The NYCE Girls!

by Raquel Belle

  And then I’d gotten over it. Who was I going to marry, anyway? The man I loved had been off fighting in a war. I hadn’t wanted to think about him, or the fact that all that might return was a flag of the United States in tribute.

  I shudder as the memory sticks out in my consciousness. I’m glad he actually returned—very glad.

  “So, have you seen Trip yet?” She asks, her eyes alive and bursting with curiosity.

  I laugh. “I just got here. But, yes, Mom made sure of it.”

  She rubs her hands together gleefully. “How was it? It must have been something, seeing him after all this time.”

  “Yeah, it was something,” I say, as I remember the way he’d greeted me.

  “So? Sparks?”

  I cock my head to the side. “I know you’re a romantic, but even some things are too crazy. I’m only here for the holidays. I didn’t even know he was back.” I hop off the stool as images begin to flood my mind, and expectations start to take root.

  I need to weed them out pronto, before I begin to believe any of it is possible.

  Marcy hops off the stool behind me. “Come on,” she says. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything.”

  I clear my throat and lean against the counter close to the sink. I grip the counter and stare at her, but really…I’m just seeing Trip in my mind’s eye. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t feel anything. I was in love with him. But that was a long time ago. Things have changed.”

  She clicks her tongue. “Doesn’t matter. They can change back.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Did Mom call you? Did she put you up to this because she’s been playing Cupid?”

  Marcy laughs. “No, she didn’t. But you guys are meant for each other, and don’t tell me you don’t believe in true love.”

  “I don’t,” I say right away. “I’m not an idealist.”

  She shakes her head. “Who are you, and where’s the real Jasmine?”

  I laugh. “It’s still me. Just that, I don’t believe in fate and things like that. What I believe in is hard work and results, not daydreaming and wishful thinking.”

  “Well, missy,” Marcy says as she comes over and throws her arm around my shoulders, “I have done enough wishful thinkin’ and daydreamin’ for the both of us.”

  I begin to laugh hysterically. “I really missed you, Marcy.”

  “Me too, hun. So, you’re here for Christmas, I presume?”

  “Yeah. I’m leaving on the second, so we have some time to catch up.”

  “Great. In that case, you’re coming over for dinner on Saturday. I’ll tell Tony, and I’ll make your favorite—fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”

  “Oh, you know me so well. I’m looking forward to dinner,” I say, as my stomach begins to growl again. We glance at my belly and begin to laugh. “See what you did with your talk about chicken?”

  Her phone rings, and she grabs it from her purse like it’s on fire. “It’s Tony. Gosh darn, I’m going to have to get ‘em from him. They can be a handful, those girls. You can have your own too, you know?” She bumps my arm with hers and wiggles her brows.

  “Why, when I can always come over and play with yours?”

  “Still stubborn. I guess not everything about you has changed, huh?” She takes my hand and pulls me to the door, as she hurries to it.

  “Oh, wait, I never gave you the pie.”

  She shushes me with a wave of her hand. “That’s fine. I wasn’t here for pie. But I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  We hug again, and she breezes through the door and skips down the steps to her faded, red truck that’s parked out front. She waves, as she pulls off and heads down the street to the local furniture store that Tony owns.

  I close the door and head down to the entertainment room that Mom had disappeared into earlier. She’s busy sorting through garlands and tinsel, and I laugh as I look at her. “Need any help?”

  “I do, dear,” she says as she tries to detangle herself. She throws the tinsel behind her and huffs, as she steps out of a pile. “I’ve been meaning to do this for such a long time, but I can’t seem to bring myself to—so much to sort through.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind helping. I haven’t done this in a long time.”

  Her brows lift. “You don’t decorate your apartment?”

  “Not really. A wreath on my door and scented candles inside, and maybe some poinsettia plants, but that’s it.”

  Mom huffs. I ignore her. She’s a very traditional woman—she holds onto her values like they’re her second skin. I have to admire her consistency.

  “You know what? Let’s go eat dinner. You must be starving. All of this can wait until later,” she says and takes my hand. “I have meatloaf in the oven.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, as we head back up the stairs.

  Chapter Five

  Trip

  I sit in my truck—a Toyota Tacoma—outside of her parents’ house. It’s something I’ve done many times before, but this time, everything feels different.

  This time, she isn’t my girl.

  My gaze keeps shifting between the long stretch of road and the door. I’m anxious to see her again. I’m tempted to honk the horn, as I dip my head and stare at the door once again.

  I decide not to though. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and whistle the tune to Lionel Richie’s Easy Like Sunday Morning instead. But I can’t help staring at the door. The sigh of relief that escapes me when she finally emerges is indescribable.

  And she’s worth every second of the wait—she’s wearing a black pencil skirt, white chiffon blouse with large black polka dots, and a pair of low-heeled shoes. She has her purse clutched at her side, and her pink lips curl into a smile as she glides towards me.

  I hurriedly get out of the truck and wait for her on my side. “About time,” I joke and meet her in a tight embrace, then whisper in her ear, “you look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers back, and I have to pull away, or we definitely wouldn’t make it to dinner. I’d either get a slap across the face for what I’m thinking of doing to her right now, or she’ll change her mind about going out.

  Her smile is breathtaking as she stands on the pavement, probably too close to me, and yet, at the same time, not close enough. That same smile that had my head spinning at sixteen now has other parts of me, the more mature parts, throbbing.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t done sorting through my clothes so…”

  I touch her arm gently to stop her from explaining, which has always been her habit. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just happy you came out.”

  I walk with her to the passenger door and open it. She climbs in, and I close it after her. But I don’t move. She smells so damned good I could eat her right there. It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and I’m struck by her beauty all over again.

  “Are we going to eat or what?” She asks and sweeps one of her curls behind her ear, like she always does when she’s self-conscious or nervous.

  “Let’s go eat,” I say and return to my side of the truck. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

  She’s looking out the window as I start the truck. “Sort of does. I can’t believe I’m sitting in your truck…” Her voice is soft and low when she turns. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I say and pull off. “So, where do you want to go?”

  “Um,” she says, “I don’t know…Nana’s Diner?”

  “Works for me,” I say, considering that we don’t have that many good spots in town to eat. There’s a barbecue joint, a burger shack, a Mexican restaurant—but if I remember anything about her it’s that she doesn’t like spicy food. And, of course, we have Nana’s Diner. Other than those, it’s a run-down sports bar and grill, which is much too loud and tasteless for a date.

  If we want to do something really special, I’ll have to take her to Nashville, which is over a half an hour away.
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  “I’ve always loved the food there, although…it’s been different since Nana died,” she says with a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “I guess,” I say. “Josie’s not doing so bad.”

  “No. But she isn’t Nana,” Jazz says. Which is true. Josie had tried to give the diner a facelift—changing the décor, the menu, and adding other items she’d heard about or seen in Nashville. Some had worked, and others hadn’t. She’d had to abandon some of her grand ideas as the townsfolk protested the changes.

  There are several cars parked outside the establishment when we pull up. That’s not strange for a Friday night, and Jazz begins to open her door when I stop her.

  “Not on my watch,” I say and tap her hand. I scoot out of the truck and walk around the front to her door. “Don’t tell me those New York boys don’t have chivalry.”

  “Those New York boys don’t,” she says, as she takes my hand and steps out of the truck. “I’m a little nervous about going in there. Seems the entire town is here, and you know how they get.”

  I know what she means. I turn to face the building. The neon lights are flickering, and the apostrophe in the Nana’s sign is dark. The building could use a fresh coat of paint, but overall, it isn’t a bad place to get a good meal.

  “We can go somewhere else,” I say, when I turn back to her.

  “No,” she says and inhales sharply. “We’re already here, and everyone probably already knows I’m here for Christmas.”

  “Yep. So, ready?” I hold out the crook of my arm for her to take it. She scrunches up her face in that cute way she often does before she takes it.

  She laughs. “Why the hell not? We’re on a date.”

  I pat her hand, as we walk off. “That’s my girl.”

  It’s exactly like she said. As soon as the bells jingle over our heads and we step in, eyes freeze on us, mouths stop moving, and orders pause.

  “Oh, jeez,” she mumbles under her breath.

  I rub her hand some more. “It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

  “Trip. Jazz,” Casey, the regular waitress with the red hair hurries over to us. “Welcome home. Will you be staying for dinner?” Her eyes sweep Jazz as she asks, and the answer is revealed in her facial expression when she sees she’s all dressed up.

  “Hi, Casey,” Jazz says and touches her arm. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too.” She smiles and glances up at me, clears her throat, and signals to us with her fingers. “Right this way. I have the perfect table for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. It’s all the way in the back, but we’re lucky we even get a seat—the place is filling up quickly.

  “Wow,” Jazz says, looking around. “It does look a little different. Where’s the snow cone machine that used to be over there?” She points to the spot next to the cash registers.

  “That’s one of the things Josie changed recently. She said she wanted to give the place a more contemporary look. Not sure if it worked or if anyone noticed. It wasn’t really being used.”

  “Oh,” she says, as her eyes take in the place, while my eyes take in her. Her gaze stops on mine. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

  “I can’t help it,” I say. “I look at you and…”

  “Jasmine Taylor? Is that you?”

  I withdraw my words as Brady comes over. He went to school with us, and always had a thing for Jasmine.

  “Brady, hi,” she says pleasantly and holds out her hand for him to take. “Nice to see you.”

  “When did you get back?”

  I sit there and listen to him ask her about her health, and happiness, and city life, until I begin to get annoyed.

  “Uh, Brady, I know you want to catch up, but can you do that another time? We’re trying to get something to eat.”

  He peers at me, like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry. Nice seeing you, Jasmine. You should visit more often.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say.

  She picks up the menu card. “I guess I should get used to that.”

  “I hope not, because right now, I want you to myself,” I say and pick up my menu card as well. I can tell by her eyes that she’s laughing to herself behind the laminated paper.

  “So,” Casey says, arriving at our table. “Busy night around here…” She takes out a pad from the pouch in front of her yellow and grey uniform, and poises her pen to write. “Have you decided what you’re going to have just yet? Or do you need more time?”

  “Jazz?” I say. I already know what I want, but I’m not going to order ahead of her.

  “Are these all the juices you have?” She asks with her head still down.

  “Yep,” Casey says. “We’re a limited town. Not like you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  Jazz looks up briefly and smiles. “Okay, I’ll take the strawberry lemonade.”

  “And iced tea for you Trip?” Casey says, but she begins to write before I even respond. My order usually remains the same. Like they say, if it’s not broken, don’t fix it.

  “Sure thing, Casey.”

  “I’ll be right back. I’ll give you both a moment to decide on dinner.”

  She’s still staring at the card, and I find it amusing. “Jazz, there isn’t so much on that menu to be poring over it like that.”

  “And therein lies the problem. I don’t know what to get. What’s good?”

  “Um, I usually just get the chicken and biscuits with gravy,” I say.

  “No can do. Marcy invited me over for dinner tomorrow evening and she’s making chicken. I don’t want to have fried chicken two nights in a row.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, if you want to have a high cholesterol level,” she says. “Okay, I’ll have the tuna salad.”

  I gawk. “That’s it? A tuna salad?”

  “Yeah,” she says and stares me down. “What’s wrong with that?”

  I tilt my head like I’m looking under the table. “Okay, where’s the real Jazz? She must be under there somewhere.”

  She smiles. “Ha, very funny. When you live in a place like New York, you’d better watch what you eat, or you’ll literally be watching what you eat as it drips into your body through a tube.”

  I laugh loudly at her response. “Damn. Too graphic.”

  She laughs, too. “You have no idea.”

  “Jazz?”

  She turns her head to the voice. It’s Trisha Martin, her almost-bestie in school—almost only because Trisha’s husband, Derrick, was my best friend, so that meant the four of us hung out all the time.

  “Trisha!” This time Jazz jumps up and hugs the woman—throwing her arms around her neck. “How are you? I didn’t get to see you the last time I was here.”

  “Oh, you know, gotta be hustling,” Trisha says and rocks her head, making the ponytail swish across her back. “But, forget about me. What brings you here?”

  “Christmas,” Jazz says and sits down again.

  Trisha looks around anxiously. “Makes sense. I’m kind of busy right now, but we have to catch up, okay?”

  “We definitely will. It’s good to see you,” Jazz says.

  “You, too.” She winks at me as she’s walking by, then stops suddenly and turns. “Oh, Trip, can you take the boys tomorrow? I have a double shift.”

  “No problem,” I say. “You know I’m always available for that.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Jazz has a puzzled look on her face when I look back at her. “The boys? You and…”

  “No, no!” I exclaim, stopping her train of thought before it runs away with her. “They’re not our kids.”

  She slaps my hand. “I know they’re not your kids, Trip. I mean, are you and Trisha…you know…?”

  “No.” I sigh when I think about the complicated relationship that I have with Trisha. “It’s just something I do to help her out…considering she doesn’t have a husband anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Jaz
z says and covers her mouth. “Damn. That must have been hard.”

  “Which is why I help her out as much as I can, you know, with the boys, and the yard and such.”

  “Aww,” Jazz says. “That’s so sweet.”

  I smile. “Sweet is not a word you use for a rugged veteran.”

  “Tough then,” she says, “but it is sweet to me.”

  Casey returns with the drinks and takes our orders. I sip my iced tea and watch as Jazz swirls the straw in her glass.

  “It won’t bite,” I say to her with a laugh.

  “Well, if it isn’t Jasmine Taylor,” Mr. Shubert, our old Math teacher, calls to her as he’s walking past.

  “Good evening, Mr. Shubert. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” he says. “How’s the city treating you?”

  “It’s been amazing so far. Making strides in my career that would make you proud.”

  He laughs heartily. “Is that so?” He looks around, and then—without seeming to give it much thought—pulls over a chair.

  He’s about to sit, when I stop him. “Mr. Shubert, we’re on a date. Can you catch up with her at another time?”

  He glances at me and then laughs embarrassingly, before pushing the chair back. “Pardon me.”

  “It was good to see you,” Jazz calls after him, and he nods as he walks off. “That was so mean of you,” she says, as her brows dip.

  “Mean of me? Jazz…the next person who comes over, I’m going to have to shoot.”

  She laughs. “Really?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  She bites her lower lip and cocks her head to the side. She starts swirling the drink again, and it provokes an image I’d prefer not to conjure during dinner.

  “I’m having a good time, nonetheless, distractions and all,” she says.

  “I should have opted for a stroll down to Mill Creek. Would have made for a better first date, don’t you think?”

  “You mean, me and you, alone by the water, on a blanket, like we did that first time?”

  I grin. “Exactly like that.”

  “Trip, this isn’t what you think it is,” she says, and I see her shoulders drop. “This is just dinner.”