by Jiffy Kate
I want her.
When her eyes land on mine again, I hold her stare for a good five seconds before raising my index finger and beckoning her to me. Whitney walks slowly, yet confidently, toward me as I sit on the open tailgate of Evan’s truck and light another cigarette. I watch her long legs get closer, forcing my eyes to travel up her slim hips and narrow waist, landing on her full tits when she steps in between my legs.
“I thought athletes weren’t supposed to smoke,” are the first words out of her mouth, and I love that she speaks her mind without apology. Most girls around here say what they think I want them to say and never show their true selves. What’s the point in that?
“We’re not supposed to; I just needed something to keep my mouth busy. You know of any other ways to keep my lips occupied?”
Our mouths are only a couple of inches apart, and her sweet cinnamon breath blows over me when she laughs and answers, “I have some ideas.”
“So, you and me, huh?” I ask, playing it cool. Yeah, this is definitely not from the Sid Alexander Book of Courtship. I think about adding something to it, being more romantic, but the way her eyes are shining in the moonlight makes me stupid.
“Yeah, you and me,” she says.
And, it was Whitney and me—for a long time, but not anymore.
I mentally force my mind not to repeat the list of things I’ve lost recently like a broken record. If I fall into that pit again, I might not be able to crawl out.
“We gotta stop meeting here like this.”
Looking up, I see Julie leaned up against the opposite wall, watching me with a small smirk on her face.
Great.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just needed a break.” I tilt my head down, letting my long hair cover my scar and also my face because I feel like she’s judging me. Every time I’m at my weakest, she seems to be around for the shit show.
“You know, you shouldn’t over think things out there,” she says, nodding her head toward the front of the café. “It’s not rocket science. No harm done if you screw up. Just relax and you’ll be fine. And, if all else fails, just remember this is New Orleans, and it’s not called The Big Easy for nothin’.”
She gives me a wink before pushing off the wall and heading back toward the dining area.
I wish it were that easy. I wish my problems ended at those tables out there. I also wish I could talk to Ania as easily as I can Julie, but I can’t. I guess it’s because I’m not interested in her the way I am in the girl with the sad eyes. One thing’s for sure. I’ll never get to know Ania if I don’t talk to her first, and I won’t talk to her if I keep hiding like I’m doing right now.
Frustrated with myself for even more reasons than before, I force myself from my place of hiding and head to the front of the café to check on my customers. I briefly let myself glance over at Ania’s table, and I’m surprised to see her still sitting there.
At least I didn’t scare her off.
For the next hour, I wait on tables while secretly watching Ania. She makes it easy for me by only staring out the window and ignoring me. She’s so good at blocking out her surroundings, never moving her gaze, not even when a plate hits the floor in the kitchen. I’ve never seen someone so lost in their thoughts.
Well, except for me.
I find a tiny bit of solace in the fact that she obviously has her own issues.
The more I watch her, the more my confidence starts to grow.
I’m going to talk to her tonight.
Every time I look at her, I repeat those words in my head.
I’m going to talk to her tonight.
Checking my watch, I realize she’s been here for two hours, just sitting and staring out the window. She hasn’t spoken or had anything to eat or drink, and my heart cracks a little as it registers how much she must be hurting. I could be wrong, but everything I’ve observed from her screams heartache.
Now’s the time.
I’m going to talk to her.
I bring two glasses of water to a nearby table, but only place one down in front of the gentleman who is dining alone. I’m still holding the second glass as I head toward Ania’s table. Like the cup of water shaking in the Jeep with every step the T-Rex makes in the movie, Jurassic Park, the water in my glass threatens to splash out the closer I get to her. Quivering hands be damned, I can do this.
My feet feel like they’re made of lead as I take the last two steps to stand next to her booth. I’m so close; I can see the few wispy strands of hair blowing around her face, courtesy of the ceiling fans above us. She’s so beautiful.
I can do this.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. When I close my mouth and try again, the same thing happens. Ania must sense me invading her personal space because during my third attempt to speak, she turns her body and looks at me. Her eyes are dull, still filled with sadness, but I search past that for more, and I see the brown . . . the beautiful, rich brown. At least I’ll go home tonight knowing what color her eyes are. But past that, there’s nothing. I was hoping for a spark of curiosity or a touch of friendliness, but instead, I see guilt, pain, and warning—her silently pleading with me to stay away.
Words are still not forming in my brain, and I realize I’m standing at Ania’s table with my mouth open, staring at her.
I’m an idiot.
I’m an idiot who’s reached his limit for the day. I can’t take any more self-doubt or loathing or disappointment. If I do, I might explode.
I carefully place the glass of water on her table, and then turn toward the front door.
I turn the handle forcefully and run, needing to feel the burn in my lungs and my legs . . . needing to feel something besides failure.
I don’t pause to take off my apron or leave behind my pad and pencil.
I just run.
I don’t stop to get my bike from the rack out front.
I run.
I don’t even stop when I hear my name being called loudly behind me.
I keep running.
I run until my lungs hurt so bad that I’m forced to stop, bracing myself on my knees and inhaling so deeply, but still unable to catch a full breath. My eyes sting, and when I finally look up, I have no idea where I am. The stench from the gutter at my feet is what finally pulls me out of my head.
“Hey, sugar. I could show you a real nice time,” a sugary-sweet voice says from my side as foreign hands rake through my damp hair, and my feet take flight again.
My breath is so labored; the struggle to get oxygen to my brain is causing my head to throb. Pressing my back against a brick wall in a dark alley, I try hard to block the noise and focus on my diaphragm, but it doesn’t work.
Nothing’s working.
The deep breaths, the diaphragm thing, nothing.
Slowly, uncontrollable fear creeps in, and I feel the heat in the tips of my ears, my throat closing in on me. Beads of sweat are dripping down my cheeks.
Fumbling in my pocket, I’m relieved to find one thing going right for me today. My phone is there. As quickly as my shaking hands will allow, I press the speed dial.
“Tripp, my main man. How’s it hangin’?” Ben’s voice comes through the phone, and I squeeze my eyes, hating that I’m doing this to him, but having no other choice.
“C–can you come get me?” My voice stutters as my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest, and my head feels like someone has it in a death grip, my eyes bulging from the pressure.
I’m going to die.
After everything, this is how my life is going to end. In a disgusting back alley.
“Yeah, yeah, I can,” he says calmly, but I can hear the underlying concern. “You gotta stay with me, though. Where are you?”
I’m pretty sure I know where I am, but I look up at the street sign for confirmation.
“Bourbon.”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“Long story,” I say, still pantin
g between each word.
“Can you make it to the corner at Canal?”
“I think so.”
Somehow I do. I make it down to the corner of Bourbon and Canal and slide down the wall of a store that sells luggage for twenty dollars, waiting for Ben. I see him when he gets off the bus, his eyes scanning the crowd of people until he spots me sitting on the ground.
“This ground is disgusting, you know? There’s a reason they wash the street every morning,” he says, leaning down with an examining look on his face.
He’s being Ben and doing what Ben does best—defuse and downplay the situation.
I grimace at the thoughts his words provoke, but can’t find it in me to care about the condition of New Orleans’ streets at this moment.
“I’m gonna need a full disclosure as soon as you feel better,” he says, helping me off the ground and to the corner to wait for the light. As soon as we make it across, we hop on the first bus that’ll get us close to the house, and Ben hands me a white pill and a bottle of water. The fact that I can now ride the city bus or streetcar without a full-blown panic attack is another small victory, but I’m feeling not so victorious today.
The ride home is horrible for more reasons than one. I feel like a failure. I didn’t talk to Ania. I made a fool out of myself trying. Ending up in this situation, needing Ben’s help—it all feels like a huge setback. I feel the tightness in my throat reappear, but this time, it’s not because of my anxiety, it’s defeat, and it’s so heavy that my chest might cave under the weight.
I manage to keep it together until I’m lying in my dark, cool apartment. Liza tried to insist on staying over, but Ben convinced her that I just needed a little rest and some alone time. I’ll have to remember to buy him a case of Abita for saving my ass. Again.
The hammering in my head continues through the night, only allowing me intermittent moments of unrestful sleep. The nightmares are back, but mixed in with the recurring sights and sounds are images of a girl submerged in a dark body of water, and the feeling of panic as I watch helplessly.
“ROUGH NIGHT?” BEN asks, his eyes peeking over the top of his coffee cup before he slowly takes a sip.
My reply is nothing more than a moan and a nod. It’s all I can muster this morning after the night I had. I just recently started feeling like my head is going to stay in one piece. The threat of an explosion or it splitting down the middle has passed, but it’s left me with a major migraine hangover.
The remnants after an attack or a migraine are similar to what I used to feel after a drinking binge at the Sig house, but without the fun of the night before. At least when you’re sick from drinking, you only have yourself to blame.
Glancing over at the clock on the wall, I see it’s now a little after ten o’clock, and it dawns on me that Ben should be at work, but he’s not, which can only mean he took the day off to be here for me. The lump in my throat that I’ve been trying to push down since last night is back. I feel weak and helpless and I hate it. All the emotions I’ve worked hard to suppress are forcing themselves to the surface.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out because I don’t know what else to say.
“No need for apologies. We’ve been over this before.”
His reminder should soothe some of the ache, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I feel worse. I hate continuously putting my family through turmoil. We’ve all been through enough. The worst part is I thought I was getting better. I haven’t had an episode like that in a while.
“Don’t do that, Tripp,” Ben warns. “Don’t go getting lost in your head and bottling all that shit up.” He sighs, setting his mug down on the table and leaning back in his chair. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? Maybe you’ll feel better if you talk it out.”
I let out a deep breath, raking my hand through my hair, undoubtedly making it look worse than it already did. “It’s embarrassing,” I admit. My eyes focus on the tiny nick in the wooden table in front of me. My finger runs over the ridge, over and over, until I finally open my mouth and start talking.
“I was trying to get up the nerve to talk to a girl.” Seems like a good place to begin.
Ben sits quietly, arms crossed, and lets me tell my story, leading up to the moment I called him.
“Well, at least you tried,” he says when I’m finished and completely spent, resting my head on my folded arms. “Listen, Tripp. A couple of months ago, you wouldn’t have even considered it. So the fact you were willing to even to try is a huge step in the right direction. I mean, yeah, it sucks things didn’t work out, and I’m sorry you suffered the consequences, but you handled everything the best way you know how.”
“I totally fucked everything up.” I want to say that I always fuck everything up, but that statement doesn’t usually go over so well.
“No, you didn’t.”
My silence is the only answer he needs because I feel like I did. There are so many what ifs playing through my already cluttered mind right now.
What if Wyatt is pissed at me?
What if he fires me?
What if I’m missing something really important in class today?
What if she doesn’t come back?
What if I never see her again?
With the mental onslaught of worst-case scenarios, my heart is pounding out of my chest and my hands grip the edge of the table, searching for a way to ground myself.
“Deep breaths, Tripp.” Ben’s voice is close, and his hand rests on my shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it seems. We’ll work through this.”
His tone is calm and even, just like it always is. There’s never judgment or pity.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always trusted and depended on him?
Well, maybe not always.
“Mom. Dad. This is my boyfriend, Ben Walker,” Liza says, beaming as she stands beside the Neanderthal she brought to dinner tonight. The last douche bag she brought home ended up breaking her heart, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and watch this prick do the same.
Up until Bishop Lambert, heir to the Lambert Hotels, Liza hadn’t ever really brought boyfriends around. He was her first serious relationship, and it ended shitty. I thought I was going to have to hunt him down and beat his ass, or else Dad was going to get thrown in jail for shooting the son of a bitch. Every time Liza came home crying, the chance of one of us ending up in jail increased. Which would’ve been seriously ironic, seeing as Dad was one of the best attorneys in the state of Louisiana.
“Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Wow. The Neanderthal speaks in complete sentences. “Tripp,” he says, nodding in my direction. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Mhmmpf.” I grunt out my response, and now I sound like the Neanderthal. Liza’s icy glare over the big burly guy’s right shoulder is enough to send me into hypothermic shock.
“Liza tells me you’re a stud football player,” he says, still trying to break the ice. “I played back in the day.”
“Yeah, Tripp is planning on playing at Tulane when he graduates,” my dad says, puffing his chest out a little.
We all sit down at the dining room table. The conversation from there on out is a lot less stuffy. Ben charms the pants off of my mom with his “yes, ma’ams” and complimenting her cooking over and over. It’s a bit overkill if you ask me.
“I hear you love to fish, Mr. Alexander,” Ben says, as he helps my mom clear the table. “My grandparents have a nice pond about an hour or so out of town. It’s great for catching some catfish. I’d love to take you some time.”
Football know-it-all.
Cleaning off tables.
Bringing up fishing.
What an ass-kisser.
I blindly flip through the channels on the TV in the den as they all talk. Ben and my dad plan a fishing trip for the weekend after Labor Day.
I’m pretty sure my mom is mentally planning their wedding already.
“Hey, Tripp. I hear you like
fast cars. Wanna come out and see my Camaro?”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve decided that Ben isn’t such a bad guy after all. The fact that he’s going to help me finish overhauling the Impala doesn’t hurt, either. I want to be able to drive it the day I turn sixteen, but if I don’t get a move on, it’ll still be sitting in the garage covered with a tarp, and I’ll be taking my driver’s test in my mom’s old Subaru.
It was my dad’s first car, and he saved it for me. A beautiful 1967 Chevy Impala. There’re a few scratches here and there, but for the most part, the exterior is perfect. Under the hood is where all the work needs to be done. My dad helps me when he has time, but his caseload has been really heavy lately, so I’ve been doing most of the work myself. Ben offering to come over and give me a hand is pretty cool of him . . . for a Neanderthal.
“So, what do you want to talk about today?” Dr. Abernathy asks from across the room.
Exhaling loudly, I feel my frustration rise again, not because I’m talking with Dr. Abernathy, because she’s one of the people who’s been there for me through my darkest days, but because I’m forced to deal with all of this in the first place. It’s getting old, revisiting the same demons over and over.
“Why the long face?” she asks as she rests back in her chair.
“I guess it’s because I felt like I’d been making progress, and now . . .” I pause, searching for the right feeling. “I don’t know. Seems like I’m going backward.”
“What makes you feel that way?”
Suddenly, the fray at the bottom of my khaki shorts is very interesting. I pick at the loose threads, trying to avoid the question at hand. I know, after all this time, she’s not going to judge me. She’s never made me feel bad about anything I’ve told her, and I’ve told her a lot of shit. I just don’t know how to put Ania into words. Because it’s definitely her. She’s why I’m so twisted up inside . . . why I ran from the restaurant . . . why I abandoned my responsibilities and why I didn’t look back.
