by Jiffy Kate
“Well, uh . . .” He pauses again, and I know he’s nervous by the way he fidgets, and I can tell he’s scared by the way he won’t look me in the eye, but he finally starts talking again. “I . . . I don’t even know where to start.”
I wish he’d just spit it out. I don’t know where he’s going with this.
“At the beginning, Tripp. Just take your time, and start at the beginning,” I say trying to sound calm, even though my insides feel like a raging storm. I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me, but I just need him to say it. The anticipation is killing me.
His breathing picks back up, and it worries me. I don’t want him to have another panic attack.
“Tripp?” I say, forcing him to look me in the eye, and that’s when I see he’s crying. I can’t hold it together any longer, and I begin to cry too, but I don’t know why, other than the fact that I can’t stand to see him so sad. And if he’s this sad, whatever he’s trying to tell me must be really bad.
“Please don’t cry,” he says, brushing his thumbs under my eyes.
“Then tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.”
He takes a deep, cleansing breath and roughly wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt. I see the resolve on his face as he begins again.
“The thing . . . that made me lose my memory?” he asks, and I nod, encouraging him to continue. “It was a car wreck . . . on Valentine’s Day. Well, that evening.”
My body stiffens at the mention of the day, and my mind reels with scenarios—the worst kind. My breathing quickens as he continues.
“I’d had a really bad day because of a fight with Whitney, and I ended up drinking way too much.” He stops and sucks in a deep breath of air before continuing. “My best friend, Evan, picked me up from the Sig house, and we went down to a bar to shoot pool. We drank some more. Evan was more sober than me, so he drove us back to campus . . . except we didn’t make it.”
The blood starts to gush through my ears, and Tripp now sounds like he’s in a tunnel. I grip his shirt, hoping he’s not getting ready to say what I think he’s going to say.
Please, God.
No.
Not this.
“We were sitting at an intersection . . . and a guy . . . He, uh, well, he ran through a red light and hit the car in front of us and then . . . then he hit my car. I—I wasn’t driving, but we were, uh, in my car . . . my Impala. The impact threw me into the windshield. It knocked me out. I was in a coma for about a week after the wreck. I had a nasty cut on my head, mild traumatic brain injury . . . and retrograde amnesia, which is why I couldn’t remember anything about that day . . . and, uh . . .”
I begin to sob uncontrollably—every emotion flooding my body is coming out in an anguished cry. More than anything, I’m relieved Tripp wasn’t responsible for PJ’s death. If that had been the case . . . if he had been responsible, I don’t know what I would do. I’m not sure how I could get past it. I also don’t know how I could live without Tripp. My insides, along with my mind and my emotions, are so twisted right now; all I can do is cry.
“Is PJ’s real name Peter?” Tripp asks.
I can’t answer him. I only nod.
“Loren. Say something. Please.”
“Hold me.” And he does, without hesitation. He pulls me back, and I melt into him, wishing the whole messed up world would go away.
He cries.
I cry.
At some point, the emotional and mental exhaustion take over, and I drift off to sleep.
When I wake up, I’m no longer curled up in a ball on Tripp’s lap. I’m stretched out on cool sheets with warm arms wrapped around me. My eyes feel swollen, as does my throat, and I can feel my heartbeat throbbing in my head. I groan at the realization that everything wasn’t a bad dream. Tripp’s arms tighten around me, and he kisses the back of my head.
“Tripp?” I ask, testing my voice. It’s scratchy and raspy, but at least I can speak.
“Are you awake?” he asks softly.
I nod.
“Wanna talk?” he asks as his arms loosen from around me.
I slowly sit up, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to share a bed with Tripp, but I didn’t think it would be like this—under this circumstance. The thought of Tripp’s revelation hits me again, and the lump is back in my throat. I don’t even know what to feel.
Happy, because Tripp is here, and he didn’t die.
Guilty, because I’m happy that Tripp is here. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy PJ isn’t here.
Angry, because I hate this.
I didn’t ask for any of this.
Tripp didn’t ask for any of this.
PJ didn’t ask for it.
My mind goes to something I was thinking about right before I fell asleep, as I was trying to make sense of everything. I remember one day a few weeks after the accident; I wanted to find out more about what happened. I knew the basics, but I went searching for more. As I was going through the newspaper articles in the library at school, I remember seeing the names of other people involved in the accident. It didn’t mean that much to me back then, so I must have pushed it to the back of my mind. But when Tripp started telling me how his accident and PJ’s accident were one in the same, the name Alexander came back to me. But it wasn’t ‘Tripp Alexander’.
Maybe Tripp is confused?
Maybe the two accidents aren’t related?
“Uh, I’m confused about something,” I begin, and I feel Tripp tense up beside me. “I read an article after the accident . . . and I vaguely remember the names mentioned. But I know for sure there wasn’t a Tripp in the wreck. I would’ve remembered that. It was something different—Sal? Sid—?”
“Sidney?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
“That’s it. Sidney, he was the other one.” I almost feel happy, because Sidney is not Tripp. And if Tripp was in some other accident on Valentine’s Day, then this is just some crazy coincidence. And I can still be sad that PJ died, and be happy that Tripp survived, without feeling guilty about the two contradicting emotions.
It wasn’t Tripp.
I want it not to be him.
“Sidney Alexander,” he says solemnly, pointing to himself. “That’s me. There were three of us—my grandfather, my dad, and me—I am the other one. It was me in the other car.” He hangs his head, and my heart falls again into the pit of my stomach.
Tripp
“I’M SORRY,” I whisper because I don’t know what else to say. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that PJ died. I’m sorry that I was in the same accident. I’m sorry that everything seems so complicated now. I feel guilty for being here . . . and for being able to hold Loren, yet I’m happy at the same time. The fact that she’s here feels like a miracle . . . one that I don’t deserve.
Everything inside my head is so jumbled up and confusing, even more than usual.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers back. And for that, I’m so thankful. How could I live with myself if Loren blamed me? I’m having a hard enough time as it is. I can’t even begin to imagine how I would feel had Evan or I been responsible for PJ’s death.
“This is so fucked up.”
Loren nods her head against my chest in agreement.
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. Just . . . just when I felt like I was finding my way again . . .” she says, her voice drifting off so low I can’t hear her, but I feel her. I know what she means. I feel the same way.
I kiss the top of her head and tell her I know.
“Thank you for not leaving.” I know there’s no guarantee she’ll still want a relationship with me, but the fact that she’s still here gives me hope.
“I told you I couldn’t leave you.”
“I don’t know why that is, but thank you.” I don’t know what I’d do without her right now. Her presence alone kept me from having a full-blown panic attack last night . . . or tonight . . . whatever. It’s three o’clock
in the morning. Loren fell asleep in my lap last night, and I sat and held her for hours, but when my legs started falling asleep, I carefully moved her from my lap to my bed, which felt so surreal. Since Loren and I have been seeing each other, I’ve thought a lot about having her in my bed, but never like this.
I couldn’t have predicted this.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask. I need to know where we stand. I have to know how she feels.
“No,” she answers quietly, sadly.
“Do . . . do you wish PJ was here . . . instead of me?”
“No,” Loren replies, followed by a loud sob, and she wraps her arms around me, squeezing me so hard. “Th—that’s what’s so messed up.” Her words come out as wails, and her whole body shakes. I wrap myself around her, trying to hold her together—trying to keep her, trying to fix what’s broken.
I wish I could make it all better.
“Tell me what to do,” I plead, crying with her. “Tell me how to make it better. May—maybe if . . . if I’d told you sooner . . . I’m sorry . . . I should’ve told you sooner. Wh . . . while you could still walk away. You deserve someone who makes you happy.” I sob into her hair while rocking us back and forth on the bed.
Loren cries louder, telling me that I’m wrong, but I know I’m right. If I had been upfront with her about all of this—about the wreck, my past—she could’ve left before she got hurt . . . again.
“I’m always going to be a reminder that PJ is gone.”
Loren shifts in my arms and turns her body until she’s straddling my legs, my face firmly between her palms. “Stop,” she orders, tears streaking her face. Her hair is stuck to her cheek, and I reach up to pull it away. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says again, punctuating each word. “Neither one of us asked for this. We’re all innocent bystanders.” She breathes deeply and shakes her head. “Do you believe in fate . . . destiny?”
I nod my head yes. Of course, I do.
“Maybe,” she says, wiping her face and taking a deep cleansing breath to calm herself. “Maybe we were supposed to find each other.”
Without thinking, my lips crash into hers. When I tighten my fist in her hair, she moans into my mouth and grabs on to my shirt, pulling me closer to her. Our teeth clash as the kiss quickens, urgency taking over.
Just as I think that this might be a bad idea, and I begin to worry that Loren might pull away again, she bites my bottom lip, sucking it between her teeth.
I lay her back into my bed, but soon the frantic kisses are replaced with gentle brushes of lips. Neither of us has the energy to take this any further, and I’m okay with that. I’m just glad she didn’t push me away this time. Loren wedges herself under my chin, her head on my arm, and eventually, we fall asleep.
The light coming through my window wakes me, and that’s my clue that it’s way past time to get up . . . or way past the time I normally get up. I’ve lost track of days, but I think it’s Friday, which means I should be going to class, but I don’t have it in me. I’m pissed off at myself for slacking off so much. I know I’ve been dealing with a lot of shit, but it seems like there’s always going to be shit to deal with. So I have to suck it up and get through these last few semesters.
Loren is resting so peacefully. I can feel her slow, steady breaths against my arm.
I don’t want to wake her, so I slowly pull my arm out from underneath her. She moves slightly but settles on snuggling the pillow instead of my arm. I hope she sleeps for a while longer. I’m not ready for her to leave or to face the day. I don’t know what today will bring. Loren may still decide she doesn’t want this. She may decide that it’s too much for her to deal with.
It would kill me, but I would understand.
“Tripp,” she whimpers, and I pause, ready to climb back into bed with her if she needs me. But when I turn around, her eyes are still closed and she snuggles up closer to a pillow. I continue to watch her until her face relaxes. She was restless most of the night. Sometimes, I wondered if she was having nightmares or dreaming about PJ.
When I’m convinced she’s going to stay asleep, I quietly walk over to the kitchen area and busy myself with brewing coffee. Occasionally, I glance over at Loren, just to make sure she’s still asleep and still here. Not that she’d be able to leave without me knowing, but I feel like she could disappear at any moment.
Thinking back over the last day—fuck, the last two weeks—I wonder how much more shit either of us can take. My brain keeps holding onto what Loren was saying about how maybe it was meant for us to find each other. I feel like that’s been my life preserver these last few hours.
I want to believe it.
I want to believe that I’m meant to be here.
I want to believe that Loren and I were meant to find each other.
I want to not feel guilty for living.
But it’s hard.
Doubt creeps in from every crevice of my mind. It won’t let me forget the fact that I lived, and PJ died. It won’t let me forget that every day Loren looks at me, she’ll more than likely think of him. I’ll always be a reminder of someone she lost. I don’t know how a relationship can survive that, but if there’s a chance it can, I want to try.
God knows I want to try.
“Good morning,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. Her voice is raspy and her hair is a mess. Some of it is still stuck to her face. But she’s gorgeous. The lump stuck in my throat is different from the one that’s been permanently lodged there the past week. It’s her. And the fact that after everything, she’s still here. She hasn’t run away. And that makes me want her more.
“The coffee smells good.” A small smile graces her face and I can’t help mirroring it, because if she’s drinking coffee, that means she’ll be staying, at least a little while longer.
“You didn’t have to walk me home,” she says, smiling up at me as she blocks her eyes from the early afternoon sun.
“Yes, I did . . . and you didn’t have to leave. You could’ve stayed for lunch.” I squeeze her hand tighter, feeling my anxiety build the closer we get to her dorm.
“Is the reason you don’t drive because of the wreck?”
The question catches me off guard, and I take a deep breath before answering. “Yeah, Dr. Abernathy . . . my, uh, therapist,” I begin but stop when I think about how crazy that probably makes me sound. I’m not used to telling people this stuff. Besides my family and Dr. Abernathy, no one else really knows the extent of my injuries.
“I have one of those, too.” She wraps herself around my arm, leaning her head on my shoulder and easing my worries, just like always.
I don’t know how she knows what I need or when I need it, but she does. It’s like she was made just for me. That thought makes me incredibly happy and scared shitless at the same time.
I don’t want to lose her.
I can’t.
“Well,” I continue, “she said that sometimes people who have been in car accidents . . .” Again, I pause, wishing that none of this was our reality. I feel like saying anything about the wreck is torture for her . . . and me. “Anyway, she said that a lot of times people develop a fear of cars or driving . . . sometimes both. I guess I’ll eventually get past it, but it’s something I’ll have to work through. I can’t avoid cars for the rest of my life. I’ve tried a few times . . . since the wreck, but I haven’t got any farther than sitting in the passenger seat. I had a major panic attack the last time.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way, without any more questions from Loren. She seems deep in thought as we make our way down the sidewalk that leads to her dorm.
“When am I going to see you again?” I ask.
This morning, it dawned on me that next Thursday is Thanksgiving, so the café will be closed. I can’t go two weeks without seeing Loren again. The last two weeks almost killed me.
“I, uh,” she starts but hesitates, not making eye contact. And my heart drops. “I feel like I need some time to process everything.” Sh
e nervously plays with a thread on the sleeve of my jacket. “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to see you . . . because I do. But the last day has been a rollercoaster, and I just need some time to get my head on straight.”
I swallow hard, trying not to jump to conclusions or think the worst. She needs a couple of days. Of course, she does. I can give her that.
“Okay.” I nod and pull my jacket closed around her. The wind has picked up, and it’s kind of cold out today. I should let her go inside, but I’m finding it hard to take my eyes off her.
I’d give you anything. I’d even let you go, if that’s what you needed.
That’s what I want to tell her, but I’m afraid.
What if today is the last day I see her? What if this is the last time I get to touch her?
I don’t know what to do next.
Do I say goodbye?
Is it okay to kiss her again?
Do I call her? Text her?
She stands on the tips of her toes and grabs the front of my sweatshirt, pulling me to her. “This isn’t goodbye. I can see the worry on your face, but that’s not what this is. I meant what I said yesterday. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” I whisper again, praying she means it. Wrapping my arms around her and holding her close, I press my lips to the top of her head. I breathe her in and hope I don’t have to wait too long to see her again.
“I don’t know where we go from here, but I want to find out,” I tell her, leaning my forehead into hers. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Spend it with me.”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t think . . .”
“Don’t think. Just come.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But Thanksgiving is for families . . . and I . . .”
“Everyone would love for you to be there.” I feel confident answering for my family because I already know they’ll love Loren. “I promise.”
She hesitates for a minute, worrying her lip.
“Please come.” I’ll get down on my hands and knees and beg if I have to.