The Other One Read online

  The Other One

  By Jiffy Kate

  Copyright © 2016 Jiffy Kate

  Published by Enchanted Publications

  First Edition: October 2016

  ISBN 978-0-692-77674-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  www.enchantedpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Visit the author’s website at www.jiffykate.com

  Edited by:

  Nichole Strauss, www.perfectlypublishable.com

  Cover Design by:

  Jada D’Lee Designs, www.jadadleedesigns.com

  Cover images by: Dreamstime.com (stock photo)

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, www.perfectlypublishable.com

  Table of Contents

  The Other One

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  THE SOUND OF tires screeching and metal crunching catches my attention, and I look over Evan’s shoulder just in time to see another car coming straight for us.

  There’s no bracing for impact, no time to prepare.

  The words “Oh, God” barely leave my mouth before the collision.

  Glass explodes around me as my head slams into the windshield.

  The loud horn blaring keeps me alert long enough to register that something very bad has happened, but too soon, the bright flashing lights overwhelm, and my brain does what it can to protect itself: it shuts down.

  “SO, TELL ME, Tripp. Why do you want to work here?” Mr. Dubois asks.

  I keep my gaze on my fingers, willing my nerves to settle. I’ve been practicing and preparing for this interview for days. I know what I need to say, but making the words come out is hard. It’s one of the things I hate about myself right now. My brain is like a landmine of knowledge. Sometimes, I fall into the massive holes, and I can’t climb out. Where the old me would speak freely with confidence, the new me overthinks each word for fear of saying the wrong thing or sounding stupid.

  I can do this.

  Taking a deep breath, I slowly look up and find Mr. Dubois watching me, waiting patiently. I’m still not comfortable with a lot of eye contact, so even though I know I should look him straight in the eye, I can’t, and I avert my gaze, focusing on his pale-blue bow tie instead.

  He’s maybe five years older than me but dresses like the southern gentlemen of my grandparents’ childhood. The seersucker suit he’s wearing matches his bow tie and suspenders, with the only oddity to his outfit being the scuffed-up cowboy boots on his feet.

  I can do this.

  “I . . . I like the atmosphere here,” I begin, swallowing down my nerves. “It’s busy, but not overwhelming.” Maybe I should clarify that bright lights and loud noises sometimes mess with my head?

  No.

  I’d rather not elaborate. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy or that I can’t do this job.

  I can.

  I will.

  I need this.

  I can do this.

  “The location is great,” I continue, clearing my throat and trying to sound confident. “I attend Loyola, which is just around the corner . . .” My words trickle off because, of course, he knows Loyola is nearby.

  I let out a huff through my nose and continue with my rehearsed replies. “The business hours work well with my class schedule . . . Oh, and I like the food.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asks as he smiles at me, and I think that last part might’ve scored me a few brownie points. It never hurts to compliment your maybe-future employer, right?

  “What’s your favorite dish here?” he asks, and this question could trip me up because it’s not something I planned, but it doesn’t. This time my answer needs no rehearsing.

  “The shrimp and grits, hands down,” I say with a slight smile.

  “Excellent,” he says slyly, leaning in and looking around as if to prevent anyone from listening in on our conversation. “That’s my favorite, too. Just don’t go tellin’ my wife I said that. It was her idea to start sellin’ that dish. I didn’t want to because we’ve got a restaurant around the corner that sells nothin’ but grits and gumbo. I didn’t think it’d have a snowball’s chance in hell to succeed. Turns out, it’s one of our top sellers. We’re using her late aunt’s recipe, some secret ingredient that keeps the folks comin’ back for more. She loves to rub it in that she was right and I was wrong, and believe me, I give her plenty of reasons to gloat.”

  My body slowly relaxes as he goes on about different items on the menu and how they came about. The way he’s talking with me so casually helps put me at ease. I get the feeling the interview is going well, and about half-way through his spiel, I’m finally able to give an easy, natural smile.

  I can do this.

  “Well, Tripp, I think you’ll do just fine here at The Crescent Moon,” he says, standing from his chair. “Follow me. We’ll go see Dixie. She’s who keeps this place runnin’ smoothly and is in charge of the schedules. You’ll wanna kiss her ass a little,” he says, winking back at me as we walk out of his office. “Come see me in the kitchen before you leave; I’ll introduce you to the staff.”

  “Does this mean you’re hiring me, Mr. Dubois?”

  “Damn straight it does. And please, call me Wyatt. You’re part of the family now!”

  Mr. Dubois—er, Wyatt—gives a hearty slap on my back before continuing his way down the hall.

  I can do this.

  No, wait. I did it.

  Holy shit, I did it!

  Dixie is a nice, older lady with thickly drawn eyebrows and the longest fingernails I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how she’s able to type my information into the café’s computer system so quickly with those things, but she does, and I’m grateful.

  I’m starting to feel tired. The stress of the day is catching up with me. Between my anxiety and nerves and rush of adrenaline, it’s the perfect storm for a migraine, and I don’t want to be here if one hits. I don’t get them as often as I did a few months ago, but when I do, they come on strong. And I’m pretty much useless for the rest of the day, confined to my apartment with the shades drawn and a blanket over my head.

  I hate them and try to avoid them at all cost.

  Handing my pre-written class schedule to Dixie, she smiles at me reassuringly. “How are you, darlin’?”

  “Good,” I reply.

  She asks me a few more questions about my schedule and days off, and I answer them as calmly and evenly as possible. And I’m glad I don’t have to make much eye contact. Most of her focus is on the screen in front of her, instead of me.

/>   When I meet new people, I’m always worried they’ll see the scar before they see me, and that always leads to questions. The last thing I want to do is answer more questions, especially about my scar or how I got it, but Dixie doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mention it.

  She sets up a time for me to come in tomorrow after my classes for training and tells me I’ll have my work schedule by then as well.

  When she’s finished with me, I meet Wyatt in the kitchen.

  He introduces me to the cooks and servers, who are preparing for the dinner shift. They all look up and say hello, but continue doing whatever it is they’re doing. I try to concentrate and think of something that’ll help me remember their names, but I know it’s futile, so I give everyone a small wave as each of them glances up from their work, hoping somehow, I’ll eventually fit in here.

  “Tripp, I’ll see you tomorrow at two for your training,” Wyatt says, officially dismissing me.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”

  His smile is genuine as he nods his head my way before turning and addressing the rest of the staff. “Alright, team. Let’s look alive out there. It’s dinner time, and the fine people of New Orleans are ready to be fed! Y’all have a great shift and work your asses off because that’s what I’m payin’ you for.”

  For a second, I’m reminded of how it used to feel to get pep talks from my high school coach in the locker room. I guess working in a restaurant is a lot like playing football, or any sport. You have to work together as a team to reach your goal. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a team, and suddenly I’m filled with dread at the thought of letting people down.

  “When you get out there, remember you’re a team,” Coach Smith begins. “And there’s no ‘I’ in team! We win together, and we lose together! If we want it bad enough, we’re gonna get it! So, you get out there and play like the champions I know you are! I want your best! You got me?” he yells, his voice getting louder and louder with each statement until the vein in his forehead is about to pop out with the last question.

  “WE GOT YOU!” we all reply in unison.

  “WHO ARE WE?” he yells.

  “WARRIORS!”

  “WHO ARE WE?”

  “WARRIORS!”

  “WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?”

  “WIN!”

  Before that last word is out of our mouths, I take off running, leading the guys down the tunnel. The moment the door opens, the blinding lights from the stadium are all I can see until I set my focus on the fifty-yard line. The crowd is chanting.

  WARR-IORS!

  WARR-IORS!

  I’m acutely aware that this is the game—the one that will determine my future. There are scouts here from several colleges, including Tulane, and depending on our performance tonight, a few of us may get scholarship offers. We have to do this for us, for our school, and for Coach Smith. He’s always been there for us, and we can’t let him down now.

  “Alexander?”

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “This is your game, son. This is where a boy becomes a man. I know you’ve got it in you, so let’s bring it home.” He nods with confidence, adjusts his headset, and walks away. He’s always had confidence in me. Since the day I stepped onto his field as a sophomore, he’s made me feel like I can accomplish anything.

  Jogging up and down the sidelines to warm my muscles up, I squint my eyes, trying to see past the bright Friday night lights. I glance up to the middle section and see my mom and dad sitting in their usual spots. My mom gives a little wave, not wanting to embarrass me, and my dad gives me the nod, similar to Coach Smith’s, letting me know I’ve got this, because he believes in me, too.

  From the belly of the kitchen, the chime on the front door can be heard, signaling a customer’s arrival. It’s then I realize I’m still standing in the spot Wyatt left me. Everyone else is busy with their jobs, zipping around, oblivious to my presence. So, I turn my gaze to my feet and walk back through the swinging doors.

  As I pass through to the dining area, movement catches my attention. Wanting a glimpse at what my job will be like, I pause; thinking a waiter or waitress will be coming any second. Turning my head just a little, I watch as a young woman slides into a booth, all the way to the inside as if she’s making room for someone to sit next to her. Her eyes are focused on the window, never looking down or at a menu, and I can’t help but stand there and stare at her.

  A throat clears, making me jump, and I don’t know if I should feel relieved or embarrassed to see Wyatt standing behind me.

  “She’s a regular,” he tells me, looking over at the same girl. “She comes in every Thursday and sits in that same booth, but she doesn’t order or say much. We just leave her be.”

  “Okay,” I say as Wyatt leaves me standing. For some reason, my eyes are still on the girl. It seems like a strange thing for someone to do—come and sit at a café, but never order anything—but I’m sure she has her reasons, and to be honest, I’m happy to know I’ll have at least one easy customer.

  I can do this.

  As I head for the front door, I give my future non-customer one last glance. I expect her to continue staring out the window, so when she turns around and our eyes meet, it catches me off guard. My body freezes—not just because she makes eye contact or for the fact that she’s beautiful, but also because I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes quite as sad as hers. They’re dark and deep and full of unshed emotion. Something about them—her—makes my heart clench. I haven’t had a reaction like this to a girl in a long time. The feeling practically levels me.

  Quickly, I turn away, averting my gaze back to the floor and forcing my feet forward. The second my hand is on the doorknob, my pulse begins to race, and beads of sweat break out on my forehead, sure signs of a panic attack looming over me like a ticking time bomb.

  The panic attacks are worse than the migraines because they come without warning.

  First, it’s my heart beating out of rhythm.

  That’s followed by tightness in my throat, like someone has me in a vice grip.

  Then, it’s the lightheaded feeling, and I can no longer breathe.

  I’ve got to get out of here before I make a total fool of myself.

  I can’t do this.

  Pushing my way out of the door, I walk quickly in the direction of my house, willing myself to calm the fuck down.

  I force myself to breathe.

  Eventually, I fall into a familiar trance as I count my steps to focus on something besides myself and the feeling of imploding. Ten steps turn into a hundred. I’m so focused on taking deep breaths and steps that I don’t hear my phone ring in my pocket. It’s the vibration from the voicemail that pulls me out of my stupor, causing my steps to halt for the first time since I left the cafe.

  When I finally dig the phone out of my pocket, I take a second to get a grip on my surroundings. And then, I hit redial, not waiting to listen to the message first, because I know who it is. She has a sixth sense. It’s like a beacon goes out to her when I’m in distress.

  “Tripp?” she asks, forgoing a normal greeting. And I can hear the edge of concern in her voice, even though she’s trying to keep it under wraps. “Is this a bad time? Did I interrupt your interview?”

  “Hey, Mama,” I say, cracking a smile as her familiar voice helps ground me. “No, I’m done and on my way home. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing’s up. I was just wondering how your day is going . . .” she hedges.

  I love my mother. She’s my biggest supporter and fiercely protective. I know she babies me more than she should, but I allow it because it makes her happy. I can tell she’s dying to know how my interview went, but she’s trying to respect my boundaries and let me do things my way. And I appreciate that—it’s progress.

  “My day’s been great. I finished my homework for the week, got my hair cut earlier, and got a job. You know, same ol’ same ol’,” I say, waiting to see how long it takes her to realize what I�
�ve just said. Of course, it doesn’t take her long.

  “You got the job,” she says, trying to hide her excitement. “Oh, Tripp. I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”

  Even though we’re speaking on the phone, her words still make me blush.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “This calls for a celebration! Would you like to go out or eat in?” she asks.

  “Let’s stay in tonight, if that’s okay.” Part of me wants to celebrate—not just because of my new job, but also to thank my family for everything they’ve done to help me get to this milestone. But there’s this other part of me who can’t stop thinking about the girl at the café with sad eyes.

  “Of course. I’m sure Liza won’t mind us getting together over there. Now, what about the food? Is there something special you’d like for me to cook, or would you rather I pick something up?”

  It only takes me a few seconds before I know what I want: Louisiana Pizza Kitchen. Best pizza in New Orleans, no doubt about it.

  “Do you want a fried oyster pizza or a jambalaya pizza?” she asks with a giggle.

  “Both, please.”

  “I don’t know why I asked. I knew you’d say that. I’ll call your sister and let her know we’ll be eating over there. I’ll pick up the pizzas on my way. Are you walking, or do you have your bike?”

  “I’m walking,” I answer.

  “Well, be careful. If you get tired, hop on a streetcar.”

  “I’m fine, Mama. I’m almost home. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  As soon as I hang up and slide my phone back into my pocket, my thoughts are immediately back on the sad girl again.

  Somehow it doesn’t seem fair that I should have fun when she’s sitting there all alone. And a very small part of me, a part that’s been buried for quite a while, thinks about going back to the café and talking to her. But, of course, I won’t do that. I can’t do that.

  And as I continue walking, I wonder why she had an effect on me. What’s different about her? Why is she so sad?

  It hasn’t been that long since I left the restaurant and her face has popped into my mind at least a dozen times. It’s pretty obvious I’ll be thinking about her a lot. So, I need a nickname—something other than the sad girl from the café, because that’s too long and annoying. And, whoever she is, I doubt she’d like that.