by Jiffy Kate
When I walk back out, I almost lose my nerve and turn right back around, but seeing her sitting there and knowing how good it felt to talk to her last week, I know I can’t. I have to do this. I want to do this. I need to do this.
As I slide the piece of delectable dessert in front of her, she pauses, eyes cast down at the plate in front of her. Slowly, she looks up, a small smile playing on her lips.
“I, uh, thought you might . . . Well, last Friday, you ordered all sweet stuff. So I thought you’d like this.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“It’s on the house.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t want to hover while she eats, so I make myself useful and help Sarah clear off a table. Every once in a while, I look up and see her taking a bite of the bread pudding. I wasn’t sure if she’d eat it, seeing as though she never orders anything while she’s here, but I hoped she would. She looks over at me about the same time her tongue darts out to lick the rum sauce off the fork, and a tightening in my stomach catches me off guard. I’m not stupid. I know what it is, and I know why it’s there—attraction, desire—I just haven’t felt it in so long that I almost forgot what it’s like to feel something.
“You just gonna stand there?” Sarah asks, nearly making me drop the bucket of dirty dishes I’m holding.
I clear my throat and hold the bucket lower to cover what I’m sure is an embarrassing outward display of my inward affections.
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping my gaze from Loren and heading for the kitchen.
After I deposit the dirty dishes and preoccupy myself with the mundane task of spraying them off, I feel more in control. So, I step back out into the café to check on my customers. My two coffee drinkers have left, and there’s hardly a soul in the place, except for the couple at the front and the beauty at table six.
Tentatively, I begin walking toward her, but before I can get to her, she turns around and smiles at me.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes inviting me in.
“Hey,” I reply and slide into the booth across from her.
My eyes go down to the book in front of her, but I don’t get a chance to see what’s written on the pages because she quickly closes it, holding it to her chest. I wasn’t trying to pry. My curiosity just got the best of me.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t see . . .” I stumble over my apology, hoping she’s not mad at me.
“It’s okay. I just . . . well, I . . .” she begins, trying to explain.
“Don’t worry about it. I get it.” I do. I get it. I know that we both have secrets we’re not ready to tell, and that’s okay with me. The last thing I want to do is push her away, so I’ll take whatever she wants to give me. It’s already been more than I ever could’ve dreamed of getting in the first place.
“Um, there’s this thing . . . on campus at the Rat on Thursday nights,” she begins, her fingers nervously running up and down the uneven pages of the journal. “I was . . . do you like jazz music?” she finally asks and her cheeks instantly turn a lovely shade of pink.
She’s nervous.
I know that feeling too.
Instinctively, my hand inches across the table and gently grabs hers.
The entire interaction was completely unplanned, making my eyes grow in surprise. I only wanted to make her forget whatever it is she’s worried about—take away her nerves.
As I glance across the table at her, she laughs, shaking her head.
“I love jazz,” I tell her. I also want to tell her that I love the way her hand feels in mine, but I don’t think it would come out right, and I don’t want to ruin this moment.
“Well, I just thought that if you don’t have anything to do after work, maybe you’d like to go to Jazz at the Rat with me?”
“I’d love to.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
We sit there, exchanging slight smiles that turn into larger ones, until I physically have to pry myself out of the seat and go back to work.
I only have about ten minutes left on my shift, so I help Sarah tidy up the kitchen to pass the time.
When I walk around the side of the building, Loren is waiting patiently on the bench at the corner. I watch her for a second, soaking in the fact that she’s here and she asked me to meet her. I can’t help the cheesy grin on my face when she looks up at me.
“Did you drive here?” I ask, hoping she didn’t, as I scan the parking lot across the street, but the little red Volkswagen is nowhere to be seen.
“No,” she replies as she turns her head toward where she had been parked the week before. “I was kinda hoping you’d say yes, and I thought we’d walk there together.” Her statement comes out more like a question, and I realize she was unsure of what my response was going to be. It seems so strange that she could think for one minute that I might turn her down.
She has no idea.
Once again, the happiness I’m feeling erupts from deep inside, and I let out what sounds like a nervous laugh, but it’s just her . . . It’s how she makes me feel, and it’s unexplainable.
“Yes.” It’s all I can manage, but it’s enough. I unlock my bike from the rack and release the kickstand so that I can walk beside her. For a few minutes, the only sound filling the air between us is the click of the gears on my bike.
“Soooo . . . have you always lived in New Orleans?” she asks, fidgeting with the straps on her backpack.
“Born and raised here. How ‘bout you?”
“I moved here for school. I’m originally from a small town outside of Houston.”
“Not too far away from home, then.”
“No, but far enough.”
The way the words come out makes me want to ask more questions, but the shift in her demeanor tells me that maybe I shouldn’t.
“Did you always want to go to Tulane?” I ask, changing the subject a bit.
“Uh, well, it wasn’t technically my dream . . . but, I guess . . .” Her voice trails off. When I look over at her, she’s worrying her bottom lip and her eyebrows pinch together.
“Hey,” I say, getting her attention. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything. You choose.”
She relaxes a little, allowing the smile back on her lips, and asks, “Favorite song on the radio?”
“I don’t listen to the radio much, but I like this song called ‘Demons’, which sounds creepy, but . . . it’s, uh, a great song. The lyrics, I mean. They’re great.” I feel so lame. But it’s the only song I can think of. I’ve overheard it from the garage when Ben’s in there. I don’t go in, but I sometimes sit on the steps leading up to my apartment and listen, thinking.
“Imagine Dragons,” she says, nodding her head. “Yeah, I like them. That is a great song.” The way she smiles up at me sets my mind at ease. The oranges and pinks hanging on in the western sky are casting a warm light over her, making her skin glow, just like last week when I walked her to her car. I’m instantly distracted from my insecurities by how shiny her hair is and how soft it looks.
I wish I weren’t pushing this damn bike. I might try to hold her hand, which seems crazy, but the way she looks at me gives me confidence I didn’t even know I possessed anymore. I thought it was long gone with so many other things.
Instead, I ask her the same question, wanting to know everything about the girl walking beside me—the good, the sad, the bad . . . her deepest, darkest secrets . . . and even her favorite song.
“‘Shake It Off’,” she says matter-of-factly.
I glance over my other shoulder, trying to figure out what she’s talking about and then back at her just in time to see a smile cross her face. And then she laughs. As she tilts her head back and squeezes her eyes closed, I can’t help but join in, if for no other reason than not wanting her to stop.
“It’s a song. By Taylor Swift,” she explains, and I have no idea what she’s talking about. I mean, of course, I know who Taylor Swift is, but that’s about a
s far as it goes.
“There’s not any deep, philosophical meaning behind it,” she continues. “I just like it. On days I’m feeling sad, I can play it, and I don’t feel so sad anymore. It’s just mindless words and they help me forget whatever the hell I’m dwelling on at the time.”
I hate that she’s sad, but this “Shake It Off” might be my new favorite song.
Her eyes stay on the concrete beneath our feet until we reach the grass in front of the Student Union. There are quite a few people milling around, and we look to each other, both silently asking where or what we should do next.
“I could walk over to my dorm and grab a blanket so we can sit over here on the grass away from the crowd.”
“Whatever you’d like to do.” I’d sit on the moon if that’s where she wanted to be.
I lock my bike to a rack and escort her over to her dorm.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, looking back over her shoulder.
“I’ll be waiting.”
She smiles again and shakes her head as she walks through the glass doors.
Minutes later, we’ve secured a spot on the lawn, close enough to hear the jazz that’s coming from the Rat, but far enough away that we can still have a quiet conversation of our own. We discuss school, and she tells me she’s just recently declared her major—Sociology. I can tell from the way she talks about it that she wants to help people. That makes me like her even more than I already did, if that’s possible.
We’re both leaning back on our arms, legs kicked out in front of us, shoulders almost touching but not quite, and something in my mind starts to stir . . . like a fuzzy television station coming into focus . . .
Valentine’s Day.
The official day of love.
The day men are pressured into doing something romantic for the woman in their life.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against romance. What I don’t like is being pressured to show my feelings for someone, especially when I don’t know how I truly feel about them.
Whitney and I have been seeing each other yet again, ever since we hooked up at a New Year’s Eve party. It’s been less than two months, and she’s already starting to put the pressure on me to get serious. Monogamy has never been an issue with me. I’m totally committed when I’m in a relationship, but I’m simply not ready to make any major plans for my future right now.
Regardless, here I am, laying out a picnic for my girlfriend and me to enjoy on this breezy February fourteenth at Audubon Park, while she watches me with lovesick eyes. I like Whitney. I do. I have for years. I just wish she’d stop demanding so much from me. I put enough pressure on myself as it is.
“Tripp, this is so sweet of you,” Whitney gushes. “I love it.” She gracefully sits down and accepts the plate of fruit, cheese, and crackers I hand her.
“I’m glad you like it. I thought we could visit that new jazz club in The Quarter later too if you’d like.”
“Dancing the night away sounds perfect!” She takes my hand and laces our fingers together before leaning toward me, speaking quietly. “Then we can celebrate our news in private.” I stare as her tongue sweeps across her full bottom lip for a moment before her words catch my attention.
“What news are we celebrating?”
“Our engagement, of course, silly!”
“We’re not engaged,” I tell her, that last word coming out with a bit of disgust. Extracting my hand from hers, I run my fingers through my hair, willing myself not to flip the fuck out.
“Well, we will be as soon as you ask me, so go ahead!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Tripp, stop playing around. You said you had a surprise for me here at the park . . . It’s Valentine’s Day . . . What else could it be?” Her voice starts to squeak, causing the ducks in a nearby pond to fly off.
“The picnic was the surprise, Whitney! We’ve only been back together a few weeks. What the hell? You thought I was going to propose tonight?”
This girl is unbelievable. I can’t even do something nice for her without her thinking it’s a damn proposal.
“You make it sound like we’ve only known each other a short time. We’ve been together since high school! Why are you so afraid of commitment?” Her eyes fill with tears, but I immediately recognize them for the ploy they are.
“Why are you so ready to get married? Why can’t we just enjoy our time together without putting added pressure? We have plenty of time to settle down after we graduate, if that’s what we decide to do.”
“I don’t know, Tripp. I don’t think I can wait that long. I was there for you when your dad died, I didn’t complain when you gave up football, and I’ve forgiven you for being with other girls when we were broken up. I think I’ve earned a damn ring by now!”
A cold sweat covers my body, and I quickly stand up, not stopping until I’m across the lawn. When the panic rises that fast, I always feel like running, like I’m trying to escape whatever is chasing me down. Loren is close behind. I feel her, and when I finally turn to look at her, there is nothing but worry and concern etched on her beautiful face.
“Tripp, are you okay?”
I honestly don’t know how to answer her. Technically, I’m fine, but to have that particular memory hit me out of the blue like that has shaken me to my core.
“D-do you mind if we sit on that bench over there,” I ask, pointing a few feet away.
“Of course not.” For a second, it looks like Loren might grab my hand, but she quickly changes her mind—not that I blame her.
Once we’re seated, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The faint sound of jazz still fills the night air, and it helps me to refocus and calm myself until I feel comfortable enough to speak. Turning to face Loren, I see she’s watching me. Self-consciously, and out of habit, I tug on my hair, which only causes her gaze to sharpen, focusing in on my scar.
Her fingertips ghost over my eyebrow, making my skin hum.
Softly, she asks, “What happened?”
I know if I’m going to have any kind of relationship with Loren, I need to be honest and tell her something about myself, something to help explain the crazy. If I don’t, she’ll never begin to understand and I doubt she’ll waste her time. Even if I do tell her, she still might not want to waste her time.
And that scares me.
I know we’ve only been talking for a few days, but they’ve been the best days I’ve had in a long time. I’ll be crushed if she wants to stop seeing me, although I’ll understand why.
“Tripp?” she asks, a hint of alarm in her voice and I know I have to say something, give some explanation to my behavior.
“I’m not . . . normal,” I finally begin, struggling to find the right words to say. “I’m sure that’s obvious, but I feel like I should give you fair warning. That way, you’ll be able to make an educated decision on whether or not you still want to talk to me.” I breathe out deeply, eyes trained toward the ground, willing myself to continue even though the fear and anxiety are crippling. “I’m not ready to tell you everything, but I can at least explain what happened just now.”
This might be for me as much as it’s for her, because the memory of my date with Whitney is still making me dizzy, and talking about it might actually help.
“I’ll listen to whatever you want to say, Tripp, but I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. None of us are truly normal,” she says in a soft, comforting tone.
This time, she’s the one to grab my hand, and her touch empowers me.
“This is going to sound crazy, so I’ll apologize ahead of time,” I say, wincing at the thought of what I’m getting ready to admit. “I had a girlfriend. Her name was Whitney, and we were together for a long time—since high school. She was putting a lot of pressure on me to propose, and I just wasn’t ready, you know?” Loren nods her head, encouraging me to continue.
“Anyway, for the last year or so we were together, we kept breaking up and getting b
ack together. It wasn’t pretty and nothing I’m proud of. Toward the end, something bad happened,” I say, choosing my words carefully because I’m not ready to go there. “I don’t remember much of the end of our relationship, because of what happened. My memories are sparse, but just now, when we were sitting on the blanket, this memory just hit me out of the blue . . .” I pause, breathing deeply as I recall the way my heart was pounding out of my chest. Memories like that catch me off guard and for some reason, scare the shit out of me. “It was something I’d never remembered until tonight.”
Feeling her thumb rub circles over my knuckles causes me to look into her eyes. I’m expecting any number of things: pity, disgust, alarm, but there’s no sign of discomfort on Loren’s face. I can’t find a hint of judgment within her features either, only acceptance. Maybe even understanding. I’ve experienced this with my family, of course, but to receive this gift from her, my Ania, it makes me feel warm all over.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like the dark cloud that’s been hovering over me for so long is lifting. For once, something is going right in my life. Loren makes me feel like there’s a chance for normal. But she’s so far from normal. She’s anything but. She’s extraordinary—a beautiful girl, with sad eyes, and hidden secrets—but she sees me, the real me, and she doesn’t run. She stays.
“WELL, I WAS DRUNK . . . the day my mom . . . got outta prison
And I went . . . to pick’er up . . . in the rain!
But, before I could get to the station in my pickuuuup truck
She got runned over by a damned ol’ train!”
“Fucking hell, Tripp. I thought you were going out with Whitney tonight. Why on Earth are you here at the frat house hammered out of your mind? Oh, wait. Let me take a wild guess. Y’all broke up again, huh?”
“Shut up, Evan. You’re messin’ with my favorite drinkin’ song.” Damn, I really am messed up. Even I can tell my slur is strong.
Evan turns down the old-school country music that’s a staple here at the Kappa Sig house before tossing me a bottle of water. I take a swig to appease him, then promptly pop open a can of beer.
