Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  “You mean like how you didn’t tell anyone when I went to Steve’s party?”

  I kind of deserve the jab, but I’m not going to concede that to my sister. There’s a knock on the door. “Marisa, please,” I say, getting up.

  “Fortunately for you,” she singsongs, “I’m a better sister than you deserve. What’s his name? What’s he like?”

  “I’ll tell you everything later,” I promise, walking to the door. “I have to go now.”

  “You’re a tease,” she replies. “I expect details tomorrow.” I hear in her voice how obviously happy she is. It’s clear how much she wanted this kind of sisterly relationship—this kind of friendship—which makes me realize how much I wanted the same. I’ve shared a bedroom with Marisa for years. I don’t really have a reason why we’re not closer, why we’re not encyclopedic, citable, peer-reviewed authorities on every detail of each other’s lives. I’m starting to suspect being that to each other might be easier than I expected.

  “Say hi to everyone for me,” I tell her.

  “Have fun,” she says suggestively. “I’ll be expecting my new sweater for Christmas.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know, I know.” I hang up and throw my phone on the bed behind me, then open the door, the handle clicking heavily. Fitz waits in the hallway.

  I beam, because it’s become instinct with Fitz. He turns my insides into a collection of clichés, butterflies on roller coasters with wings of melting ice.

  “Hey,” I say casually and with Herculean effort. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he replies, matching my nonchalance. “Just stretching my legs. Nothing to do with how we kissed today and I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing to do with that?”

  “Nope.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I’m suddenly a little self-conscious with my shower-slick hair dangling in a rope down my shirt. He looks profoundly kissable. “Lewis is on the phone with Prisha,” he explains. “I wondered if I could hang out with you.” His bravado fades, replaced by a hint of trepidation.

  “Of course,” I say, opening the door wider. I don’t know why he’s nervous until he walks in and I close the door. I’m instantly aware we’re alone in a hotel room together.

  My recently showered state of dress promptly becomes the least pressing thing on my mind. I’m not nervous, exactly. I’m just a mixture of excited and uncertain and incredibly conscious of our present circumstances. I have no idea if the combination is combustible.

  Fitz sits on the bed. Then he immediately jumps back up.

  “It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound casual and hearing my own jumping nerves come through. “You can sit there.”

  Slowly, he does. “I want you to know, I’m not— I don’t mean— This isn’t a move,” he says haltingly. “I really did need to give Lewis privacy.”

  “Would it be bad if it were a move?” I sit next to him on the bed. Our shoulders come close to touching.

  “Not bad, no,” he says. His voice is hushed and even, like he’s trying very hard to control something struggling to escape.

  The ground shifts under me. I don’t fight the feeling. I’m ready to fall.

  “I agree,” I say.

  When he says nothing, I recline onto the pillows and reach for the remote. “Should we see if they have movies here?”

  His eyes find mine, and they hold on for a few moments before he replies. “No, I don’t think we should.”

  The words wake up every cell in my body, and not a second too soon, because then he’s leaning down, his lips rushing to mine. My thoughts a whirlwind, I hear only one distinctly. I have never been kissed this way before.

  There’s urgency to the way he deepens the kiss. I understand why. Our time is limited. He’s racing the days, hours, minutes we have together with every brush of his lips on mine.

  It won’t be enough. Feeling something I don’t have the words to name come over me, I reach up with clumsy, hurried hands and pull his shirt over his chest. He has a nice chest. Limber, lithe. It’s like good poetry, perfectly crafted to hold everything it needs and nothing else. I run my hands down the contours, to the ridges where his skin meets his waistline. Freckles cover his neck and shoulders, uncountable. I could study them endlessly. For now, I settle for kissing one I choose randomly on his shoulder, then one on his neck, then one on his jawline. My thoughts fall away, and it’s only me and him, here and now.

  I remove my own shirt. I don’t feel bare, because his gaze covers every inch of me. Pulchritudinous, I hear in my head, and it’s in his voice.

  He kisses me gently. Then he pulls back.

  “I really like you, Juniper,” he says breathlessly.

  “I like you too,” I say.

  “It scares me sometimes, how much I like you,” he continues. “How much you can change my world. How much you already have.” There’s a tremor in his tone, one I know is not entirely from us being nearly naked. Because it’s the same tremor running through me.

  “It scares me too,” I say.

  He looks up. “Yeah?” He shifts so we’re lying opposite each other on our sides, our forearms gently touching.

  I nod. “It scares me how much I want this, despite everything with Matt. I don’t want to repeat heartache like that. I don’t want to be looking back on what you and I had, unable to move forward.” If this were to continue, how could I not factor this boy into my college decisions? I don’t want him to influence my wide-open future, even unconsciously, but I can’t ignore what lying next to him is doing to me. I’m trapped between a really exciting rock and a really, really attractive hard place. “But this feels special,” I go on. “I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Me neither,” he says.

  “Why couldn’t we have met earlier? Or later?” I ask. “Why did it have to be now, when we’re on the brink of everything?” The question comes out choked. We both know the end date of this new itinerary we’ve built together. In two days, we’re going to turn around and start driving home. It’s unavoidable. We can’t just wander the country, traipsing from hotel to hotel with our lives on hold forever.

  “How about this?” His hand finds the curve of my forearm. I glance up. The beautiful blue of his eyes catches mine and holds on, unwavering. “We only have a few days together,” he says. “Let’s live in the present.”

  His words relax the tension in my chest, calming the tremors. He knows exactly what to say even when he’s not using his elaborate vocabulary. “Fitzgerald Holton wanting to live in the present?” I chide gently. “I really am changing you.”

  He smiles. “You really are.”

  Fitz

  WE DIDN’T HAVE sex. I wanted to, and I’m pretty sure Juniper did too. It would have been my first time, which I understand objectively is a big deal, yet with Juniper somehow it feels natural, fated—and completely awesome, of course. Part of me is still hoping for my first time to be with her. But last night, we wordlessly decided we didn’t want sleeping together to complicate the upcoming couple of days.

  We did literally sleep together, though. We talked for hours before nodding off, facing each other under the pillowed comforter of her hotel bed. I never imagined it could be this easy connecting with someone—never imagined I could feel this comfortable and confident, could know the right way to reply to everything Juniper says. I wonder if this is what people mean when they talk about reinventing yourself. It doesn’t feel like I’ve reinvented anything, though. It just feels like me.

  It’s morning now. The early sunlight peeks through the crack in the heavy hotel curtains. While she sleeps, I grab my dictionary from the nightstand. I had an idea in the middle of the night. After finding the word I want, I scribble a message in the margin. I rip the page cleanly from the dictionary, though it occurs to me the behavior borders on sacrilegious to the book I’ve brought
with me everywhere for years.

  I tuck the folded page into the box of Juniper’s cherished items, which I find next to her suitcase, and close the lid over the unfinished scarf.

  We’re on the road by seven for the long drive to Washington, D.C., four hours of Juniper’s favorite podcast. Every episode centers on the one of the weirdest buildings in the country, and I find myself engrossed in the one about the Winchester Mystery House. We reach the city just in time for our Georgetown information session. I enjoy the tour, but undeniably my favorite part is watching Juniper’s eyes rove over the intricate Gothic details of the buildings. After, we meet up with Lewis at the National Mall.

  We walk from the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument, up the frozen expanse of the Reflecting Pool, where a few intrepid couples have walked onto the ice. In front of the obelisk, Lewis tells us he’s getting lunch with former teammates from the entrepreneurship competition I didn’t know he did his sophomore year. Juniper and I grab burgers nearby and bring them to a bench in the Constitution Gardens.

  It’s one of those winter days with an unusually blue sky, warm but not warm enough to melt the snow into brown slush piles along the sidewalk. With the sun on my face, I sip from the double-chocolate milkshake Juniper insisted we get to share. The order didn’t surprise me. Juniper has a serious thing for chocolate in any form. It’s odd, how quickly a person can begin to predict the patterns and preferences of another. A couple of days together, and I know Juniper likes to eat dinner no later than seven, never blow-dries her hair—not even if she’s showered in the morning and her hair will literally freeze when she leaves the hotel—and will always opt to eat outside if given the choice.

  Sometimes, in moments like these, when we’re not touring a school or planning an itinerary, it’s deceptively easy to convince myself we’re already freshmen in college together. That I’ve known her for years, and this is only one day of many. It’s a beguiling fiction.

  “So tomorrow we head to the University of Virginia,” Juniper announces beside me, pulling me from thoughts of endless afternoons. She’s looking at the Notes app on her phone, where I know she tracks our itineraries. Her hair isn’t in a ponytail today. It hangs down her shoulders in loose curls that change color in the sun. Dark brown with golden blond at the edges. “Then I have us driving back to Boston, but the drive is nine hours, so we’ll stop somewhere for the night and see one more school,” she goes on. But my eyes are lost in the kaleidoscope of colors in the hair tucked behind her ear. “Fitz, are you listening to me?”

  I meet her eyes. “No, sorry. You’re just very distracting when your hair is down.”

  She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks color. I don’t think I could ever be used to the wonder of being able to make this girl blush. She slips the hair band from her wrist and puts her hair back into a high ponytail. “There,” she says. “Less distracting?”

  I let my gaze wander to her newly exposed neck. “Not at all,” I reply.

  Laughing delightedly, she shoves me. I lean forward to kiss the skin beneath her jaw, which I know from last night is warm and soft.

  My phone rings.

  I brush my lips against her neck. She shivers, giving me half a mind to toss my phone onto the icy lake. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s my mom. Usually, I’d feel slightly guilty to be reminded of her in a moment like this. Guilty that I’m kissing a beautiful girl in a city hours from home, contemplating a future far away. But the only thing I feel guilty for is not calling her yesterday.

  In one distant corner of my mind, I’ve noticed how aside from telling her about extending the trip, I haven’t kept in touch with my mom in the past couple of days quite as often as I normally do. I’m well aware why. Juniper and the genuine interest I’m taking in this tour have distracted me from things back home, for better or worse. It’s liberating, but somewhat unnerving, how easy I’m finding it to put behind me the problems that usually preoccupy me.

  “Be right back,” I promise Juniper, then stand and walk a couple feet away. “Hey, Mom,” I say when I pick up.

  “Hi, Fitz. You . . . didn’t call yesterday.” She doesn’t sound upset, just curious. Maybe slightly concerned. “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Everything is great,” I reassure her, my eyes fixed on Juniper. She doesn’t notice me as I watch her steal into my bag of fries.

  “I’m so glad,” my mom says. I know she means it. Her tone matches the pleased expression I can’t see but know she’s wearing. “Are there any schools you’re considering applying to?” The question comes out delicate and hesitant. I can’t say I don’t know why. I remember my words to her when I left for this trip. My certainty that I would only be applying to SNHU.

  “Yeah, actually,” I reply. The declaration feels foreign, in a good way. “I think I want to look into linguistics programs. Possibly Carnegie Mellon.” Just thinking of the day in Pittsburgh with Juniper, the lecture, the books I’ve perused, makes me look forward to next year in a new way. Not to mention, the day we went to Pittsburgh was the day I first kissed Juniper, which gives the whole recollection an irreplaceable luster.

  “Linguistics?” she repeats. She sounds startled for a second. “Of course,” she says like she’s just realized how obvious it is. “I’m happy for you, Fitz. Tell me about Carnegie Mellon.”

  I describe everything to her. The campus, the class, the city. It’s extraordinarily freeing. This is the kind of conversation I’ve known my friends have had with their parents and college counselors, the kind I overheard when Lewis got home from touring BU with Dad. I just never thought it was one I would care about having. My mom was the main reason I resented this trip, but every day, the resentment has faded a little.

  While I’m watching Juniper, she turns in my direction. Our eyes meet for a brief, boundless moment.

  Then she gets up to throw out our trash. I know she’s anxious to move on to the next item on our D.C. itinerary. A museum, if I had to guess. I make my way over to her.

  “It sounds perfect,” my mom says. It’s nice, how obviously proud she is. “I think you’ll do really great in sociology.”

  I pause, halfway to Juniper. “Linguistics,” I say.

  “Hm?”

  “I said linguistics,” I repeat, ignoring the roaring in my ears.

  “When?” Mom sounds confused, if cheerful. “You were just saying how you were interested in sociology. The Carnegie Mellon program.”

  The bottom drops out. “I was saying I was interested in the linguistics program, Mom. Remember?” Remember. Remember. Remember.

  “Uh. Of course. I misspoke. Linguistics. You were saying you’re interested in Carnegie Mellon’s linguistics program,” she repeats, an automatic stiffness to her voice.

  I want to believe her. I want to un-know the things I know. To have never read that one of the earliest symptoms of Alzheimer’s is forgetting recently learned information. Information like appointments, or names. Or what college major your son says he’s interested in.

  But I do know those things. They douse my veins in icy worry.

  “Mom,” I say casually, hiding my dread. “How has your memory been?”

  “I’m okay, Fitz,” she replies quickly. “Don’t worry about me. I want you to enjoy your trip.”

  The worry flashes into anger. I know she’s evading me. “Can you honestly tell me that you’re really okay? That you’re not having early symptoms?”

  “Fitz—”

  “Mom,” I cut her off. “Tell me the truth.”

  The silence on the other end of the line says everything. “I wanted to wait until you were home.” Her voice is different now, unrecognizably shaky. I sink onto the nearest empty bench, my legs unsteady. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Juniper noticing. She starts to walk in my direction. “This was expected, okay?” Mom continues. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve just been presenting ea
rly symptoms for a little while. Sometimes I forget the newer students, miss the occasional deadline, that kind of thing.”

  “Have you gone to your doctor?” I ask. It’s the first question I can think of, and I grasp onto it, my only lifeline.

  Juniper sits down next to me without speaking. Her expression is wrought with concern.

  “Yes. We have a plan. I’ll share it with you when you come home,” she reassures me, except it’s anything but reassuring. It’s worse, in a way. It means her symptoms have gotten severe enough that she went to her doctor without telling me.

  Furiously, my mind recites the prognoses I’ve read a hundred times over online. She could have ten years, or she could have as few as three.

  “How could I not have known?” It’s half rhetorical.

  “I knew you would worry,” she says. “I didn’t want my health to influence your college decisions.”

  It’s infuriating, how wrongheaded she is. Of course her health was going to influence my college decisions. It was only a matter of when and how. How much opportunity I would have—how much freedom she would mislead me into feeling—to fall in love with schools far from home. How horrible it would be when I discovered that freedom was founded on a lie.

  I laugh harshly. “You sent me on a college tour knowing you were presenting symptoms.” She tries to cut in, but I continue, harder. “How could you? How could you show me these places knowing I might never have the chance to go to them?” I let the bitter truth fly. “I was happy going to SNHU before this.”

  She sniffles over the line.

  It tears me in two. The resentment splits off, and suddenly I’m left with only overwhelming remorse.

  “I’m sorry,” she struggles to say through tears. “I’m sorry, Fitz. I should’ve told you. I just . . . I didn’t want it to be real. I guess I wanted to pretend I was still a normal mother who could send her son away to his dream college.” Her voice chokes. “I wanted more time.”