged up has kept me away these last nine months. But now I have to see it.

  In one hard pull, the cloth is on the ground.

  I know it looks better now than it did after the wreck, but it’s still not perfect. Ben has done his best to fix it up even though his time has been limited and he’s had no one to help him. It has a new windshield, and it’s cleaned up, but the bumper is still hanging on by a piece of wire, and the side mirror is missing. The passenger side door and fender have been replaced but still need to be painted. It pains me to see it this way, and not just because of how it got like this. It’s more than that.

  This was my baby. It was a piece of my dad and a piece of me . . . and even a piece of Ben. It means the world to me. I know Ben thought that by mending it, it would help me . . . mend me—make things better or normal—but for some reason, it pisses me off. It’s another reminder of how I’ve failed.

  Hurt, anger, and guilt course through me, and if I don’t let it out, I’ll explode.

  I frantically search the garage for what I want, finally finding my old baseball bat.

  I don’t think.

  I don’t question.

  I don’t even feel.

  I just let go.

  Deep down, there’s a small voice telling me to stop . . . telling me that I’ll regret this later, but I tell it to shut the hell up, and I keep going.

  I can’t stop.

  I don’t want to.

  I need this.

  Every swing, hit, scratch and dent are like drops of holy water on my forehead, absolving me of my sins.

  My arms are sweaty and straining from exertion, but I still don’t stop. I keep hitting the car for myself, my family, and my past . . . for Evan, Loren, and PJ. I hit it and let every emotion drain from my pores.

  Eventually, strong arms wrap around me from behind, causing me to stop and the bat to slip from my fingers.

  Ben pulls me to the floor and lets me cry, encouraging me to “get it all out.” His heavy hand on my shoulder makes me stay put, but truthfully, I don’t have the energy to go anywhere or do anything more. I can’t fight him.

  When I finally feel ready to move, I lift my head and assess the damage.

  “Holy shit, Ben. I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper, covering my mouth with a shaky hand.

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize to me. Cars can be fixed, Tripp. I’m more concerned about you than the Impala.”

  “I don’t know if I can be fixed,” I admit, hanging my head between my knees.

  Looking back up at the car, I’m hit with a new wave of nausea. I don’t know if it’s the result of the adrenaline that was pushing through my veins or the reality of what I now know.

  “Fuck that, bro. You don’t need fixing. You need to cut yourself some slack. I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you have since the wreck. You learned some major shit today, and you dealt with it. Now, what are you going to do to move forward?”

  “I wish it was all over, but there’s more.”

  He watches me expectantly, waiting for me to explain.

  “The guy that was killed . . . his nickname was PJ. He was Loren’s boyfriend.”

  Ben exhales sharply before cussing under his breath.

  “How can I tell her the truth?” I ask. The question is for me as much as it’s for Ben. At this moment, I wish I was someone else—someone who deserves Loren and could make her happy. “She’ll never want to see me again.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He was going to propose that night, but she was planning on breaking up with him. She feels incredible guilt over that. The reason she sits at the café every damn Thursday is to punish herself.” I let out another sob and wipe my snot on my sleeve because it’s just Ben, and he’s seen me at my worst. “Sh-she has no one in her life now, other than her roommate, and when she finally allows herself to open up to someone new, he just happens to have been involved in the same wreck that took her best friend? How could anyone overcome that?” I look up at him, begging for him to tell me that she can . . . that she will. Something to give me hope that it’s not all over.

  “You have to tell her, and she’ll have to decide for herself how she wants to handle it. But don’t blame yourself for things out of your control. And don’t take that decision away from her.” He pauses, giving me a second to catch my breath.

  “You might be alive because of him, but he’s not dead because of you,” he says forcefully, trying to make me believe his words.

  I nod, knowing he’s right. Of course, I have to tell her, but when and how, I have no idea.

  “Right now, I’m too worn out to do anything.” I slowly stand up and dust myself off, looking over at the Impala and feeling a lot like it looks—broken, shattered, and beat to hell. “Thanks, Ben. For everything. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  He gives me a mock punch in my shoulder before saying, “Don’t mention it, man. You’d do the same for me.”

  I nod my agreement and leave the garage. I hear Ben behind me, kicking some shit out of the way, and the guilt settles heavy in my gut. I feel bad for losing it and for leaving Liza and my mom the way I did. I know they’re hurting too. I’m not the on
ly one who was hurt, but I know they’ll understand.

  In my room, I fall back into bed, hoping for dreamless sleep.

  My eyelids are scratchy, my throat is sore, and I can’t quit thinking that I must have done something really bad in a former life. I never believed in any of that shit, but it’s the only explanation for why everything in my life seems to get fucked up.

  First, my dad dies. The person I confided in, depended on, and trusted most in this world left me.

  Then, when I couldn’t deal with that, I was forced to give up football—the thing I loved, what I was good at.

  And, as if that weren’t enough, on a drunken Valentine’s night, after breaking it to my girlfriend that I was, in fact, not proposing, Evan and I were in an accident. Fortunately, it wasn’t our fault, but it left me with scars, physical and mental, that I’ll have for the rest of my life.

  And just when I thought I was coming to terms with all of that and had finally found my place in the world again—found Loren—it just so happens that the wreck I was in killed her best friend.

  How am I ever going to tell her that?

  She’ll hate me.

  I’m here, and he’s not.

  I can’t tell her.

  I can’t do that to her.

  I can’t hurt her like that.

  I can’t open up that fresh wound and pour salt on it.

  The best thing I can do for her is disappear. It might hurt her a little at first, but in the long run, it’ll be better. She’ll forget. And she’ll escape without having her heart broken again.

  I reach up and rub at the spot over my own heart, wincing at the pain I feel when I think about never seeing her again.

  The wreck didn’t kill me, but this might.

  Eventually, my mind slows down enough for me to fall asleep, but it’s not peaceful. The dreams are filled with sounds of scraping metal and smells of gasoline and burnt rubber. There are bright lights and screams . . . those might have come from me.

  When I wake, my pulse is racing, and I feel sick again. After splashing my face with water, I take a look at myself in the mirror. I wish I had dreamed all of that shit up, but the fresh cut above my eye proves it was all real—the truth, the car, PJ, Loren—all of it. I pop two sleeping pills and wash them down with water from the faucet.