A Girl Like You

by Maria Geraci

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  Thank you, Jason. Unlike me, Jason doesn’t ask a million questions or ramble like an idiot.

  I wait in the bedroom by myself. I can hear Nick pacing. He’s on his second beer now. As much as I’d like to go talk to him, I’m afraid it will only make things worse.

  Jason arrives. He takes one look at my face and goes straight into the kitchen. I go back to the bedroom, to give them privacy. Whatever Jason is saying or doing calms Nick down because I don’t hear him pacing anymore. After about fifteen minutes I go back out to see what’s going on. Nick has one hand on his overnight bag and the other one on my front door.

  “You weren’t going to say good-bye?” I can’t help it. The tears are running down my cheeks.

  “Sure. Good-bye.” He goes to leave, but before he does, he turns to face me. “In the end, everyone settles, Emma. Just remember I was the one who told you that.”

  I watch Nick walk out the door.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Jason says.

  I nod, dazed. How did all this happen?

  “Where’s Amy?” I ask.

  “She drove herself home.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Funny. I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

  I go to bed but I don’t fall asleep until almost dawn. I hope you know what you’re doing. Jason is right to toss my words back in my face, because the truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m flying by the seat of my pants, letting my feelings take me to wherever they happen to land. I just hope wherever that is, it’s the right place for everyone.

  chapter twenty-nine

  I wake up around noon. My eyes are puffy from crying. I have to get a grip. Tomorrow morning T.K. is expecting a rough-draft copy of my Trip Monroe interview and I have to produce something better than what I’ve come up with. The thing is, I realized last night that this is the first time I have actually broken up with someone. Usually, it is the other way around, or more often, it’s a lackluster mutual parting of the ways. I always thought it would be easier being the one who did the breaking up, but I don’t like the way this feels. Not one bit.

  I take a quick shower, make some coffee, and call Jason. “How’s Nick?”

  “We both got drunk. He’s still sleeping it off. I’m going to drive him back to your place so he can pick up his car.”

  I cringe. I’d forgotten about the car situation. “Do you think I should make him breakfast? Maybe he’s in a better place to talk this morning.”

  “I’ve eaten your cooking and I definitely think breakfast is a bad idea,” Jason jokes.

  “Is Nick that angry?”

  “He’s okay. But you have to give him some time.”

  I sigh and stare down into my coffee. “So what’s going on between you and Amy?”

  “The usual.”

  “Jason, if Torie finds out you’re sleeping with Amy, she’ll never take you back.”

  “She’s never going to take me back anyway.”

  I think Jason is right, but I don’t want to give up hope yet.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to Torie. And I think one day soon she’s going to realize that Kurt is just a passing flirtation.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m not going to be anyone’s consolation prize. You know the weird thing? I actually like Amy.”

  “I’m glad someone does.”

  “She’s a really nice person once you get to know her.”

  “And of course, she’s incredibly hot.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t hurt either.”

  Pause. “Hey, Jason? Thanks for everything.”

  “Anytime. Just because it’s not going to work out with Torie doesn’t mean you and I can’t still be friends.”

  I pull out my laptop and start the Trip Monroe article over. And then I start it over again. I pace my living room, make myself a sandwich, and pace some more. I glance at my watch. It’s almost six. Nick should be home by now. Should I call him and make sure he’s okay? That’s probably a bad idea. As per Jason’s suggestion, I should give Nick more time. I just wish I could forget the last look I saw on Nick’s face. The disappointment and hurt were nothing compared to the incredulity. I think in his mind I played him, and knowing Nick as I do now, that was his worst fear. Although technically I never cheated on him, I began our relationship with feelings for someone else and maybe that’s even worse than what Shannon did.

  I look over my interview notes and pace some more. Screw the Trip Monroe article. It will be finished when it’s finished. I pick up the phone and call Torie. Only it goes directly to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message. I call Kimberly next and actually get a real person.

  “Hey,” Kimberly says, “how was the party of the century? Did you have fun?”

  “Let’s see. Ben kissed me, which turned out to be utterly and completely disappointing, and I broke up with Nick, who probably hates my guts right now and never wants to see me again. How’s that for fun?”

  There is only a moment’s hesitation before Kimberly asks, “Ice cream or vodka?”

  “Both.”

  Kimberly arrives forty minutes later, with a tub of ice cream, a bottle of vodka, and two supersize servings of Wendy’s french fries. Thank you, Kimberly. I start by telling her all about Ben and Elise and the scene by the dock at Jackie’s party.

  “Wow,” she says, dipping a french fry, first into the vodka, then into the ice cream (don’t knock it till you try it). “So all this time Ben kind of had the hots for you too.”

  “Kind of being the standout phrase here. I don’t think Ben knows what he wants.” I then proceed to tell her about Nick.

  Kimberly stops her french-fry dipping. “Poor Nick,” she says, “it all sounds awful.”

  “It was.”

  “Are you sure you made the right decision?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “It seemed right last night.”

  Crap. Am I having second thoughts about Nick? Maybe Nick is right. Maybe in the end, everyone does settle.

  We finish the ice cream and all the french fries and we’re about to watch a movie when my cell phone buzzes. I glance at the screen but I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma? Emma Frazier?”

  My heart stops beating. I jump up from my couch and start making wild gesticulating signals with my arms.

  Kimberly looks up at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you having a seizure? Should I call 911?”

  I take a breath and strive for my calm voice. “This is Emma Frazier,” I say into the phone.

  “Emma, this is Trip. Trip Monroe.” As if I know any other Trips!

  “Hi there!”

  “Are you busy?”

  “You mean right now? No, no of course not.”

  “Okay, ’cause, I thought this might be a good time to talk. Plus, I have your yearbook. You accidentally left it at my place.”

  “This is a super time to talk. Where can I meet you?”

  “Actually, I’m right outside your door.”

  I run to my front door and fling it open. Sure enough, Trip Monroe is standing there next to the wilted fern I haven’t watered in weeks.

  He spots Kimberly, who is struck mute by the power of Trip’s Sexiest Man Aliveness oomph as she sits on my couch with a partially empty bottle of vodka in her hand. “Are you sure I’m not catching you at a bad time?”

  “Positive!” I pull him into my living room. I’d lock the door with my dead bolt if I wasn’t afraid the gesture might scare him away.

  I introduce Trip to Kimberly, who manages a dazed “hey” by way of salutation.

  “Want some…” I glance at the empty french-fry and ice-cream containers. “Vodka?” Then I cringe. Trip is basically a Betty Ford dropout and here I am offering him liquor.

  Trip gives me the slightest hint of a smile. “No, thanks.”

>   “How about a pizza?” Kimberly chimes in. “We can order a pizza if you’re hungry. I’m absolutely starved.”

  “You sure I’m not interrupting? I don’t want to get in the way of your girl stuff.”

  “No, no. We were just going to order a pizza when you called.”

  “In that case, sure, sounds good.” Trip hands me my yearbook. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, but you didn’t come all this way just to return this, did you?” I’m really hoping the answer to this is no.

  “My uncle Frank called me a couple of days ago. Asked if I might come talk to you.”

  Thank you, Uncle Frank.

  I offer Trip a seat in my best chair. “I think your uncle is worried about you,” I begin gently.

  “Frank’s a good guy. He’s always been there for me when I needed him.” He shifts his gaze to the floor. “I also came to apologize. About the night at the Don Cesar.”

  “Oh, no need.” Then I think about it a second. “Wait, yeah, you do need to apologize for that.”

  “I honestly had no idea…I was pretty drunk. Not that it’s an excuse for what happened. I’m sorry, Emma. I really am.”

  “Everyone was really disappointed that you didn’t show up at the cocktail party.”

  He shrugs, embarrassed. “I just couldn’t face another one of those swanky parties. Everyone clamoring around me, wanting something. It just seemed easier to stay in my room and get shit-faced.”

  I’m dying to start shooting off questions but I sense that Trip is like an untamed maverick. One wrong move and he’ll bolt. I search for some topic of conversation that seems nonthreatening. Kimberly orders a pizza and brings us all a soda. Trip and I make some small talk and the pizza arrives and we all dig in.

  “So did you get a chance to look through my yearbook? I hadn’t picked that thing up in years, but I got a big kick out of all the things people wrote.”

  Trip puts down his slice of pizza and slowly wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I wanted to look through it, but…you don’t mind? I never ordered one for myself. They were too expensive. Frank would have given me the money, but he’d already done a lot for me, so I didn’t ask.”

  Kimberly and I exchange a look. It never occurred to me that Trip didn’t get a copy of his own senior yearbook. “Of course you can look in my yearbook.”

  Considering our little bathroom scene in the Don Cesar, it’s ironic that Trip’s good manners rise to the surface for something as tame as peeking through someone’s high school yearbook. It’s just part of the conundrum that is Trip Monroe. Who is this guy?

  He opens the book and begins flipping the pages. “I remember him.” He points to a picture of Mr. Kazwitz, our junior chemistry teacher. Trip shakes his head and grins. “What a clown.”

  “I had him too,” Kimberly says. “I think he’s still teaching.”

  Trip looks surprised by Kimberly’s admission. I introduce them again, this time making sure to point out what street in Catfish Cove Kimberly grew up on, her brief marriage to Jake Lemoyne, and her current PR position at the Yeager Agency.

  “Yeah, Emma gave me your card.” Trip looks more relaxed and I take this as a good sign. He continues flipping through pages in the yearbook and then he gets to his own inscription and reads it aloud. “‘Emma, I like your poem. Good luck in the outside world.’” He scrunches his face in concentration. “I remember now. You won the poetry contest. Your poem was called…‘The Mommy Burger’?”

  “‘The Mommy Sandwich,’” I clarify.

  “‘I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too?’” Trip recites.

  Kimberly clears her throat and looks at me.

  “Emily Dickinson, not Emma Frazier,” I say, just in case Kimberly doesn’t recognize the opening line to one of the most famous poems of all time.

  “Emma and I were partners for an English project,” Trip explains. “We had to take a poem and dissect it, line by line, discover the meaning of it, that kind of stuff.”

  I’d remembered Trip and I were partners for the English project but I’d forgotten the specifics. It all comes back to me now. How we paired off two by two, one boy and one girl, the way you do in PE class when they make you learn how to square-dance, only no one wanted to be Trip’s partner, because he wasn’t particularly cute and he didn’t stand out as this great student either. So when it came my turn to pick someone, I noticed him slumped down in his desk, avoiding eye contact, and it occurred to me that if it was the guys who had been doing the selecting, this would be me, hoping beyond hope that I wouldn’t get picked last. So I picked Trip as my partner and we drew the Emily Dickinson poem. We worked on our project the rest of the week after school in the library and we both got an A-plus.

  “‘I’m Nobody! Who are you?’” Trip recites again, but this time there’s an edge to his voice. “Well, I’m a fucking somebody now, aren’t I?”

  “You sure are,” I say softly.

  And then it all comes spilling out. How he wanted to quit racing after his crash at Talladega but he was just starting to make the big money then and how stupid it would be to quit. He tells me about the races and how with each win he felt more reckless and more out of touch with himself. How giving away money made him feel better at first, but then it didn’t, and the booze and the women made him feel better. And now they don’t.

  “The weird part is that after a while I didn’t even know where I was going or what I was doing. I just got behind the wheel of my car and drove. That’s the part that felt good. The driving fast,” he says. “But the rest…”

  He tells me about how Frank tried to get him to slow down. To take a year off racing, but Chuck was against it. “He said we should keep striking while the iron was hot. But the truth is, I’m tired.”

  “Is that why you dropped out of the circuit this year?”

  “I got in my car and froze. I think it scared Chuck. Plus…I have this problem.”

  “You checked yourself into Betty Ford,” I say.

  Trip looks surprised that I know this, but he nods.

  “What do you want to do?” Kimberly asks. She’s been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “I want to fix cars. I want to fish. I want to retire from racing for good.”

  Trip keeps talking and I keep listening. I’m not taking notes. I don’t have to. I don’t think I could forget any of the things he’s saying. Plus, I’m not sure how much of this Trip wants me to write about. If he tells me he doesn’t want any of it to end up in the article, I’ll defer to his wishes. This isn’t about getting the scoop of the decade anymore, it’s about being there for someone who needs a friend. I guess that’s what makes me saddest of all for Trip. I don’t think he has any real friends.

  It’s past two a.m. when we all fall asleep. Me in my bed, Kimberly in the guest room, and Trip on the couch. The next morning I wake up to the pop, crackle, grease sound of frying bacon. I stumble out to my living room and follow the smell to the kitchen.

  “Good morning!” Kimberly says cheerily. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing last night’s clothes but she still looks gorgeous. She’s also scrambling eggs. Trip is stirring a pot of grits. “Don’t oversalt those,” she warns him. I don’t know who looks more in love with her right now, Trip or me.

  “If you tell me you’ve made coffee, I’ll be your slave forever.”

  “There’s cream and real sugar too, just like you like it.” Kimberly’s Catfish Cove twang is back and in full glory.

  “When did you have time to go to the grocery?” I ask, because since I’ve been starving myself, I don’t keep things like bacon or real cream in the house.

  “We woke up around eight,” Trip says.

  “Eight? What time is it now?” I look at my kitchen clock. It’s nine-thirty. Crap! I’ve missed the Monday-morning staff meeting. I scoop up my cell phone and dial the office. Richard answers.

  “First off, before you say anything, I’m sorry about the
donuts.”

  “You okay?” he says.

  “I’m fine. About the donuts—”

  “Don’t worry about the damn donuts. I was just about to call your cell and make sure you weren’t in an accident. Do you realize in the six years you’ve worked here you’ve never once been late?”

  “Why are you yelling?”

  “You think this is yelling?” He pauses. “So where are you?”

  “I’m…sick. Yeah, please tell Ben I’m calling in sick.”

  “On a Monday after a party? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? I mean, it essentially gives you a three-day weekend.”

  “It’s definitely suspicious.”

  I swear I can hear Richard smile over the phone.

  chapter thirty

  Kimberly calls in sick as well and the three of us decide to spend the day playing hooky. Even though it’s nearly a million degrees outside, we head to Busch Gardens theme park. Trip wears a baseball cap and sunglasses, but despite his “disguise” he still gets some long looks. A few from excited fans, but mostly from women who can’t help but check him out, because let’s face it, any guy who looks like Trip is going to get stared at. We ride all the scary rides, drink a quart of soda apiece, and eat more fast food than the average Parisian sees in a year. By the time we get back to my place it’s after seven and we’re exhausted. But even though I’m physically tired, I’m mentally exhilarated. I want to start writing this article. Ben texted me three times today asking me where the article was. I sent him a reply after the first text telling him “I’m working on it,” and have ignored the other two.

  Trip asks if he can spend the night at my place again.

  “Anytime,” I tell him.

  Kimberly gives Trip a big hug and says “she’ll call him later” then heads home. What that is about I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if those two got together, which brings a smile to my face. Trip Monroe definitely one-ups Jake Lemoyne.

  I change into something more comfortable, make a big pot of coffee, and get out my laptop. I set up “office” on my kitchen table and begin typing. Trip falls asleep on the living room couch but I don’t get up from the table until I see the sun shine through my kitchen window. I don’t make eggs or bacon or grits but I do make another pot of coffee. Even though I’m running on almost no sleep, I feel more awake than I have in weeks. I wrote down everything Trip told me—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And believe me, there is plenty of ugly here. I’m not going to edit the article yet. I’ll let Trip tell me what he doesn’t want me to include and go from there.