Remember When (Remember Trilogy #1) (12 page)

   Needless to say, I thought the world of Aunt Eleanor.

   I always thought it was pretty spectacular that my father had been able to maintain a relationship with her after my mother had left. I can’t imagine it was easy for either of them to have to face one another; their one, big, shared grief hanging over them like a cloud. It’s not like we all got together every day or anything, but we’d always try to celebrate the big holidays in one way or another, and we’d manage to see each other a few additional, random times throughout the year.

   After dinner, I sacked out on the couch with my cousin Jack, the two of us groaning about how much we’d overeaten. I thanked God that I didn’t have to go to work that night, grateful that the store had been closed for the holiday.

   The next night, however, was my Friday shift with Trip.

   We were almost through with our night, breaking down boxes in the freezing storeroom, when he pulled out a miniature bottle of champagne from his jacket pocket. He’d swiped it from his parents’ liquor cabinet, assuming they wouldn’t miss the party favor from “Bebe and Eric’s Wedding Extravaganza”, the gold and white label informing us of the bottle’s origins.

   I grabbed a couple Dixie cups from the sink in the breakroom, we did a quick perimeter check for Martin, and Trip unscrewed the bottle.

   I laughed, “You know champagne is good when there’s a screwtop.”

   He poured some into my cup and said, “Only the best for you, Miss Warren.”

   He filled his cup, clinked it against mine and I asked, “What’s the occasion?”

   He answered, “I just figured we should toast the success of our award-winning film.”

   “Yeah, Trip? We haven’t won any awards.”

   “Yet.”

   I laughed as he downed his drink in one shot, grimacing and staring at his cup as if it had offended him. I was no connoisseur, but I didn’t think it tasted that great either.

   “Oof, that’s bad.” He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the awful aftertaste. Then he poured another cup.

   “
And
,” he started in, and I didn’t like the tone in his voice, “I also wanted to give myself a proper sendoff.”

  
Oh, God! Was he moving again already?

   “What do you mean? Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound merely curious instead of completely devastated.

   He tried to hold back a grin and look properly humble. “Well, I made the team.”

   I knew he was referring to the travelling hockey team that he’d tried out for weeks before. He didn’t allow himself to talk about it too much, but I knew it was a really big deal for him.

   “You made the team! That’s great! Congratulations. When did you find out?

   “Wednesday night. The coach called and asked me if I was available. Can you believe that? Am I available, like I’m Wayne Gretzky or something and might not be able to fit his team into my busy schedule.”

   “Wow. That’s awesome.”

   “Yeah, yeah it is. I’m pretty psyched. Although...” and his expression turned shamefaced as he tried to break the next news to me gently, “Tonight’s my last night working here. I already talked to Martin.”

   I tried not to deflate too visibly, but damn! He was quitting! Work was going to suck without him there. I realized that things were drastically changing between us; no more Tuesday filming, no more Mondays and Fridays at Totally Videos. “Well, that sucks,” I finally stated, before throwing back the rest of my drink.

   Every last bit of my designated Trip Time was slipping away. All that was left was the last Saturday football game, because the very next day was homecoming. 

Chapter 15

CROSSING THE LINE

   I’d started to notice Lisa’s increasing frustration with me over the previous weeks, but it wasn’t until the day of the homecoming game that I perceived actual disappointment on her face.

   Trip had shuttled Lisa, Pickford and me to the field that day. It was a particularly grey and drizzly afternoon, even for the end of November. As we started our walk toward the bleachers, my sneakers kept getting sucked into the mud. Rather than let me try to make the journey by tiptoe, Trip offered a passage by way of piggyback. He was doing an exaggerated slip all over the mud puddles, pretending that he was going to drop me any second. I was cracking up and threatening his life when I happened to catch the disapproving look Lisa shot my way.

   I knew something was about to go down as she was getting dropped off afterwards. Trip would normally save me for the last stop, but that day, Lisa asked me to get out at her house instead. I knew we’d been building up to some Big Conversation over the past few weeks, but I guessed she had finally decided it was going to happen right then.

   We said goodbye to Trip and made our way into the house. She didn’t say a single word to me until we were locked safely away in the sanctuary of her room. “Okay, Layla. This has really got to stop.”

   I was sitting on her bed Indian-style, picking at the chartreuse marabou pillow in my lap. “What has?”

   She rolled her eyes at me for that. “This!” she shouted, sweeping her arms in a wide arc, “This whole, stupid thing with you and Trip! What the hell is going on with you two?”

   Her abrupt words caught me off guard. “I don’t know
,” I stammered, while still trying to maintain an air of smugness. “Why don’t you tell me?”

   I knew Lisa well enough to expect a full-on assault for that, but rather than the verbal tirade I was anticipating, she said, “I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Pickford. But he’s my boyfriend. What’s going on between you and Trip... is just... well, it’s
disturbing
.”

   That made me puff up a little in defense. “What’s so
disturbing
about it? We’re friends. We hang out.” And then, just to throw a little salt in the wounds, I added, “You know, kind of like how
we
used to.”

   She bypassed opening that can of worms for the time being and stuck to her original argument. “Oh, please. Friends my arse. It’s so obvious you’re in love with him. Everyone knows it. Just admit it. And seriously, what’s the point?”

   I didn’t appreciate being backed into a corner, but it’s not as though Lisa had the situation figured out completely wrong. It was just that it was a little embarrassing to find out that people other than my best friend were aware of how I felt. Shit. Did
Trip
know?

   “It’s not like that, alright? Like, okay, yeah, it would be great if he felt the same way. But it’s more than that. I really, truly enjoy hanging out with him. We like each other. Why does it have to mean something?”

   She joined me on the bed, sitting opposite me and mirroring my pose. “It doesn’t have to mean something when two people are really and truly just platonic friends. What doesn’t work is when one of you has a big, fat crush on the other.”

   What did she know? “Big wow. You had a crush on my cousin Sean for like,
ever
. Where’d
that
go? Nowhere, that’s where.”

   “Sean Danner is like twenty-something-years-old and every girl within the tri-state area has had a crush on him at some point in her life! But I’m not so delusional that I’d stop living and pine away for some guy who barely knows my name. Crushing on Sean didn’t stop me from dating other guys in the meantime.”

   “I date.”

   “You hook up. Big difference. But you haven’t even done so much as that since Terrence the Third came to town.”

   “That’s not true.”

   “Oh, please. Coop has been so hard up the guys are calling him Blue Balls Benedict, for chrissake. The poor guy’s standing booty call isn’t even picking up the phone anymore and everyone knows it. I’ll tell you something else; everyone knows it’s because you’re too busy panting after Trip, following him around like a stray puppy. Face it, you’re hopeless.”

   “Thanks a lot!”

   “Oh, what? Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead and name the last guy you went out with.”

   Lisa knew as well as I did that the last guy I could even consider classifying as an ex-boyfriend would be Cooper Benedict. And we had pretty much “broken up” over the summer.

   “So, what? You’re suddenly some big authority on relationships just because you’ve got a boyfriend?”

   She bounded off the bed just then. “No, not at all. But I am an authority on
you
. And I’m trying to tell you,
as your friend
, that your little crush on Trip Wilmington is nothing more than a way for you to self-destruct. I’m trying to stop that from happening. Do I need to bring up The Live-Aid Incident?”

   Looked like Lisa was going for the big guns.

   “The Live-Aid Incident” was the name we had given to my little breakdown during the summer of 1985. It was a few weeks after my mother had left, and even though my father repeatedly tried his best to explain that she wasn’t coming back, I secretly held the belief that at any moment, she’d come walking through the door.

   I’d spent endless hours sitting up in the tree in front of our house, waiting with the best view down our street so I’d know the second she was on her way back home to us. I’d started collecting a leaf off that tree for every day that she was gone, storing them in a shoebox under my bed. I thought that if I wished hard enough, if I
believed
hard enough, she’d eventually come back. That’s why, even to this very day, I can’t walk by that tree without grabbing a leaf off it. I’d long since given up on thinking it was doing any good, but by then, my OCD had turned the pointless superstition into an obsessive ritual.

   It wasn’t until Mtv aired the Live-Aid concert that Lisa was able to coax me down from my perch in order to come watch it with her. It was practically a twenty-four-hour event, so I spent the night at her house so we could catch every minute of it.

   The following day, the weirdest feeling overtook me like a tidal wave. I suddenly became paralyzed at the thought of going back to my own house. I’d finally begun to comprehend that my mother was really and truly gone, and couldn’t bear to think of going back home, knowing she would never be there again.

   My father had called over to the DeSantos, but Lisa’s mother assured him that she didn’t mind having me around and why doesn’t he let me stay an extra night?

   By the third day, sure that I had worn out my welcome, my father came over to walk me back home. I packed up my sleeping bag and got two steps out the DeSantos’ front door when out of nowhere, a scream surged its way out of my throat, an inhuman sound that rocked my lungs and scared the ever-loving hell out of me. Before I knew what was happening, I launched into an uncontrollable temper-tantrum, just screeching bloody murder right there on the DeSantos’ porch.

   I must have thrown myself down on the ground because the next thing I remember is thrashing about on Lisa’s front lawn, just screaming and screaming and screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat running raw from the effort. My poor father didn’t know what to do and just wrapped his arms around me, trying to calm me down, saying, “It’s all right, Layla! You’re all right!” over and over and over again.

   A few of the neighbors came out on their front steps, drawn out by the unyielding sound, but I was in such a state that I barely even noticed. Mr. and Mrs. DeSanto came running out to us, but I think I spooked Lisa so bad that she wasn’t able to make it past her front door. Mr. DeSanto threw his arms around both my father and me, trying to help Dad get my thrashing under control as he yelled to Mrs. DeSanto, “Steph, call an ambulance!”

   It must have only been a few minutes later when the emergency crew arrived. The whole scene from that point on is such a blur to me now, but I know the last conscious thought I had of the episode was seeing two female EMTs running over and yelling, “Hold her still!” before a white warmth spread throughout my entire body.

   The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed to the sight of my haggard and worried father leaning over me.

   “Layla? It’s Daddy, sweetheart. You’re in the hospital, baby. Just relax, okay?”

   I remember feeling so bad that I had put that look on his face. I was able to whisper out, “I’m sorry, Daddy,” but even that small effort was like passing broken glass through my throat.

   Then he called out the door for a nurse before I blacked out for the second time.

   It felt like forever that I was finally let out of the hospital, the doctors offering Dr. Chickensoup’s business card to my father upon my release. I spent the immediate days watching TV in my bedroom, trying to eat the meals Dad brought me on the tray that we’d always used for sick days or special-occasion breakfasts in bed. I had absolutely zero appetite, but did my best to clear my plate in the hopes that my father would lose that worried look on his face.

   My third day home, I’d actually started feeling a little better. I’d never feel completely whole- I knew even at the age of twelve that those days were long gone- but at least I was feeling a strange sort of acceptance about the situation.