Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  I give up and reach for the radio knob—right as Fitz does too. Our hands collide before we both instantly pull back.

  It’s one of those romance-movie moments, where the hero and heroine both blush, the heady current of contact rushing between them. Except it is not romantic. It’s cringeworthy. The mutuality of our defeat makes the whole thing way worse.

  “Um, sorry,” Fitz fumbles to say.

  I reach for chagrinned politeness like his and find only exasperation. “Hold up,” I say loudly enough to startle. “Why is this suddenly the most awkward car ride of my entire life?”

  I steal a glance at him. He looks physically pained. “Surely you’ve had worse,” he suggests weakly.

  “Nope. This wins.”

  “Well, it’s definitely your fault,” he replies.

  I round on him, tearing my eyes from the highway for a brief moment. “My fault?” I repeat incredulously. “It’s definitely not my fault. I think it’s because we don’t have enough in common. We probably exhausted everything we have to say to each other, and we’re not compatible enough for, you know, daily conversation.” The whole idea of this drive, this trip, is beginning to feel ridiculous.

  I expect my theory to worry Fitz, because honestly it worries me. It’s the fear I’ve been pressing to the corner of my thoughts for this entire car ride.

  But it doesn’t appear to bother him at all. Bizarrely, it seems to relax him. He leans back, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and revealing—nice forearms. I don’t know why my brain has decided to zero in on his forearms, the light lines of muscle running to his wrist, while I’m questioning the entire premise of our compatibility. Probably because it’s not my brain doing the noticing.

  “That’s not it at all,” he says easily. His confidence relaxes me, and I focus on the road, somewhat relieved. “It’s because you began this trip with Matt, you imagined this trip with Matt. Instead you have me, but you’re thinking about him.”

  Wincing, I open my mouth and I find I can’t deny what he’s saying. “I’m not anymore.” It’s the truth. I haven’t thought about Matt since we broke this conversation open and began examining what was wrong with it.

  Fitz grins. “Good.”

  Heat races from my cheeks into my fingers on the wheel, and that’s when I realize I’m not, in fact, thinking about Matt. Not at all. In the start-and-stop traffic I find myself stealing looks in Fitz’s direction. His recently exposed forearms, his hands resting delicately on his dictionary. I didn’t know I had a thing for hands, but I definitely have one for Fitz’s. Kind of the way I have a thing for the winter-sky blue of his eyes, the untidy curtain of red hair covering his forehead, the precise angle of his nose, the restless twist of his lips.

  I blink. Focus, Juniper. I’m going to crash the car if I keep this up.

  Fitz’s phone vibrates. He pulls it from his pocket. “Lewis got to the hotel,” Fitz tells me, reading the screen. “He’s checking in now.” He frowns, reading his phone.

  “What?” I prompt.

  “Oh. Just Lewis,” Fitz grumbles.

  His tone has me curious. From my conversation with Lewis last night, I’ve started to get one brother’s side of their relationship. I don’t know Fitz’s, but I wonder if it’s something he might not want to keep to himself. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s . . . He made a dumb joke about whose room I’ll stay in tonight.” Fitz puts the phone down and looks up. “He’s constantly saying stupid stuff like that. I apologize in advance for how obnoxious it is.” He forces a smile, one I know is hiding his frustration. “I did explain Lewis and I aren’t biologically related, right?”

  I laugh, because I can tell he means it as a joke. “I think you guys are pretty similar actually.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Fitz’s eyebrows quirk in surprise. It’s not disdainful surprise. It’s interested, even flattered. “No apology necessary,” I add. “But you’ll definitely be staying in his room.” My eyes dart to him, and the next comment on the tip of my tongue leaps off before I have the chance to tell it not to. “I don’t blame Lewis for wanting us to be together, though.”

  Fitz’s whole posture shifts. He leans forward, and I feel his eyes on me, focused and penetratingly blue. “No,” he says. “One couldn’t blame him for that.”

  I don’t know if it’s me, or if by an unexplained, undiscovered meteorological phenomenon the temperature in the car jumps up fifteen degrees, or thirty, or fifty. Fitz chews his lip. The sight is intolerably cruel to inflict on me in the middle of the New Jersey Turnpike. I have the impossible urge to pull over the car, lean across the gearshift—and kiss him, bunching the collar of his sweater in my fingers, pulling him closer and not letting go. I try to banish the thought immediately, which is when I notice the corners of those lips curving upward.

  “Juniper,” Fitz says calmly, “you’re staring at my lips.”

  I whip my eyes forward. There’s a long stretch of empty road where the car in front of me moved forward. Someone behind me honks, and I guiltily step on the gas. I’m certain everyone on the Turnpike knows I spaced while fantasizing about a boy.

  “No, I wasn’t,” I say vehemently, the fire in my voice matching the fire in my face.

  “Wow, you’re blushing. Were you thinking about kissing me?” His voice is teasing on the surface, but rough underneath, jagged edges and disbelief. It’s a terrible question. It has me considering forgetting architecture and going into public service in order to draft legislation illegalizing direct questions about kissing fantasies.

  “Of course not,” I get out.

  Fitz’s grin dances irresistibly—no, infuriatingly. “You are not a competent liar,” he remarks. I scowl, and he continues. “Do I need to remind you that kissing me wouldn’t exactly fit into your platonic plans for us?”

  “Please,” I shoot back, “you’ve been staring at my lips since we met. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, it does,” he replies instantly. “It means I think about kissing you often.”

  I have no response to the confession, which sounded nothing like a confession given his impossible straightforwardness. I’m stunned. Not only by his nonchalance, which is honestly in violation of the laws of nature—but by the irrepressible, boundless excitement I feel when I replay his statement over in my mind.

  Which I do. Three times.

  I reach for words, knowing I’m leaving his comment to expand in the emptiness between us. But I don’t find them. I don’t think I remember what words are. So I don’t use words. When the traffic ahead grinds to a halt, I stop behind the car in front of me.

  I glance at Fitz. But his eyes catch mine, and then it’s not a glance. It’s eye contact. It’s instantaneous, irreversible. It’s our gazes locked together like lips and arms and bodies. This time, I let the fantasy play out. I imagine kissing him. I have a feeling he would be a very deliberate kisser. His mouth pressing precisely to mine, every brush of lips the exact right word in sentences upon sentences of touch. Limerence. The word leaps into my head, which is the moment I know I’m done for.

  I don’t know what I’ll do in the next second. Whether I’ll kiss him for real or turn back to the road, leaving the fantasy in my rearview mirror.

  My phone rings over the car stereo, deciding for me. It’s connected via Bluetooth, and the ringtone is deafening in the quiet of the car. I tear my eyes from Fitz, a tremor prickling down my shoulders. And in that moment, with the opportunity flown out the window, I know what I would have done.

  I totally would have kissed him.

  Juniper

  I HIT ANSWER on the stereo display. It’s my dad, and I’m immediately happy to hear his voice. We text every morning, but we haven’t talked on the phone in two days. The wry tenor of his voice fills the car.

  “How’s the trip? What did you see today?” he asks quickly. I have a feeling he want
s to vicariously tour New York.

  I hold a finger to my lips, motioning to Fitz to stay quiet. None of my family knows this random boy has joined my road trip. “It’s great,” I reply. “We did NYU and Columbia, and New York was incredible. I went to all my favorite buildings in the city.”

  “Rockefeller Center, right? You say hi to Marisa’s ex-fiancé?”

  I laugh. Fitz’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. I make a mental note to explain the Prometheus story to him later. “Of course,” I say.

  He pauses for a moment. “And how’s Matt?”

  I falter, knowing I should have anticipated the question. Fitz watches me warily, undoubtedly putting together I haven’t told my dad about the breakup. I haven’t even told my parents I’m changing my itinerary or extending my trip. I know I have to eventually. I’m just used to hearing no so often, I usually ask them for forgiveness, not permission.

  “Matt’s, um, good,” I say, hearing the high strain in my voice. Fitz might not have been completely off when he told me I’m not a competent liar.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  I’m really glad this isn’t FaceTime and he can’t see every ounce of color drain from my face. “You . . . want to talk to him?” I repeat. My dad and Matt aren’t exactly chatting-on-the-phone friends.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I watched a movie last night I think he’d like. Can you put him on?”

  “Um.” I’m a deer in the headlights unable to avoid the speeding car that is this interrogation.

  “Um?” Dad’s tone revs, and I brace for the collision. “Um, like he’s in the bathroom and can’t come to the phone right now?”

  “Uh.” I don’t have it in me to lie to my father. Not even now, when I really, really want to.

  “Or um, like you can’t because I saw him today in Springfield, Massachusetts?”

  I swear under my breath. I should’ve known this would happen. I live within six blocks of Matt. We go to the same grocery store, he orders Chinese takeout from the same place Marisa does, and he walks his dog in the park where Callie has soccer. The chance of him encountering one member or other of my enormous gossipy family before I came home verged on the upper end of 99 percent. I guess I should be grateful my dad was the one who saw him.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “We broke up, Dad,” I say, nearly whispering. It’s hard to admit to my dad in a way it wasn’t to Fitz. I’m in a new world with Fitz, and telling my dad brings the breakup into my old world, into the life I was living and the life to which I’ll return. The family movie nights Matt won’t come to, the birthday dinners in the restaurant where we won’t share a fried ice cream.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” he says softly. All the anger is gone from his voice. “I know how much he meant to you.”

  Fitz shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I suddenly wish he weren’t overhearing this. “Yeah,” I say, choking the word out awkwardly.

  “Maybe you should come home,” Dad suggests. “We could go ice-skating in the park. Remember how we used to do that when you were little?”

  I do remember. We would go every Friday when we first moved to Springfield. I remember thinking the park rink was so small compared to the one in Rockefeller Center. “How about next week? I want to finish my trip.”

  “On your own?” He sounds skeptical. “That wasn’t the agreement. I don’t want you driving hundreds of miles by yourself.”

  “But I can’t come home,” I protest. I flip my turn signal sharply and merge into the left lane, the traffic finally clearing up. “I’m not done yet. And—” I ready myself for the plunge, knowing I can’t put it off any longer. “I want to extend my trip a few days. I don’t have to be home for Shanna’s birthday now, and there’s more I want to do. I’ll use my own money for the extra nights—”

  “I don’t know, Juniper,” he cuts me off. “We can find a weekend to visit the schools you’re interested in as a family.” I hear his argument hardening, encasing me within his decision. I have to break through before I’m stuck.

  “No,” I say too forcefully. “I mean, it’s a nice offer, but I want to do this by myself. I just . . . want to see the schools on my own, without anyone telling me what to think or how to feel.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t say that once my family is involved, what’s best for me won’t be important. It’ll turn into what’s best for them. “I know you understand, Dad,” I continue. “You remember how domineering family can be at my age.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. I can tell he’s genuinely confused.

  “How you moved to New York and never came home,” I remind him.

  “I’m not proud of that decision, Juniper. I regret not having your abuela at my wedding. I wish she had been there when you were born. Yes, the family was domineering. But I was stubborn. I refused to give them the chance to accept I couldn’t call every night and visit every weekend. Instead, I cut them off,” he finishes evenly.

  I don’t say anything. I didn’t know he regretted his time in New York, the distance from his family he created while exploring ramen restaurants and living with his best friends. I thought he regretting leaving.

  Only the rhythmic hum of rubber on the road fills the emptiness in the car, waiting for me to say something. I glance at Fitz. He’s looking out the window, and I know he’s making an effort not to intrude. Days, schools, conversations, moments I can’t yet imagine wait ahead of us. I don’t want to give them up. If I drive home now, they’re gone. With the possibilities unwinding in front of us, I don’t want to cut the threads and ruin whatever fleeting future we’re weaving.

  “Are you forcing me to come home?” I ask my dad.

  He’ll recognize the challenge in my voice from conversations with the rest of my family. He just won’t expect it coming to him. “No,” he says after a pause. “You’re seventeen, you’re nearly an adult. This is your choice. Use your own money for the extra nights, and send me your exact itinerary every day. If you’re not home by Christmas Eve, I’ll sic Tía on you. Just . . . don’t forget we’re here when you need us.”

  “Thank you.” I exhale with relief. The thought of returning to Tía right now, to endless lectures about what I should do next year, to the constant demands of my siblings, to facing school without Matt—it’s overwhelming. I need this trip in more ways than one.

  “And, Juniper,” he adds, “it’s okay to need your family sometimes.”

  Fitz

  IT’S DIFFICULT TO decipher everything I’m feeling after overhearing Juniper’s phone call. I’m relieved her father didn’t force her to go home, returning us to our separate lives. It’s impossible to deny I’m a little jealous of the way her face broke when he mentioned Matt. Her feelings for him aren’t gone, which I guess I knew but didn’t want to dwell on. And I’m kind of confused by her adamancy to keep her distance from her family despite her dad saying he regretted doing the same.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Juniper says, her voice jarringly bright. “What were we talking about?”

  I don’t understand her readiness to jump back into conversation like nothing happened. I’m unable to match her instantaneous avidity. “Your dad just wants to be there for you,” I say, knowing I’m probably overstepping.

  Her smile fades. “I know.”

  “It’s reasonable for him to worry about you being on the road by yourself,” I continue. I don’t quite know why her reaction bothers me.

  “Yeah, but I’m not by myself. You’re with me,” she points out, effortlessly logical.

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  She huffs a laugh. “Believe me, he would not be cool if he knew I was traveling with a guy I just met.”

  “Well, yeah,” I reply with force I fail to restrain. “It’s his parental right to be concerned. It’s what family does. Worry about each other.” Juniper is watching me, but I’m elsewhere. I�
��m thinking of Lewis, who’s chronically unwilling to give a shit about my worries. Juniper owes her dad respect for his fears, his uncertainties. Unexpectedly, I realize the final emotion that was rising in me during Juniper’s phone call—anger. “I know it’s easy for you to move off to college without even a backward glance,” I continue. “But for everyone else, for your family, it’s a huge change. It’s hard.”

  Juniper scoffs. “This has nothing to do with my family. I don’t care whether going to college is hard. It’s necessary. It’s part of growing up, whether you like it or not. But you want everything to stay the same, forever.” She shakes her head, reproach in her eyes while she scrutinizes the road. “You’re just like Matt,” she finishes.

  It’s the worst possible way to be compared to Matt. I turn from her, focusing on the trees passing on the right while I push down indignation. “You know it’s different for me. I can’t—”

  Juniper cuts me off. “Just because you use your mother’s Alzheimer’s to justify your fears doesn’t mean the rest of us need to find something to hold us back.”

  I glance over and see immediate regret in Juniper’s expression. She doesn’t take the words back, though. She can’t, because she meant them. They’re a wall between us, solid and infrangible. It occurs to me distantly, only moments ago she looked like she wanted to kiss me. I can’t wrap my head around how hard this conversation hit the ground, and how ugly the wreck.

  I face the window and say nothing for the rest of the drive.

  Fitz

  WE REACH OUR hotel in Swarthmore, outside Philadelphia, a little past ten. Unspeaking, we pull our luggage from the trunk of Juniper’s car. The thunk of the hard canvas hitting the pavement, the metallic clicks of the extendable handles—everything is painfully, precisely loud while we’re deliberately quiet.

  I’m trying to forget our fight. The tension is taking up more of the fleeting moments we have, and I want to enjoy this time with Juniper. It’s not working, though. There’s a new resentment in me, pushing back every time I think about bringing up our coming college visits or joking about whatever. I want to let go, but I don’t.