We follow the grassy drive past trees and into the parking lot. When we get out, wind buffeting our faces, the water is right in front of us. The grass gives way to sand in a gentle slope down to the shore.
I watch the waves roll in. It’s different from the other times I’ve visited the beach, which were in the wrong contexts for reflection or concentration. Outings with friends, full of plans and preparations and constant conversation. Field trips for state geography units in school. Chaperoning a kindergarten camp for my community service requirement in health class freshman year. They weren’t exactly restful experiences. The beach in winter is nothing like it is in warmer temperatures, either. For one thing, I don’t have to apply SPF 60 every half hour—a necessity for gingers in summer. With the weather frigid and the sand wet, there’s no onslaught of tourists to break the quiet with rattling beach chairs and the commotion of water games.
The empty landscape calls to mind hundreds of words. Cinereous. The whitened gray of the clouds over the water. Clement. The mild temperature on the pristine sand. Susurrus. The whisper of the wind and waves.
Yet none of them quite do this place justice. Words in isolation often don’t. It’s part of why I want to know every one of them I possibly can. It’s in their combinations that words find their worth. If I’m going to use them to capture the world the way I want, I have to know how to reach for every possible permutation.
Lewis walks up next to me. “Wow,” he says. “Right?”
Simple words work too sometimes.
“Yeah,” I reply.
We head onto the sand and unwrap our sandwiches, eating in silence near the waterline. Watching the waves, I feel unexpectedly free. It takes me a few minutes to recognize the feeling, or really, the not-feeling. The not-worrying, the jarring release of being far from home and yet not feeling Mom’s health hanging over me. Not that the worry is distant. I just know it’ll be there when I return home in a few days, and I’m okay with permitting myself this hour on the beach. This respite.
The clouds shift. There’s a moment where the sun streams through over the water, shedding gold streaks onto the shore.
I pull out my phone. I haven’t texted Juniper since we discussed UConn yesterday. Of course, she hasn’t texted me, either, which is a detail I decide to ignore. I’ve tried hard today to be cool, to not pester her. But it wouldn’t be overeager if I texted her now, I rationalize. I send her a picture of the glittering waves, then return my phone to my pocket, pretending I’m not hoping she’ll reply.
It’s a now-recognizable thrill when my phone vibrates in minutes. I read the message immediately.
That wouldn’t happen to be on the way to New York, would it?
While I reply, I notice Lewis eyeing me. I ignore him.
This IS on the way to New York. (Does this mean you’re coming to New York?)
Indeed it does.
Okay, so after taking in that view, you still want to spend the next four years right where you grew up?
I don’t know why she dropped the conversation yesterday. She’s evidently willing to have this one. Whatever is different in her day or her outlook on me, I definitely won’t question it.
Yeah. I do.
If circumstances were different, though. Would you want to leave home?
I face the water, weighing her question. It’s a question I’ve told myself time and time again wasn’t important, one I’ve avoided while assuring myself college isn’t everything. Talking to Juniper, I’m forced to wonder if that wasn’t just a lie I told myself to make my decision easier.
It’s close to impossible to imagine my life without my mom’s impending Alzheimer’s. Nevertheless, I try. I try to remove every trace from the image in my head of the next four years, every visit to her doctor, every question of her care. It’s not my life. It’s foreign, unrecognizable.
I’m not sure.
What about you? What’s so horrible about home that you’re desperate to leave?
Nothing’s horrible. I just want the freedom to be my own person, to try new things and figure out what I want. You know?
I don’t.
Yeah.
Definitely.
Well, assuming you don’t live in New Hampshire, I’m wondering if you’ve considered the venerable institution of Dartmouth College. It’s only an hour from my hometown. . . .
Juniper’s typing bubble appears before I have the opportunity to doubt the forwardness of the question.
HA.
It’s a possibility. . . . I’ll apply if you will.
It’s honestly the closest I’ve come to entirely reconsidering my college plans. I reply embarrassingly quickly.
DONE.
I rolled my eyes so hard, I think I strained something. You’re kind of impossible.
I grin reading her text. Lewis claps me on the back. “You ready to go?” he asks. I nod and stand up, swiping the sand from my jeans. While we walk to the car, I reply to Juniper.
You’re not the first person to tell me that.
Juniper
FITZ AND I are friends. Just friends. When he texted me today, I decided in a rush of wonderful clarity I wouldn’t be giving up on Matt if I were to text a friend. I would be lying to myself if I said the decision had nothing to do with my conversation with Tía in the middle of the night. Her implication I would have no one to call, no one who would be there if I needed someone when I’m in the world on my own, might have kindled my desire to have one more friend.
We drove into New Haven that morning, Matt leaving me to my Yale tour while he explored the city. Wanting a break from the constant college touring, he convinced me to spend the rest of the day in Westport, which was only forty minutes away. He’d read it was one of the wealthiest towns in the country and decided he had to see for himself. We wandered the pristine sidewalks and around the perfectly trimmed hedges, imagining ourselves living together in each of the palatial houses, me a Pritzker Prize winner and him the owner of the Red Sox.
While we stopped for coffee and sweet potato scones, my dad called to fill me in on the state of affairs at home. Tía is livid I hung up her, obviously. Mom found Marisa at Steve’s house, and she’s been grounded for the rest of winter break. Dad recommended I enjoy my trip and then “put together a respectful, even if fake, apology to Tía” when I get home. I told him I’d think about it.
I did text Marisa, hoping she would understand why I had to violate the sacred sibling code and tell on her, but she ignored me. Usually when Marisa and I fight, I can expect angry emoji responses to my olive branches—flames, puking faces, skulls, or the dreaded frowning cat. But today, nothing.
I’m trying not to think about it. I know I did the right thing. For now, I’m allowed to focus on this trip. But no matter how much I tell myself to ignore the conflicts waiting for me at home, I can’t. Not completely. It’s a layer of frost on my window, making the world look cracked and gray.
Texting Fitz is the best distraction I’ve found.
We leave Westport in the evening. With night falling, in the gridlocked expanse of highway leading into New York City, we continue messaging. He tries to convince me to apply to Dartmouth, and then the conversation threads through everything, like the Hudson River out the window on its way to the sea.
I used to live in NYC, you know. Well, Brooklyn.
Why did you move? (Where did you move btw?)
My grandmother was sick. We moved to Springfield, Massachusetts, to help her run the family restaurant.
How about you? Have you lived in New Hampshire your whole life?
Yeah. Tilton to be exact. I’ve stayed with my dad in Canada a couple times, though. He lives in Toronto.
* * *
I couldn’t get a pic fast enough, but I swear I just passed a billboard for the eyes of T. J.
Eckleburg.
. . . the eyes of who?
From The Great Gatsby!! The optometrist’s billboard!
I wouldn’t know. I haven’t read it.
I’m sorry, FITZGERALD. You’re named after the author and you haven’t read The Great Gatsby?
* * *
You’re into architecture, right? Are you applying to the schools with the best architecture programs?
Why do you know I’m interested in architecture?
You mentioned it in the BU information session, remember?
Of course I remember. But I’m the one with the good memory.
What’s your excuse, Fitzgerald?
* * *
If you love words, are you a writer? I bet you’d be great at poetry. You have poet face.
Poet face?
. . . Is that an insult?
* * *
I hope New York’s worth it. If I weren’t a homebody already, this traffic would do the trick.
It’s worth it, I promise.
And I think you’d leave New Hampshire for the right girl.
Is she asking?
IMPOSSIBLE, I say.
* * *
Fitz texts me a photo of himself looking disgusted by the guy in the driver’s seat, who has one hand on the wheel while gnawing determinedly on a piece of jerky. I recognize the tall, angular-featured Indian boy. Matt played beer pong with him in the basement of the Brown fraternity.
Lewis is currently eating python jerky. Please send help.
Wait, that’s your brother?
I know, I hardly believe it myself. He also bought alligator.
Well, yeah, and . . . you know, you look nothing alike.
Oh, did I not mention we’re adopted?
* * *
Here’s my favorite. Hiraeth.
What’s it mean?
Homesickness for a home to which you can never return or that never was.
Juniper
I’M THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED when we reach New York City. It’s nearly eight, the daylight long gone. We check into the hotel our parents put into our itinerary, one of the nondescript kinds that host new rotations of out-of-town businessmen and convention-goers every weekend. Of course, we only check in for one room. I canceled the other a couple of days ago when I restructured all our hotel plans.
I text my mom we got into the city okay, and she replies immediately with the thumbs-up emoji. As we pass used room service trays on the beige carpet, I trudge behind Matt to the elevator and into the hallway. He’s quiet, and I wonder what he’s thinking or if he’s only tired.
When he unlocks the door, I hardly look at the room. In this moment, the only thing I care about is the bed. I collapse onto the comforter, the over-washed threads scratching my face. The miles we walked in Westport, the two hours of traffic, and the uneven night of sleep are catching up to me.
“I think I’ve figured out how to take the subway to Justin’s place so we don’t have to deal with New York traffic or pay for a cab,” Matt says, letting the door swing shut behind him.
I crack open an eye. Matt drops his duffel bag and checks something on his phone without removing his jacket or scarf. Justin is another former teammate of Matt’s who’s now at NYU. He invited us over to a party tonight. When Matt mentioned it a week ago, I said it sounded like fun. But that was before the party at Brown, before I decided I didn’t want to waste time on this trip doing what we could do at home in a week.
“I’m beat,” I say, dragging myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “How about we walk somewhere for pizza, take in a bit of the city, and then call it a night?”
Matt frowns. “We promised Justin we’d go.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he’d understand if you told him we’re exhausted.”
“You’re too exhausted to go to our friend’s party but you want to walk around the city?” Matt’s eyes flash. He’s never been quick to anger. In the history of our relationship, I’ve only seen him upset a handful of times, and it was never with me. Not even when I overslept and was an hour late to the pancake breakfast he made me, or the time I drank too much and threw up on his favorite shoes. Matt is imperturbable. I don’t quite know how to contend with the sudden resentment in his gaze.
“I guess I’d rather spend the energy I do have out in the city,” I say.
“Fine. Go ahead. I’ll go to Justin’s on my own.” Matt’s tone is utterly unlike him. Cold. Spiteful.
He turns for the door, and my temper ignites. “Seriously? You’re mad at me because I don’t want to go to a dumb party right now?”
“No. Why would I be mad about that?” he returns.
I know he’s being sarcastic, but I ignore him. First Marisa and Tía, and now this? I’m done holding my tongue. “We can hang out with Justin tomorrow after the Columbia tour. If we have time,” I add. “I want to make sure we see the city, too.”
Matt throws his arms up. “Sure. Whatever fits into your schedule, Juniper.”
The hardness of his voice wakes me up completely. This is bigger than Justin’s party, and I don’t know why.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Matt sighs, and the sound is a gust of cold wind on my neck, sending chills tingling down my arms. “It means everything is about your dreams, your schedules. These are all your colleges we’re visiting.”
I stand, indignant. “That’s not true,” I protest.
“Fine. The majority are,” he fires back. “You think I have a shot of getting in to Brown or Columbia or Georgetown?”
“You could try—”
“You don’t understand,” he says, a new desperation awakening in his voice under the anger. He tears off his scarf and flings his coat on the dresser. “I don’t want to try. I don’t want to go to those schools. I want to go to a school with good parties and good sports. I want to tailgate with my friends before football games. I want to meet people in my classes who care about the things I care about. I want to have enough free time to visit you. But you don’t respect what other people want unless it lines up with your priorities.”
“I never said you couldn’t go to a school like that,” I argue, my face heating. It’s unbelievable. I tried countless times to get him to open up about what kind of future he wants, to describe to me his hopes and his horizons. “I asked you if you wanted to come on this trip, and you told me you did. If you had a problem with the itinerary, if you wanted to add schools, you should’ve said something. You should’ve told me what you wanted out of college. But you didn’t. You didn’t give me the chance to respect your priorities.”
Matt’s eyes narrow. “Right,” he says, clipping the word. “It’s all my fault.”
“Fault?” I repeat. I can feel the argument spinning out of control, car wheels skidding on black ice. “I don’t even understand what the problem is. You’ve known since the day we started dating that my dream was one of these schools. Remember? We talked about it on our second date when we walked to the bookstore after dinner and I found that college guide—”
“Don’t do that,” he cuts me off. “Don’t use your memory against me like ammunition. I can’t compete.”
“It’s not ammunition. It’s who I am,” I reply, stung. I take a breath, hoping to slow my racing heart. Matt’s chest is heaving too, and I want nothing more than to find our way back to an hour ago. “Look,” I say finally. “I just meant I’ve never made my aspirations a secret. I would hope that you, my boyfriend, would know how important college is to me.” My vision blurs, and a tear slips down my cheek. I wipe my eyes hurriedly, not entirely knowing why I’m crying. I drop my gaze to the floor.
It’s a long moment before Matt replies. When he does, his voice is different.
“You’re right,” he says softly. “You didn’t mislead me about any
thing. I’ve known all along what you wanted. I just—” His voice breaks, and I look up to find he’s crying. He thumbs away his tears, but they keep coming.
It’s heartbreaking, jarring and wrong, watching Matt cry. Tall, broad-shouldered Matt. Compassionate Matt. Life-of-the-party Matt. His shoulders quake, and the thought crashes through me, consuming everything, there is nothing that hurts worse than this. Than the person you love falling to pieces in front of you.
“I didn’t know what it would feel like,” he continues. “Seeing you tour these schools, knowing you’re looking forward to a future that could be far from me. You have one foot out the door. It’s like what we have . . .” He pauses, as if he’s fighting the pain of what he’s going to say next. “What we had doesn’t even matter.”
I cross the room. Taking his hands, I look up into his red-rimmed eyes. “It matters,” I say with the force of a year of weekend coffees and study dates, good-morning texts and kisses good night. “It’s always mattered.”
I hiccup on the final word, and with a twisting breath I realize how hard I’m crying. There’s finality in my sobs now, the unstoppable momentum of this horrible conversation collapsing into its inescapable end.
Matt wraps me in his arms, and I cry onto his shoulder—his achingly familiar shoulder. It makes everything worse and yet is the only comfort I could want right now.
“We don’t want the same things, do we?” he asks finally.
I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to do this. I’m holding the map and unable to find the destination. The helplessness overwhelms me, the impossible reality of this moment.
Time of Our Lives Page 14
