by Jiffy Kate
“So, your name is Loren?” I ask from a half-dazed state.
“Oh, shit! Um, yeah. I’m Loren. Have we not done this yet?” she asks, shaking her head and wiping the syrup off her lips with a napkin. “I feel like we’re doing everything backward,” she says, her voice practically a whisper, like she’s in awe of the situation. My feelings are mutual. I feel like I know her, but I don’t. She’s an anomaly—someone who has been the object of my attention and affection for so many weeks, yet I didn’t even know her name until just a moment ago.
I nod, and she seems to know I’m feeling the same way.
Loren. Loren. Loren.
That’s suddenly the most beautiful name in the English language.
Someone once told me you have to do something seventeen times before it becomes a habit. So mentally, I begin repeating her name over and over in my mind, hoping I don’t mess up and call her the wrong name.
Loren. Loren. Loren . . .
Her eyes gaze out the window before slowly turning back to me, and as she begins to speak, her tone is almost as sad as her eyes. “Before you started working at the café, I would go and sit, and sometimes I wouldn’t even notice that the time had passed until the lights would get turned off, and I’d have to take that as my cue to leave. No one talked to me, and I didn’t talk to anyone. I mean, occasionally, I’d talk to Wyatt, but that’s it. Until you.”
“Well, we never really talked,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. I have so many things I want to say and ask, but I don’t know how or where to start.
“Yeah, but you noticed me.”
Those words. I noticed her. Of course, I did. How could I not have? I want to tell her that I know the second she walks into the room, not because I see her, but because I feel her. But I can’t say that. That sounds like the words of a crazy person in lo–.
Stop.
“Of course, I noticed you.”
She stares at me for the longest time before continuing. “I noticed you, too.”
“How could you not have?” I laugh, turning my thoughts on myself. I mean, seriously. I can’t believe she’s sitting here in front of me because the only thing she’s seen from me is an awkward guy who almost spills things on her and breaks plates and says stupid stuff.
“Exactly,” she says, but she’s not laughing. It looks as though she’s breathing harder, and her cheeks flush once again. The way she fiddles with her napkin reminds me of myself. I do stuff like that when I’m nervous or anxious, and I don’t want her to feel either of those things. So I try to think of some way to distract her.
“How do you know Wyatt?” I finally ask.
The question does pull her out of her thoughts, but it doesn’t relieve the tension etched on her face. She draws her brows closer together and bites her cheek as if she’s deciding how to answer. “Well, I’ve known him for a while, just from going into the café. It’s kinda hard not to know someone when you see them once a week for three years.”
I nod, trying to think of something else to say. The direction this conversation is going seems to be the wrong one. From the way she’s staring out the window, I would guess that she’s shutting down; putting up any wall she had dropped, retreating inside herself.
“I like your car,” I blurt out.
She turns from the window, and her eyes light up a little.
“It’s a classic,” she says, with a hint of pride in her voice. By the way her mouth turns back up at the corners, I know I’m on to something the two of us can talk about without things getting uncomfortable . . . well, for now, at least. It’s not a subject I’ve broached for a long time, but if it makes her face light up like that, I’m willing to go there . . . for her.
“I love classic cars,” I say, swallowing the lump that’s trying to force its way up my throat—the same one that’s always there when classic cars are mentioned. I can’t think about classic cars without thinking about my classic car, and I can’t think about my classic car without thinking about . . . oh, shit.
Deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I don’t want to do this.
Not here.
Not now.
Dr. Abernathy’s voice pops into my head. “Focus on where you are and who you’re with. Don’t allow yourself to get swept away. Stay grounded.”
Stay grounded.
“Tripp?” Loren’s soft hand touches mine, pulling me out of my head. Her sweet voice sounds concerned, and it helps me focus on something besides the anxiety.
After a few more deep breaths, I finally feel the tightness in my throat loosen, and my breathing starts to return to normal.
“I—I’m sorry,” I mutter when I’m able to find my voice.
“It’s okay. Are . . . are you okay?”
Normally, I’d feel embarrassed. I’d run, try to get away from whatever situation sent me into the attack in the first place. But when I look across the table, she’s there, and it keeps me in place. I’ve wanted this for so long. I can’t run now.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, convincing her and me at the same time. “What were you saying?”
“What’s your favorite?” she asks, but I can tell she’s unsure.
“The ’60s and ’70s. Great solid bodies and timeless designs,” I reply.
“Me too,” she says, and the twinkle in her eye is back.
“I love the mechanics—taking them apart and putting them back together, knowing everything about them from the hood to the tires,” I tell her because this is a safe topic. I can handle this.
She nods in agreement with a day-dreamy look on her face.
From there, our conversation falls into an easy cadence. She asks questions, and I answer, and then we switch.
“Favorite band?” she asks, taking a drink of her milkshake.
“Does Otis Redding count?” I ask, answering her question with a question again.
“Otis always counts,” she says seriously.
“What about you? Who’s your favorite?”
“Ray LaMontagne,” she says. “Hands down.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” I tell her.
“What?” she asks in surprise. “Well, I’ll have to educate you.”
And I like the sound of that.
We both skirt around issues or topics we can tell upset the other. For instance, even though classic cars are a passion for both of us, she doesn’t like talking about it that much. There’s something there that causes her pain. And I understand, because it happens to me too. I wonder if her reason is anything like mine, but I try not to dwell on it too much because I don’t want to ruin this perfect night.
One of my favorite things about talking to Loren, other than the fact that I get to stare at her without feeling like a creeper, is that she makes it easy. She could’ve bailed when I had my almost-panic attack earlier, but she was calm and didn’t even look at me different after it was over. She’s patient and allows me time to think about what I want to say without pressing for more information. The same feeling from last night floods my mind, and again, it’s as if I’m staring in a mirror, seeing my reflection.
For an hour or so, we sit in comfortable silence, each of us lost in our school work until she looks at her watch and sees that it’s almost eleven o’clock.
“I’ve got an early study group at the library in the morning,” she says, but I can hear the hesitancy in her voice as she closes her notebook and snaps the lid on her purple highlighter.
“Yeah, I guess it is getting late.” I know it’s getting late. I can feel my body tiring, but the adrenaline that’s been running through me since last night, coupled with the few cups of coffee I’ve had here, are keeping me artificially fueled.
As we walk out of the diner, I see Sally smile our way. The way her eyes are assessing me, it makes me wonder if Loren is right. Not wanting to be rude, I give her a small wave and smile, but my cheeks heat up under her scrutiny.
>
“Told you,” Loren says, teasing me.
I smile and shake my head as I hold the door open for her.
She pauses on her way out, looking up at me. “Thank you.” The smile she gives me as she passes by shoots straight to my insides, causing things to stir inside me that have been dormant for so long.
“Thank you,” I reply, walking closely beside her. I have no desire to leave her company, but I know I have to.
“What are you thanking me for?” she asks, a smile in her tone.
“For allowing me to join you tonight,” I tell her.
“It was great. I, uh . . . I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
The campus is relatively quiet, and the coolness of fall is upon us. I look around, wondering how she got here or if she lives close enough to walk.
When will I see her again?
“I live this way,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. “On campus. I walked here.”
“Could I . . . Can I walk you home?” If she tells me no again, I’ll be forced to follow her, because I won’t be able to rest not knowing whether or not she made it safely. And I don’t think she’s ready to give me her phone number, although I’d like to have it.
“Okay,” she says, smiling, but the nervous fidget she had earlier is back, so I keep an arm’s length distance between the two of us and follow her lead toward her dorm.
“Do you live close?” she asks as we make our way across the open lawn. The dew is already sticking to the blades of grass and my exposed feet.
“Yeah, just fifteen minutes away. Not bad.”
“Do you always walk everywhere you go?”
“Yeah, or ride my bike,” I say, watching my feet.
She nods her head, and I can sense more questions in her silence, but she doesn’t ask them. I mean, it’s not normal for a guy my age to not drive a car. But I’m glad she doesn’t ask because I’m not ready to go there. Maybe on our second date, but not tonight.
We pass a group of guys walking in the opposite direction. Loren seems oblivious to their attention, but I notice them notice her, and sense of relief comes over me. I’m glad I took the chance and asked to walk her home. I wish I could walk her home every night.
She slows as we approach her dormitory, adjusting the straps of her backpack and looking everywhere but at me.
“Can I see you again sometime? I mean, outside of the café?” I ask.
“I’d like that,” she says quietly.
“Okay,” I reply, and it doesn’t escape me that I normally don’t want to make eye contact with anyone, but when it comes to Loren, I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Okay,” she says as she swallows and then draws her eyebrows together. “But I’m busy for the next week or so. I have mid-terms to get ready for . . . and . . .”
I can tell she’s struggling, with what I’m not sure, but I want to help her.
“It’s okay. I have mid-terms too,” I tell her because it’s the truth and I don’t want her to feel bad about whatever took the smile off her face. “Will I at least see you at the café?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” she says with a weak smile.
“I’ll see you then,” I tell her, wanting to draw out these last few seconds with her.
“Good night.”
“Good night,” I say, my eyes locked on her lips as I wonder what it would feel like to kiss them.
When she finally leaves, my chest aches at the loss, and I stand glued in place as I watch her disappear inside the building. She turns around once and gives a small wave when she sees me still standing here.
I can’t make my feet move until she’s completely out of sight.
On my way home, I replay every moment of our time together . . . and begin counting down the seconds until I’ll see her again.
WEIGHTLESSNESS.
This time, I’m not standing on the shore or watching from an omniscient position. I’m in the water—submerged but breathing. The dark water surrounding me begins to lighten, and I see her floating beside me—Ania. Her eyes open, and she looks over at me. There’s no sadness or fear, but her eyes blink several times as if she’s waking from a deep sleep. I reach an arm out to her, and she takes my hand.
Just as I’m pulling her to me, an obnoxious beeping wakes me from the semi-peaceful dream. I lie still for a moment, trying to pull every bit and piece I can from my foggy memory. It’s so similar to dreams I’ve had lately—same elements but different scenario. Regardless, I’ll take my murky black and white dreams over the startling nightmares I used to have any day. Even though some mornings I wake up with a pain in my chest from not being able to get to her before my dream is over. This time, I was with her . . . She took my hand.
I reach over and grab the journal from my nightstand, doing my best to scribble down a description of the dream, along with how it made me feel. At my last appointment with Dr. Abernathy, she suggested I start keeping a journal of my dreams, as a way to clear my mind. It seems to be working, somewhat.
As I go through my morning routine, my focus is still on Loren. There’s no journaling that can clear her out of my mind. I can’t help wondering what we’ll talk about tonight. Will she be back to her shy, withdrawn self, or will she be the semi-outgoing and quick-witted girl I saw at the diner Friday night? The contrast between the girl from the café and the girl from the diner doesn’t escape me. It’s not like she was a completely different person or anything, just better, happier—the color-version of herself. I’m not sure if that had more to do with me or the location, but whatever it was, I’d love to see that girl again.
Loren.
Loren.
Loren.
Days later, and I’m still repeating her name to myself, partly because I’m making sure I don’t slip up and call her Ania, and partly because I just like the way it sounds in my head.
The afternoon is filled with homework, some Jack and Emmie playtime, and running a couple of errands for my mom. Before I know it, it’s time to head to the café for my shift. Wyatt put me on the schedule for a full eight hours today, with talk of adding a weekend shift on in another week or two, depending on how I do this week. The accomplishment I feel from working at The Crescent Moon is huge. I know it’s just waiting tables, but I’ve had to overcome a lot of obstacles to get here, so I’m not going to belittle that.
“Hey, Tripp,” Shawn calls from the prep station in the middle of the large kitchen as I walk through the back door.
“Hey,” I reply, giving him a nod.
“Tripp, you’re just in time. Would you mind helping me move a few tables together to get ready for a large group that’s coming in for a late lunch meeting?” Sarah asks, smiling her thanks over her shoulder as she loads down a tray with drinks and heads out into the café.
Tying on my apron, I look around, and a sudden rush of realization hits me—I fit in here. For the first time in a long time, I belong somewhere. I’m part of the team.
With an added boost of confidence, I head out to help Sarah—pushing tables together, rearranging chairs, putting down place settings. One task flows into the next, and I tackle them all with very few mistakes. The mistakes I do make are probably only noticeable to me. I almost served the lady at table three a side of shrimp and grits instead of crawfish étouffée, but I caught it just before I loaded up my tray. There was also a near hit with a water glass and an elderly man at table five, but I avoided it. Julie and I collided with stacks of dirty dishes, but somehow we both kept all of our plates in one piece.
I don’t think this is the first day that I’ve been competent at my job, but it’s the first day where I’ve had a clear enough mind to notice—to take inventory—which is surprising, because along with my job requirements, I’ve also been thinking of Loren. Usually, these days, if my mind is on more than one thing, I screw everything up.
Looking up from the table I’ve been wiping down, I see her long hair hanging halfway down across her face. She meets my gaze, a
nd a smile breaks. It’s not forced. There’s no sadness behind it. She holds eye contact with me for longer than necessary, and I know . . . that smile is for me. Just for me. And I smile back. My throat tightens a little, but I laugh, because that’s what you do when you’re happy.
I’m happy. Loren makes me happy.
I don’t know what to do next, but I know when I get a chance, I’m going to go over to table six, and I’m going to talk to the beautiful girl sitting there. Because I can.
I watch her as she takes out her journal and opens it up. She doesn’t begin writing right away. For a few minutes, she stares out the window, but when our eyes meet again, there’s still mostly happiness where the sadness used to be.
An hour or so later, the dinner crowd has died down, and my last customers are having their after-dinner coffee. There are a few people in Sarah’s section, and Julie’s taking care of the front two tables, but other than that, the café is quiet.
Walking back into the kitchen, I notice Shawn is in the process of putting away the leftover bread pudding—it was the dessert special today—and inspiration strikes.
“Could I have a slice of that on a plate with the rum sauce?” I ask, nervously wiping my hands down the front of my apron.
“Sure. Did table five change their mind on dessert?”
“Uh, no. It’s for . . . uh. Well, I thought I’d . . .”
“Hey, man, no explanation needed,” he says, smiling to himself as he puts a piece of it on a plate and pours the warm sauce over the top. After he garnishes the plate and wipes the edges clean to perfection, he hands it over to me.
“Thanks. I’ll pay for it later,” I tell him.
“Good luck,” He says, giving me a knowing smile.
I give him a half-smile in return. I’m glad he’s cool. I don’t think I could handle it if he started asking a bunch of questions. It’d make me even more self-conscious than I already am about what I’m getting ready to do.
