Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  “So?” he asks. “Will you come with me? I’m traveling with my brother, and we could go wherever. Or if you don’t want to, you could send me a list—”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He looks surprised. “You will?”

  I ask myself the same question, half shocked that the answer has already flown from my lips. I will? The more my impulsive response rings in my ears, the more right it sounds. I run through the logistics in my head. I’d planned our trip in order to be home in time for Matt’s mom’s birthday dinner on Sunday, which I obviously won’t be going to now. If I’m smart with my money and careful with my parents, I could extend my trip a couple days.

  I nod. “As your friend,” I clarify.

  Fitz beams. “Okay then. Where do we start?”

  Juniper

  WE START CONSTRUCTING our itinerary right there. Walking the High Line, I describe schools in New York while Fitz questions me on dorms, departments, dining halls, everything. It’s nice, having someone want to know everything I know, every item of college minutia I’ve collected over the past couple of years. I remember the way Matt would either furrow his brow or fake interest every time I would exclaim over a new program or campus location I’d found online.

  I banish the thought. I am not comparing Matt and Fitz.

  After finding benches looking out on the skyscrapers, we pull out our phones, exchanging information on distances and campus tours while plans begin to form. Eventually, we reconcile our diverging itineraries, selecting the schools we want to see from each and combining them into a logical order for the drive. Fitz defers to me on a couple of choices, canceling schools his mom suggested in western Pennsylvania so we can make it to D.C. and UVA. He says his mom won’t mind if we extend his trip a couple of days, and he’ll just have to check with his brother.

  We decide to tour NYU and Columbia tomorrow, which will be one more day than either of us had planned in the city, but when we learned we both missed those tours for different reasons, it felt like fate. Tonight, we’ll have to rebook hotel reservations to fit the new schedule. I’ll probably have to pay my parents back for a couple of nonrefundable cancelations, but I’ll work it out. Fitz and I coordinate new hotels together too. Separate rooms, of course.

  The minutes pass, dusk darkening into night.

  We begin walking again, passing frosted trees and bushes, gleaming high-rises and office towers. When we’re nearing the end of the High Line, our hands touch. It’s innocuous, and yet I feel it throughout my whole body. The cold on my cheeks disappears. The realness of the world feels a hundred times richer. We become the heart of the city, the center of countless buildings and crisscrossing streets. I don’t know how it even happened. I guess we drifted nearer to each other while we walked, pulled by whatever imperceptible gravity drew us together in Boston and again in Providence.

  Between one breath and the next, my hand slips into his. Our palms press together, his fingers closing over mine with a soft certainty. It brings us closer, in the way holding hands does. Our forearms entwine, our shoulders touch, our strides match.

  I tell myself to drop his hand. It’ll give him the wrong impression.

  But it doesn’t feel wrong. When we’re touching, I don’t feel lonely. I don’t hear the terrible echo of Tía’s question, the broken record repeating in my head since Matt left our hotel room. Who will I call when I’m in college on my own? With Fitz, who I didn’t even know a week ago, I’m reminded connections can come from the unlikeliest of places. With Fitz, the questions go quiet.

  Even so, I vow I’m going to release his hand. While we walk, I pick the place. I’ll let go when we reach the girl eating gelato on the bench.

  We pass the girl eating gelato on the bench.

  I pick my new landmark. The barking dog by the bushes. Then the couple watching the river from the deck. Then the curvature of the train tracks embedded in the concrete, which Fitz explains is from when the High Line was an overhead railroad. Each one passes, and my hand remains firmly in his.

  We reach the end of the High Line, where the Hudson River opens up in front of us. Together, we lean on the railing, watching the glittering New Jersey waterfront.

  Fitz nods to our intertwined fingers. “So . . .” he says.

  I grimace. “I know. I’m working on it.”

  He grins. “Don’t work too hard.” I roll my eyes. “I could let go if you want,” he continues, his voice gentler.

  “Do you want to?”

  His eyes travel unmistakably to my lips. “No,” he says. The syllable is a relief I don’t know how to reconcile with the platonic requirement I gave him. “It’s just—” He stops suddenly. “Wow, I understand limerence now.”

  “Limerence?” I repeat.

  “The state of infatuation with someone, characterized by frequent thoughts of—”

  I drop his hand. “Nope. None of that,” I interrupt. “No word-defining. It’s not making this easier.”

  Fitz rounds on me, curiosity illuminating his freckled features. With his newly free hand he reaches up, and before I know it he’s tucking one loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Why?” he asks. “You don’t happen to find my vocabulary charming, do you, Juniper?”

  Ignoring the tingle his touch leaves on my skin, I huff, turning to walk down the stairs from the raised platform of the High Line. From this overly romantic place where I’ve ended up with a boy who’s beguiling me with his dictionary definitions.

  He follows. “A turn-on, perhaps?”

  “No!” I reply, walking in front of him to hide my flushed cheeks.

  “Right. Out of curiosity, do you know what pulchritudinous means?”

  I hit street level and spin, facing him. He pauses one step up from me. “We’re going to pretend none of this happened. The hand-holding and whatever this”—I gesture to the two of us—“is. We have a couple more days together, and I’d like to enjoy them as friends. Nothing more. So let’s just forget the whole thing.”

  His mouth flickers halfway to a smirk. “I will if you will,” he replies.

  I frown. “Not fair,” I say. “You know I don’t have a choice.”

  “Oh, and I do?” He drops off the step in front of me, crossing his arms. “The rest of us can’t just choose what to forget. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Forgive me for not knowing,” I reply sarcastically. I start walking without caring where I’m going. The destination isn’t important, not when I know he’ll follow me until we finish the conversation. Not when I want him to. “I’m used to people not remembering things I think are obvious.”

  “I couldn’t possibly forget,” he says. “Trust me.”

  “I—have to get back to my hotel.” I crash into the subject change like a train careening off the rails. “The next time we see each other will be the NYU information session at ten a.m. tomorrow. Where there will be no hand-holding.”

  “Or we could grab dinner,” he replies.

  I shoot him an incredulous glare. “Fitz!” We cross the street in a crowd of tourists who part to circumvent us. “Dinner sounds suspiciously like a date, which is something I definitely would not agree to. We need to separate, or do something strictly platonic.”

  We reach the corner, where Fitz stops.

  I turn and find him nodding, an idea in his eyes. “I think I know what we could do,” he says.

  He pulls out his phone, glancing up from the screen to orient himself with the map, and I wait. I wait while I could be dismissing the invitation. While I could be returning to my empty hotel room. While I could be telling myself I definitely, unquestionably hated holding his hand.

  “It means ‘breathtakingly beautiful,’” he says out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  “Pulchritudinous.” He looks up, his eyes finding mine. “It means ‘beautiful.’”

  Fi
tz

  JUNIPER WAS RIGHT. We do only have a couple of days. It’s why I had to invite her to dinner when she was considering heading back to her hotel.

  We walk side by side through Koreatown, passing cars rushing up to every curb, kids shouting to each other from neighboring stoops. It’s nothing like New Hampshire, where everything closes by nine and nighttime entertainment is the local theater’s two-for-one movie screenings.

  In ten minutes we’ve reached the restaurant, which can in no way be confused for date territory, I note with satisfaction in one half of my brain and deep disappointment in the other. The place is corporate clean, with white fiberglass tables and booths. Behind them, people wait for to-go orders in front of the brightly illuminated counter. It would be cold and minimalist if not for the smell, which is the exact opposite. Rich and vibrantly flavorful, it’s practically a tangible presence. It’s so spicy, the temperature in the room prickles with heat.

  I turn to Juniper, who looks grudgingly curious. “Korean fried chicken,” I answer her unasked question.

  She nods, and I can see intrigue winning out over skepticism on her stony features. I walk into the restaurant and fist-pump internally when she follows me.

  Near the front of the restaurant, we find Lewis reading the menu at a table. He’s in his interview suit, his tie loosened around his neck. I sit down opposite him. “Okay,” he says, head down, studying the menu, “they say spicy means insanely spicy, but I’m feeling daring—” He glances up, stopping midsentence when he sees Juniper. She’s standing next to me, her mouth folded into a confused frown.

  “Dinner with your brother?” She sounds doubtful, if a little amused. “That’s your idea?”

  I grin winningly. “Perfect, right?” It is perfect, I note, congratulating myself in my head. Excellent job killing the mood with the girl you like. I can imagine nothing more platonic than Lewis jumping in every time conversation with Juniper veers in the direction of . . . not-platonic. I’m guessing Juniper will understand the plan’s inexorable logic. “This is Juniper,” I tell Lewis.

  My brother stands, recovering his composure immediately, and extends his hand. The gesture’s precision makes me remember how frequently he’s probably repeated it today in his five hours of interviews. “Lewis Holton,” he says with confidence, and for a moment I’m pricked with familiar jealousy for his instantaneous, easy warmth with people. Except this time, there’s something else alongside the jealousy, something possibly born of this week together. Something like pride.

  Juniper doesn’t introduce herself. She blinks. “Holton?”

  It takes me a minute to understand the question. She’s never heard my last name. The realization shakes me. I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that this girl I feel remarkably close to doesn’t even know enough of my name to find me online. She knows exactly as much of my name as Starbucks baristas do. It seems dumb, idealistic, the way I’ve presumed with very little foundation that I have this incredible, genuine connection with her. I don’t even know her.

  Juniper’s eyes jump to mine. “My last name is Ramírez,” she says, like she’s reading my mind.

  It’s weirdly reassuring to know. Learning her name doesn’t change who she is to me, doesn’t change why I like her, or how much I enjoy her ever-present wit, or how utterly unpredictable I find her. It just gives whatever our relationship is a longevity it previously lacked. We’re more than baristas to each other.

  Juniper takes the seat next to me. I turn to Lewis, who’s openly gaping at the two of us. It’s like I can hear the questions formulating in his mind, and I quickly head them off. “Juniper’s going to be leading our college trip now,” I inform him. “She’s an expert,” I say like it’s a real justification.

  “Um—what?” Lewis asks, evidently trying to process this development.

  “Only if it’s okay with you,” Juniper interjects, addressing Lewis. “I don’t want to derail any of your plans.”

  Lewis ignores the comment. “I remember you,” he says, studying her. “You were in the basement at Brown. The Alpha Delt party.” He faces me, and I recognize his expression instantly. “I knew it.” My stomach knots with dread. “You tried to deny why you were in a hurry to drive to Brown,” he continues. “You were texting all day yesterday, and you pretended you were talking to a friend. But I knew.” He’s irritatingly impressed with himself. “I knew there was a girl.”

  Juniper rounds on me, because the world is cold and unfeeling.

  I deflect desperately. “What, um”—I pick up Lewis’s menu—“what were you saying was spicy?”

  “Are you two a thing?” Lewis asks, predictably unwilling to let it go.

  “No,” Juniper and I say simultaneously, and with too much conviction.

  Lewis watches us, obviously interested. “I see.”

  I notice Juniper blush, which is unusual. She’s not the kind of girl who’s often embarrassed or self-conscious. Not when crashing into students in the Boston University quad or when striking up conversation with people she’s never met in the middle of Mike’s Pastry. The fact that her cheeks have colored now gives me hope that Lewis thinking we’re together thrills her in some way. It’s hope I’m hesitant to hold on to, but that’s the only kind of hope I know.

  “I’m game for the spiciest thing on the menu,” Juniper says, reading the folded laminate over my shoulder. I glance down, surveying the color-saturated photos of crispy, sauce-drenched chicken and remembering how hungry I am.

  “I like her,” Lewis declares, looking impressed with Juniper’s choice. He pulls his tie off in one quick motion. “I don’t know if ultra-spicy is the choice I would’ve gone with in your position,” he continues with a meaningful look at the two of us, “but, respect. Let me know if you want me to leave, by the way. To give you some privacy for your date.”

  “It’s not—” Juniper and I start to say simultaneously before we catch ourselves.

  “It’s not a date,” I finish.

  Juniper buries her nose in the menu, looking like she doesn’t believe me.

  I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.

  Juniper

  IT DOESN’T TAKE long for me to learn Fitz and his brother are nothing alike. Lewis is relaxed in the way only truly confident people are, and he clearly loves an audience. I understand why. He recounts his hours of interviews with humor and charisma, and I even catch the waitress eyeing him appreciatively once or twice. In fairness, I understand that, too. From the fit of his suit, he definitely works out. His face is highlighted by his strong jaw, brown eyes in deep brown skin, black hair, and an irrepressible smile. I know he and Fitz are adopted. Nevertheless, it’s striking just how different they look.

  I’m surprised how instantly included I feel, how comfortable with the rhythms of the conversation. I find myself describing my college picks and plans when Lewis asks, and then I’m asking him more about his interview. I notice Fitz’s discomfort when his brother elaborates on the company, on his prospects in New York, on his plans to split a “sick” place in Queens with friends if he lands the job.

  Lewis seems to notice too. He changes the subject, questioning Fitz on what he did today. Fitz describes walking in Union Square Park and visiting the Strand. He doesn’t mention The Great Gatsby or the High Line, which leaves me wondering if he routinely dodges the important stuff with his brother.

  We finish dinner in forty-five minutes. The chicken really was insanely spicy. We all agree the menu didn’t exaggerate with labels like “inferno” and “killing blow,” which is saying something coming from a Mexican girl and an Indian boy. Fitz was worse off, visibly suffering, sweating profusely and gulping down water. We walk out of the restaurant with our mouths on fire, grateful for the cold air numbing our lips.

  We ride the subway to my hotel, the train empty enough for Fitz and me to sit next to each other while Lewis crooks his elbow
around a pole. When we reach my stop and climb the stairs to the street, Fitz’s phone rings. He pulls it out and checks the screen.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, giving me an apologetic glance. “I have to get this.”

  Without explaining, he walks ahead, holding the phone up to his ear.

  I fall into step with Lewis. We say nothing for a few moments, realizing in unison we’re without the only person we have in common. We’re like kids holding two tin cans with the string connecting them cut.

  “It’s probably our mom,” Lewis says finally, nodding to Fitz.

  “Oh.” I remember everything Fitz told me. “Right.” I watch Fitz walking in front of us, noticing things I probably wouldn’t have if Lewis hadn’t brought up their mother. His posture, hunched and tense, the quickness of his footsteps, like he’s running from something.

  “I’m glad you’re joining us, Juniper,” Lewis says, his voice nothing like when he was telling stories in the restaurant. It’s softer, more vulnerable. “You’re going to be good for him. I can tell,” he continues. He smiles cautiously. “He’s . . . always worrying.”

  His eyes drift to his brother. They’re clouded with concern.

  “You worry too,” I observe.

  It’s funny. In Fitz’s descriptions of Lewis, I didn’t get the impression he was the protective older-brother type. Fitz’s offhand comments instead conjured the image of a stereotypical frat dude, content to play drinking games with his friends and get whatever finance job he wants. It’s not who I recognize walking next to me. This Lewis is watchful, insightful.

  He laughs a little. “I guess I do.”

  Fitz finishes his call. He waits while we catch up. “Mom wants you to call her,” he says when we reach him. “She wants you to tell her about the interview.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Lewis replies. “Later.”