The Other One

by Jiffy Kate

  At some point, my mom uses her key to come in and check on me. I hear her tiptoeing in, and then I feel her cool hand on my forehead, but I don’t let her know I’m awake. I don’t want to face her. Not yet.

  Sometime later, Ben stops by and even though he doesn’t feel my forehead, his actions are similar to my mama’s—checking me over, pacing for a while, then leaving.

  When I’m awake, I think of Loren, and the tears come. And I let them because the pain I feel from losing her is worse than any pain I’ve felt in a long time, and the only way I can relieve the ache is to let it out.

  It’s worse than a migraine or any panic attack.

  If I had to compare it to something, I’d compare it to how I felt after my dad died. Not as painful, but close. It’s a loss, but it’s not permanent like my dad. It helps knowing that, eventually, Loren will go on with her life.

  She’ll find someone who can make her truly happy.

  That thought leaves a hole in my heart, a vacant spot where she was . . . is.

  But I can’t let her stay.

  Letting her stay means telling her the truth and I can’t do that.

  I look at the clock; it’s after twelve, but I’m assuming it’s twelve midnight because I can’t see even a sliver of light from the window. I’m pretty sure I slept through Friday and Saturday. I vaguely remember my sister bringing me some soup, but I don’t know if that was yesterday or today.

  I reach over to my nightstand and pick up my phone. It’s almost dead, but there are several missed calls from Loren, a text also from her asking if I made it home safely, and then another one saying she’s worried about me. I almost reply back and tell her I’m fine, but that’s a lie, and I can’t lie to her. So, I toss the phone down on the floor and roll over in my bed.

  I continue to lie in the dark for countless hours, playing over in my mind the different scenarios that could happen if I tell Loren about the wreck, but all of them end with her never wanting to see me again, not wanting to be constantly reminded about what she lost. Nowhere in my brain can I find a reason why she’d want to continue her relationship with me. I know Ben said that I should give her a choice—tell her and let her make her decision—but it feels like this is a situation where not knowing is the best option.

  She might hate me for disappearing, but I’d rather her hate me than see her hurt more than she already is.

  Loren

  I KNEW IT was a bad idea to tell Tripp about PJ. I don’t know why, but deep down, I just felt like it was going to change things between us. I had no idea it would hurt like this, though. Tripp has been in my life for a few months and has only been absent for a few days, but I miss him more than I can express . . . more than PJ even, which is weird to admit.

  It’s different.

  When I think about him, my whole body aches, like I have the flu or something, but the only thing I’m suffering from right now is missing Tripp.

  I call him, but he doesn’t answer.

  I text him, but he doesn’t reply.

  I tried waiting around the Loyola campus for him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mess of dark hair and the flannel shirts I’ve come to love and find comfort in, but nothing. He’s nowhere. It’s like I dreamed him up. The only evidence that he does exist is the jacket he left behind when I saw him last . . . the jacket I’ve wrapped myself in at night when I try to sleep. The one I’m wearing right now.

  Last week, when Thursday rolled around, I felt like the weight had been lifted from my shoulders, because I just knew he’d be here at the café when I arrived, but he wasn’t. I could tell he wasn’t here the moment I walked in the door.

  Even so, I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I stopped the girl with the dark hair—Jamie? Jenny? I can’t remember, but I stopped her and asked her if Tripp was here, thinking that maybe he was just in the back or he’d left early.

  Maybe he was waiting for me on our bench . . . our bench?

  Listen to me. Just because we’ve met there a few times, it suddenly becomes ours?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  How could I let myself fall like this? Trust like this? Let someone in?

  I roughly wipe away the few tears that have trickled down my cheeks. I’m so pissed at myself . . . at Tripp . . . at PJ.

  With PJ, everything was so final. He was gone. There was nothing that could bring him back. As much as I hated every second of it, I had to accept that. It took months of therapy for me to get that, even though I still think I’m in the denial phase sometimes. Then Tripp came along, and he made everything right again. He filled all of the cracks in my broken heart, and then he just left. And it’s worse because I know he’s out there somewhere.

  When the bell on the door chimes, I can’t help but look to see who’s walking in. Just in case. But it’s not him. It’s two of Tripp’s regulars—an older couple who’re usually here around the same time I am every week.

  They sit down at the table behind me, and I hear the lady ask where the handsome waiter is. I lean farther back in the booth so I can hear better; when the girl with the dark hair tells her he’s out sick—the same excuse she told me—my shoulders slump.

  I thought maybe she’d say something different. Somehow, I know it’s a lie.

  I wonder if he’ll quit.

  Maybe he already has?

  I wish there were something I could do, but I’m at a loss. Besides, if he wanted to see me or talk to me, he would’ve answered one of the dozen phone calls or text messages.

  He would be here.

  I don’t know why I thought he’d still want me after everything I told him. I don’t blame him, but I had hoped he would understand. I know he has secrets too and I thought I saw something in him that my heart identified with.

  I guess I was wrong.

  “Excuse me,” a voice says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  I look up to see a woman standing pensively by the table. Her hands are gripping her shoulder bag, and she looks around the restaurant before looking back down at me. I stare at her, waiting for her to speak again.

  “Are you Loren?”

  I nod, and when we make eye contact, she’s familiar to me.

  “Do I know you?” I can’t place her name or how I know her, but . . .

  “I-I’m, uh . . . My name is Liza,” she says, sticking out her hand for me to shake. My hand grips hers, and I know. “I’m Tripp’s sister.”

  “I know.”

  She smiles and begins to slide into the booth across from me. “Do you mind if I sit here?” she asks.

  “No. Please.” I wave my hand in the direction of the booth.

  Something inside me shifts.

  I feel something in the pit of my stomach.

  Hope?

  I don’t know if that’s it, but I quickly shut it down. Just because Tripp’s sister is sitting across the table from me, it doesn’t mean anything. She could be here to tell me off or to ask me to leave Tripp alone.

  “I know this is weird,” she starts. “And I swear, I’m not stalking you. It’s just that Tripp told me you come here every Thursday, so I thought I’d take my chances that you’d be here.”

  “It’s fine,” I smile back at her because something about her puts me at ease. Maybe it’s her striking resemblance to Tripp? I don’t know, but I like her.

  “Listen,” she starts but is quickly interrupted by Wyatt bouncing up to the table.

  “Well, look who the cat dragged in,” he says, beaming at Liza. His purple bow tie and yellow suspenders add to his cheerful disposition. No matter what, Wyatt always has a smile and a kind word. Even after the accident, when I was at my lowest, I knew when I got here and saw him, I’d feel better. I’m not sure he ever knew exactly what happened because he never asked me. He just offered his sympathy without pushing or prodding. Every once in a while, he’ll sit down and ask me how I’m doing, but that’s about it.

  “Wyatt!” Liza jumps up out of the seat and hugs him.

&n
bsp; “You here for dinner?” he asks. His eyes shift over to me, and he looks a little perplexed, probably wondering what the two of us are doing sitting together. I shrug my shoulders, and he looks back at Liza.

  “Uh, no. I’m just here to talk to Loren. I hope you don’t mind that I’m taking up space.”

  “No, no. That’s fine.” He looks back over at me with a questioning glance, but whatever he sees on my face must convince him that everything’s cool. “Y’all take all the time you need. Could I get you a tea?”

  “That’d be great,” she says. “Loren?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You know Wyatt?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder as he walks back toward the kitchen.

  “We go way back.” She chuckles and leans back in her seat. Her eyes are locked on mine, and a soft smile settles on her face. “We’ve known each other since college. It’s been a while, but you know how that goes . . . when you see an old friend, and it’s like no time in the world has passed.”

  My face falls a little, because I don’t know what that’s like, but I wish I did.

  Wyatt comes back and sets a glass down in front of Liza, and she smiles, telling him thanks. They exchange a few words while I stare out the window.

  When Wyatt leaves, I feel Liza’s eyes on me. I turn to look at her, and she has a sad smile on her face. There may even be tears there. I’m not sure. I guess at this point, it’s a stand-off to see who mentions Tripp first. Normally, I’m a competitive person, but this is a competition I don’t mind forfeiting. I need to know he’s okay.

  “How’s Tripp?” I ask. The second the words are out of my mouth, I can’t help the flood of emotions. My throat tightens, and I feel my face crinkle, but I refuse to ugly-cry in front of someone I’ve only known five minutes. “He won’t return any of my calls or texts.”

  Liza blows out a deep breath, looking out the window for a second. “He’s okay,” she starts, turning back to look at me. “I mean, he’s safe and at home.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I’m normally not one to meddle in other people’s lives, but Tripp is my brother, and I love him . . . He’s . . . Well, he’s . . .”

  I sit and watch as she struggles to explain how Tripp is, but I already know. He’s special. He’s genuine. He’s sincere. He wears his feelings on his sleeve. He has secrets. He’s a fighter and a lover. I could tell her all of those things, but instead, I say, “I know.”

  She smiles at me, and I return it. We have a silent exchange of understanding.

  “He needs you,” she says softly as a tear slips out of the corner of her eye. “I haven’t seen him hurting like this since . . . well, in a long time.”

  I hate knowing Tripp is hurting, and I hate thinking I caused that pain. Wiping my face with the sleeves of Tripp’s jacket, I look back up at her. “Tell me what I can do. I . . . I don’t know what I did . . . or, or . . . what to do,” I stutter out.

  “It’s not your fault, Loren,” Liza soothes, her hand reaching across the table to hold mine. “I wish I could put your mind at ease, but it’s not my place. I want to help you both. I thought if maybe you went to Tripp, he’d be forced to tell you what he needs to tell you. It can only come from him.”

  “Take me to him,” I whisper. I feel like my feet can’t move fast enough as I climb out of the booth and grab my bag.

  Liza doesn’t hesitate. She puts a few dollars on the table and follows me out the door.

  I’m scared. Liza refuses to say anything more about what Tripp needs to tell me. Her demeanor is sad, resigned maybe, but not angry. I feel like, if she were taking me to him just for him to tell me he doesn’t want to see me anymore, she’d give me some warning. She wouldn’t let me walk in there with my guard down. She’s nicer than that. I’ve only personally known her for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, but I know that much. I read people well. I can smell an asshole from a mile away. Liza is definitely not an asshole. She’s kind and sincere. Occasionally, she leans over and pulls me into her, giving me a side hug.

  “Any chance you can give me a clue as to what I’m walking into?” I ask as she shows me the back steps leading up to Tripp’s apartment.

  “Tripp,” she begins but hesitates as she looks up the stairs. “He’s been through a lot, and it’s changed him. But the one thing I know for sure is that he cares about you and this thing he’s doing . . . this distance he’s put between the two of you, it’s out of fear and his need to protect your heart. But if I were you, I’d want to know the truth so I could make the decision on my own.”

  “Okay,” I say, with resolve, looking up the stairs and then back at her. For a few seconds, I can’t make my feet work. It’s the fear of not knowing that’s paralyzing me, but the thought of seeing Tripp finally pulls me forward.

  I miss him.

  As bad as the feeling in my gut is at the moment, I want to see him that much more. Whatever he has to say can’t make me feel any worse than I did an hour ago sitting in the café, wondering how or if I was ever going to see him again.

  When I make it to his door, I turn back around and see Liza is gone, and suddenly I’m even more nervous. I knock twice on the door and wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.

  Maybe he’s not here?

  I decide to give it one more try and knock again. “Tripp? It’s . . . it’s me, uh, Loren . . .”

  I press my ear to the door and hear movement inside.

  I feel him.

  I know he’s in there, so I knock again.

  “Tripp. I know you’re there. Please . . .” I don’t know what I’m asking for, but I have to see him one more time. Even if he doesn’t want to see me anymore or pursue whatever this is, I at least want to say goodbye and have some closure.

  “Tripp—”

  The breath is sucked out of me when he abruptly opens the door. The dim light from his apartment mixed with the yellow glow from the street below are all I have to see him by, but I can see the scruff on his jaw and cheeks, something Tripp never has, and his red-rimmed eyes are gray underneath.

  Instinctively, I reach out to brush his hair away. There’s a fresh cut above his left eye, the one without the scar. Tripp is quick to move my hand away. His head ducks, making his hair fall back over the wound.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice is thick and rough.

  “I, uh . . .” I don’t know what to say. I haven’t thought this through enough. I’ve pretty much been on autopilot since Liza sat down across from me in the café.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Your sister,” I say with a shaky voice. “She came to the café.”

  The look on his face is pained, and his features begin to crack and break, but he’s still so beautiful. “Loren.” My name falls from his lips, and there are so many emotions packed into that one word. I can tell he’s hurting, and I reach out again to comfort him—to find a way to help him.

  “Please. Just leave.”

  “No.” I shake my head, emphasizing my reply. “I just want . . . Why didn’t you text me?” I ask. The anger I’ve felt off and on the last couple of weeks is coming back. “I called you, and you didn’t answer. I was worried about you!”

  He slowly picks his head up, and his eyes meet mine. There are unshed tears, and I take a step toward him, wanting to know . . . wanting to hold him and fix whatever is broken.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then don’t. Let me in . . . Tell me what’s wrong,” I plead.

  “That’s the thing,” he says, shaking his head. “If I tell you, then I will hurt you. He reaches out and plays with a piece of my hair. “And I can’t do that. It’s the last thing in the world I would ever want to do.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admit. I feel like we’re at an impasse, because if he doesn’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help him. But I also can’t leave, not without a reason.

  “You’re going to hate me,” he says, but it’s barely audible.

  “No.�
� I shake my head emphatically. “There’s no way I could ever hate you.”

  He quickly bridges the gap between us and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, and it feels so good. One of his hands grips my shoulder, while the other grips my hip . . . so, so tightly, like he’s drowning and I’m his life raft. I squeeze him back as hard as I can, never wanting to let go.

  “Please tell me.” I breathe deeply, taking in as much of him as I can.

  “I can’t.”

  “How can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

  “You can’t.”

  “I want to.” I feel like punching him or slapping him or kissing him. I need him to tell me. I refuse to take no for an answer. This time, I get to choose.

  “Just promise me . . . Promise you won’t leave.” His voice stutters and his body shakes, and I’m worried he’s having some sort of breakdown. I wonder if I should get Liza, but the second I pull away, he pulls me back in even tighter.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I press my lips to his exposed neck, trying to comfort and calm him any way I can.

  Tripp pulls me into his apartment and leads me over to a big over-sized chair. He practically falls into it and takes me with him, gathering me up and holding me close. We sit like this until his breathing evens out.

  “Tripp,” I whisper, not wanting to startle him or wake him if he’s asleep. I’d gladly sit here in his warm embrace and let him rest.

  “I just need a few more minutes,” he replies. His breath is warm on my skin as he inhales and exhales. He places soft kisses on my hair until he finally begins. “Y—you know how, uh . . . how I told you something bad happened that made me lose my memory about some stuff?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And, uh, you know how you told me about what happened to PJ?”

  “Yes,” I reply, swallowing hard, forcing my emotions away. Tripp mentioning the accident puts me immediately on edge. And fear creeps in as he continues to fumble over his words.