by Jiffy Kate
“Got it.”
“I’m not kidding. None of this funny business. And that especially goes for you, Walker!”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Ben says, saluting.
I start to snicker, but my dad levels me with another glare, and I immediately get in line.
“Be confident when you’re around her. Even if you don’t feel confident, act confident. Girls like it when a guy is sure of himself. It makes them feel safe.”
Ben and I both nod.
“Be honest, always look her in the eyes, and find a way to make her smile on a daily basis.”
“How?”
“Anything. Write her a poem, or give her a compliment.”
“I am not writing a poem,” I tell him. That Shakespeare shit is for the birds.
“Well, then buy her flowers. Girls love flowers. But,” he says, pausing, holding up a finger. “You can’t just buy any flower. You do that, and the girl will know you’re taking the easy way out. You’ve gotta find out what her favorite flower is, and if you don’t know, then you need to guess . . . Try to find one that makes you think of her, something that’s unique to her. Whatever you do, don’t overuse the flowers. Give them to her when she’s least expecting it. That’s when they’ll have the biggest impact.”
We sit there for a few minutes, soaking in all of my dad’s wisdom. The pale light of the moon is the only thing lighting up the garage.
“Start this baby up. We never did check to see if the eight-track still works.”
I turn over the engine as he pulls a box of cassettes out from under his seat. He pulls one out of its case and pops it in. The soulful blues of Otis Redding flow through the speakers as we sit back and listen to him croon about trying a little tenderness.
On my way to work the next morning, I make a point to stop where the lady who sells the flowers always stands. Instead of the vibrant, multi-colored flower she pushed in my face on Wednesday, I purchase a single blue iris.
“Such a thoughtful choice,” she muses, handing me the flower as I hand her my five dollars. The wink she gives me in exchange tells me she remembers me. Smiling, I silently thank her.
Last night after I got home, I spent some time researching the meaning of different flowers and found that the iris has a significant history in Greek mythology, acting as a link between heaven and earth. It also symbolizes faith and hope.
It’s perfect for Ania.
WALKING IN THE back door of the café, I’m relieved when I see the only person in the kitchen is Shawn, the cook, and he has his back to me. I slip Ania’s flower in a glass of water and tuck it behind a large stack of plates on the shelf. I’m a few minutes early but decide to get to work. The busier I stay, the faster the next three hours will pass. It’s going to be hard to keep my nerves in check, but I have the same feeling as last week—resolve.
I’m going to do this.
With a bit of pep in my step, I begin my daily duties. I wrap extra silverware and put place settings out at each chair while I wait for my tables to fill up with customers. When some of my regulars begin to trickle in, I greet them with ease, already predicting what they’ll order. I’ve worked here for over a month now, and I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this.
When the clock in the kitchen shows it’s almost six, I sneak the flower from the glass behind the plates and place it on my tray. I think Sarah might notice, but she doesn’t say anything, only gives me an encouraging smile as she passes me on her way back into the kitchen.
“Order up!” Shawn yells.
I quickly place the plates on my tray and make my way back into the main part of the café. Ania could very well be sitting at her table the next time I turn around, so if I want to give her the flower without drawing too much attention to myself, I’ve got to do it now. Carefully, I set the tray of food down on the edge of her table and gently place the blue iris just so, right in front of where she always sits, the seat facing the door and closest to the window. After nudging it around, trying to make it perfect, I finally walk away, hoping it has the right effect.
What if she hates flowers?
What if she thinks it belongs to someone else?
Or what if she doesn’t realize it’s from me?
The panic starts to rise, but I tamp it down, concentrating on slow, even breaths and the possibility of seeing her smile. If that’s the only thing I receive from this gesture, it’ll be enough.
After I deliver the plates to my other table, I turn around and see she still hasn’t arrived, but the iris is sitting where the sun coming through the window hits it perfectly.
It’s beautiful, just like her.
I think my dad would be proud.
I’m in the kitchen when I hear the bell on the front door chime. Quickly but quietly, I crack open the swinging door to take a peek, my heart racing, and I’m not surprised when I see her walk through the door. It’s like my soul knows when she’s near. I grip the door tightly, bracing for whatever comes next—gratitude, surprise, happiness, rejection.
She has her head bent down as she walks toward the table, almost as if she’s on autopilot, stepping to the side to avoid a chair until she abruptly stops. Her head snaps up, and she looks at the table for what feels like minutes and then turns to look around the café, waiting for someone to take ownership of the object that’s intruding her personal space. I close the door a little more, only leaving a slight crack because I’m not ready for her to know it’s me, not yet.
I pry my hands off the door, allowing it to close and step back. As I turn around, I allow myself a few minutes of deep breathing, and I try to center myself.
I did it.
Of course, I’ve yet to talk to her and let her verbally know how I feel, but I took a step, and right now, that step feels huge.
Steadying myself, I make my way back into the café to check on my tables and try to decide how to handle the flower situation.
I don’t have to think on it for long, because Ania takes care of it for me by turning around in her seat and blinding me with a smile. It’s real and genuine. It almost reaches her eyes, and I can’t help but smile back at her. The blush that creeps up on her cheeks makes mine heat up just the same. I feel like a chameleon when I’m around her—what she feels, I feel. The pull she’s had on me since day one is even stronger as she makes direct, intentional eye contact. I swear, the smile she’s still wearing says more than a thousand words. I wish I could take a picture or commission a painting so that I could remember this moment for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, my section stays extremely busy, and to my surprise, I manage it without spilling or breaking anything.
The boost of confidence I feel from seeing Ania smile makes my feet feel more dependable and my hands steadier. The bad part is, I only get to catch passing glimpses of her, but her entire demeanor seems lighter too. Even though I can’t see her face most of the night, I notice her shoulders aren’t quite so hunched over. The few times I do get the privilege of seeing her face, it looks pleasant, not a full-on smile, but not nearly as sad as it usually is. It makes me feel good because I feel like I had a part in making her happier, which makes me happier.
When she stands to leave, I hold my ground at the table I’m bussing. Normally, I’d hightail it to the kitchen to take refuge and keep from embarrassing myself. But tonight, I can’t. I can’t miss any opportunity to see her. I need it like I need the air I’m breathing.
Oh, shit.
Breathe.
She shoulders her backpack and picks up the flower from the table, leaving a folded piece of paper in its place. On her way out, she pauses for a moment and gives me another smile, bringing the flower up to her nose and inhaling. When she nears the door, she dips her head and glances back over her shoulder, giving me one last look before disappearing out of sight.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but my feet feel glued to the floor, either unable to move or refusing to. My first thought when she�
��s out of sight is: I want her to come back so we can do that all over again.
When I remember the small piece of paper she left on her table, it brings me out of my trance, and I nearly trip over my own two feet trying to get to it as quickly as possible. My hands are shaking as I unfold it, making sure not to tear the pale pink paper. It’s familiar, and I realize it’s probably a piece from her journal.
Even if there were no words, I’d still feel like she gave me a piece of her, but there are.
Five little words: When words escape, flowers speak.
In this moment, I feel like she understands me, and it’s the best thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.
During the next six days, I cling to the small piece of pink paper. If it’s not in my pocket, it’s on my nightstand, and if it’s not on my nightstand, it’s under my pillow. It’s become my lucky charm of sorts—the physical representation that I took the first step, and Ania met me halfway.
I’ve had the best week since I can remember. My mind has been clearer, I’ve felt stronger, and emotionally, I’ve been in control. I’m trying not to put too much emphasis on seeing Ania again today, but the truth of the matter is, I feel like I owe a lot of my good week to her. She’s given me something to look forward to, and I want to be able to tell her how I feel. Granted, I probably shouldn’t do that tonight. I should probably start with something less scary like, “Hi, my name is Tripp.”
The first three hours of my shift are the hardest, but I use the time to mentally prepare myself to talk to her. If nothing else, I decide I’m going to go up to her and ask if I can get her anything. It’s a start. And hopefully, since it’s part of my job, it won’t feel too awkward.
I can do this.
I’m going to do this.
Filling an empty glass here, serving an order there, and watching the clock in between—that’s how I spend the minutes leading up to Ania’s arrival. I get caught up fixing an order that was wrong, and when I notice six o’clock has come and gone, my heart begins to beat faster.
She’ll be here.
Wyatt asks me to help Julie with a large group that’s come in for a birthday celebration. The added responsibilities keep me busier than usual, and when I get a chance to look at the clock in the kitchen again, it’s a quarter past six.
She’s never late.
I nearly run out of the kitchen with the tray of glasses to see if she’s somehow slipped into her booth without my noticing, but she’s not there. It’s empty.
I help Julie take everyone’s order, and when we’re headed back to the kitchen to turn them in, I notice that someone else is sitting in her booth.
I want to yell at them and tell them to get out, but I can’t. I look around the café, searching for her. Maybe she decided to sit somewhere else today?
She’ll be here, right? She has to be. She’s always here.
But what if she doesn’t come? What then?
How will I ever get the chance to talk to her?
What if the flower spooked her?
Maybe she thinks I’m a stalker or something?
Oh, shit.
What have I done?
I take one more look around, and there’s no sign of her. No long dark hair. No crumpled leather backpack. No brown journal with pale pink pages. No sad eyes.
She’s not here.
I finish my shift, but the heaviness that replaces the levity from earlier is overwhelming. I feel like I can hardly put one foot in front of the other as I make my way out the back door, blindly acknowledging someone telling me bye as I leave.
I’m not sure where to go or what to do, but I don’t want to go home.
Once I’m out in the night air, I breathe deeply, trying to calm the growing anxiety and wild thoughts I’ve been bombarded with ever since Ania didn’t show, but I can’t. It feels as though my breath is stuck in my throat. I try to think of who to call or where to go, and only one place feels right. Kicking the stand on my bike, I take off until I’m standing in front of the large iron gates.
I haven’t been here for a while, but it doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. As I approach the wooden bench, I sit down and pull out the note from Ania, reading the words for the hundredth time.
When words escape, flowers speak.
Last week, I had been so sure we were at the precipice of something. I didn’t know what, but I knew the smile she gave me was enough to give me the courage I needed to talk to her.
“I was going to talk to her,” I whisper out into the open air. “I felt like I was making you proud for the first time in a long time . . . following your advice . . . but she didn’t show tonight. What if I’ve messed this up, or even worse, what if something happened to her?”
I stand up and lean into the dark gray piece of stone, my fingers gliding over the engraved words. These words don’t even come close to saying what’s important. How can you put a person’s life into such few words?
“I miss you, Dad. If you were here, you’d know what to do.”
“Dad,” I sob, letting my tears fall on the headstone, “I know you were sick these last two years, but I still wasn’t prepared for this . . . I wasn’t ready to let you go.”
My chest hurts so bad it feels like it’s going to crack open as I let out the anguish I feel inside.
“Thank you for being my biggest supporter . . . and thank you for holding on until the twins were born. I can’t believe they’re going to miss out on you . . . on your jokes . . . and your good advice. What am I going to do without you here? I already feel like I’m drowning, and it’s only been 28 days.”
I breathe hard. I’m not sure what a panic attack feels like, but I might be having one.
“What am I supposed to do?”
I wait, but I’m just met with silence. Occasionally, the wind picks up and whistles through the trees, but there’s no one to talk back to me. My words are lost in the breeze.
“I just needed to talk to someone, and I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t think I can do it anymore—football, school—nothing feels right anymore.”
I hear my voice crack and then crumble as vivid memories of my dad infiltrate my mind, but I keep going.
“I remember th-the talk we had that one time, and you told me my grades were more important than tossing a ball down the field. I thought you were crazy, but it’s like you knew . . . like always, you knew something I didn’t.” The anger I sometimes feel when I realize he’s gone for good comes erupting from deep within. “Everything feels so overwhelming right now. I feel like I could just snap at any moment, but I can’t. Mom needs me.”
The light mist that had started when I got here picks up, and drops of rain bounce off of the thick cold stone.
“I want to make you proud. I want to be able to take care of Mom instead of her taking care of me. I need to be there for her. That’s what you would want more than anything. Liza has Ben and the babies, but Mom needs me.”
I pound my fist into the stone because I’m so pissed. I’m mad at everything and everyone—my dad for leaving me, the universe for taking him away, my coach for being on my ass, and myself for not being able to handle it all.
“Tell me what to do, Dad. Give me some kind of sign. Please!”
My body feels like it’s weighed down, and I can’t fight it anymore, so I lie down on the grass in front of his grave, allowing my tears to mix into the damp ground beneath me.
Somewhere in the midst of being asleep and awake, the wind begins to blow, swirling the dead leaves on the ground up and around. I roll over onto my back and look up at the gray sky above, still searching for answers, when the thick clouds part and a small ray of sunshine fights its way through. The brief break in the clouds warms my face, and I close my eyes, soaking it in.
I don’t know how, but I feel it—I feel him—and I know what I need to do. I’m so sure of it. It’s almost as if he’s standing beside me, telling me in person.
I scramble to my feet, unable to m
ove fast enough. The urgency of what I now know I need to do propels me. I jump in the Impala and peel out on the gravel path leading to the main road out of the cemetery.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the field house parking lot and run into the building.
Knocking once, I let myself into Coach’s office and plop down in the chair across from the desk. He looks at me over the top of his glasses, a little startled, but like he might’ve been expecting me.
“I quit.”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
My eyes slowly open and scan my bedroom, trying to find what’s making the offending sound.
Knock. Knock. Knock. “Tripp, are you awake?”
Shit.
“Tripp, it’s two in the afternoon. Can I come in?”
Did I sleep until two?
I grab my phone off the nightstand and push the ‘home’ button, groaning when I realize it’s Sunday. She’s gonna kill me for missing church.
“Yeah, Mom,” I yell toward the door as I jump out of bed. “I’m coming. Hold on a sec.”
Grabbing a T-shirt off the floor, I throw it on and run to the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth. When I finally open the front door, I see my mom standing in front of me with her hands on her hips and her right toe tapping.
Yep, I’m dead.
“Mom, I—” I start to explain why I wasn’t at church and why I’ve basically been a recluse for the past two days, but the air is practically knocked out of me as she pulls me into one of her bone-crushing hugs.
