But I wouldn’t trade this time, however fleeting, for a thousand painless returns home. Even if things have to end, they’re worth having, no matter how difficult the goodbye.
The thought gives me an idea. I sit up straighter and check the rearview mirror. Lewis’s car follows behind us. Pulling out my phone, I call my brother.
Juniper glances over, looking understandably confused.
Lewis picks up on the first ring. “Fitz? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I overheard you on the phone with Prisha last night. Where is she right now? What school?”
Lewis pauses. “Princeton.”
I turn to Juniper with a grin. “What do you say we add one more school to our tour?”
Juniper
PRINCETON IS AN hour away when we pull off the highway into a gas station, a square of pavement cut from the grass in front of the roadside woods. When Fitz explained his idea to give Lewis and Prisha time together today, I was immediately on board. It’s not like Prisha is moving to San Francisco tomorrow. They’ll have the rest of the school year together. But I know, and Fitz knows, no time is worth wasting.
We’ve driven for two hours on I-95, and it’s nearly noon. The gas station is crowded, three of the pumps occupied. I pull into the only open pump. Lewis, behind us, parks in one of the parking spaces. He gets out of the car and walks briskly toward the convenience store. I’ve never seen him move so fast, with this uncontainable energy, like he’s reaching for something with every step and gesture. He passes me on his way.
Pivoting, he walks backward toward the gas station while facing me. “What do you want to eat?” he asks without stopping.
“It’s fine.” I unscrew my gas tank and reach for the nozzle. “I’ll get it myself when I finish.”
“Nope,” Lewis replies. “It’s on me. A thank-you for last night.” He winks. It’s a total frat move, except I know Lewis well enough to no longer see the distant, disaffected bro in him. He’s being genuine.
I shrug. “Whatever looks freshest.”
He throws me a thumbs-up. “Solid.”
I watch him walk up to the store, where he catches up with Fitz. Lewis claps his brother hard on the shoulder. Startled, Fitz rounds on him—then looks glad to find Lewis. He shoves him off, laughing, and they walk in together.
Grinning, I return the nozzle to the pump. I recognize that laugh. It’s the laugh of Callie and Anabel pelting each other with snowballs in the front yard, the laugh of Marisa and me busting up while fighting when one of us drops a spectacular insult. I look toward Boston, and it hits me how I’m looking forward to those insults, those snowball fights.
Wanting to text my parents, I reach into the back seat for my phone, which is in my purse. The sleeve of my parka brushes the shoebox on the floor, knocking the lid off. I know the contents of the box like I know my memories, and instantly I identify what’s different.
I pull out a folded piece of paper. Its edge is jagged, like it’s been torn from a book.
Unfolding the page, I realize it’s from a dictionary. Fitz’s dictionary. My eyes jump from word to word, from impecunious to inchoate, before they light on an underlined entry. Indelible (adj.): impossible to erase or forget.
I refold the paper carefully, understanding Fitz completely. Our time together is the definition of unforgettable. If this were one of those dictionaries with illustrations for certain words, I know what picture would come with this entry. A bitterly cold night, a rooftop, a boy and a girl, and a reach of endless stars.
I look up as Fitz and Lewis walk out of the convenience store, and I make a vow. I’m going to enjoy every moment of our final night together.
Juniper
WE PARK IN a narrow treed alley that runs along one of Princeton’s Eating Clubs. Remembering the clubs from my online research, I explain to Fitz they’re really just coed fraternities that also function as fancy dining halls. Lewis parks nearby, and we follow him to Prospect Avenue.
We wait in front of the Cap and Gown Club house. It’s more of mansion, with three stories of dark brick and elegant detailing. I discern a French château influence in the stonework and structure. In the yard, tall trees stretch their limbs toward the gray sky of the afternoon, their bare branches trimmed with frost.
Two girls walk onto the front steps, one Indian and the other redheaded. Prisha and her friend, I’m guessing. When Lewis sees Prisha, he literally runs to her. He sweeps her into an embrace while she laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet.
“Come on,” I say to Fitz. “Let’s give them their privacy.”
He takes my hand, and we head toward campus. “Do you have a tour prepared for this school?” Fitz asks, steadying me when I slip on the icy sidewalk.
“I thought we could just walk together.” We pass through an archway in a building with an actual turret. I focus on the warmth of Fitz’s hand in mine. Today isn’t about the school, it’s about us. The campus is only the backdrop.
It’s a beautiful backdrop, though. We explore for the better part of the day. I take in the snow-covered spires of the chapel, the stained glass, the intricately sculpted stone. The campus is a fascinating combination of old and new. We pass by Gothic dorms and brittle, modernist buildings of metal and glass. I need a full thirty minutes to examine every facet of the Gehry-designed science library. Fitz willingly obliges.
We grab coffee in the student center, kiss under the campus’s enormous Blair Arch, and wander through empty quads of silent trees decked in snow. I insist Fitz take a photo of himself in front of the eating club of his namesake, F. Scott Fitzgerald. When it’s too cold to be outside, we sit down for dinner in an Italian restaurant off campus.
It’s bittersweet. Our first real date.
When we finish dinner, we head in the direction of my car. Earlier, we decided we’d spend the night in Princeton and drive to Boston in the morning. Prisha’s friend, who is a saint, has graciously invited the four of us to sleep in her room. She’ll spend the night in her girlfriend’s dorm, while Lewis and Prisha will sleep in her bed. Fitz and I will share the futon. By now, I’ve run through the money my parents gave me for this trip, and I’d rather sleep in the eating club for free than book one of the two nearby hotels, both of which look fairly expensive. But I’m not eager to give up our privacy yet, and neither, I imagine, is Fitz. We walk slowly and silently to pick up our suitcases from the car.
Reaching the street where we parked, I pull out my keys.
“So . . .” Fitz begins, “should we take the bags over now?”
We both know it’s what we’re doing here. We both know it’s not what we want to be doing.
“In a minute,” I say.
I lean back onto the car door and pull him to me. The kiss is breathless, consuming. I fumble for the handle and open the door, our mouths never parting. We tumble together into the back seat. I’m stretched out across the seats, Fitz on top of me, drinking me in with every kiss. There’s no mistaking where this is headed. I hold him close to me, loving how he fists his hand in my hair, how his lips are a contradiction of soft and demanding, patient and wanting. I lower my hand to his belt buckle, waiting for him to gently push me aside. He doesn’t.
“You’re sure?” His voice is hushed. “Just because it’s our last night—”
“I’m sure,” I exhale. I’ve never been surer. His lips are an avalanche, burying me in him. I don’t fight the feeling overtaking me.
While he wrestles his shirt off in the tight confines of the car, I pull mine over my head. The alley where we’re parked is dark and deserted, and our car is nestled between a high wall and a hedge, protected from view.
Fitz reaches into his backpack. I feel my eyebrows spring up when he pulls out a box of condoms.
“You didn’t strike me as the type to come prepared,” I say. We’re sitting side by side on the seats now.
&
nbsp; Fitz removes the plastic square from the box, looking amused. “I’m aware that was a dig at my manhood,” he replies. I laugh a little, having not intended the slight. “But I’m going to allow it,” he continues, “and say Lewis insisted I buy them today at the gas station.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
Fitz nips my ear playfully. Even the brief brush of contact fires anticipation through me. “Are we here to make jokes at my expense? I thought you had other plans.”
“Just you wait,” I whisper.
We kiss, and then we come together, for real this time. It’s not easy, climbing into his lap, kicking off our shoes, shimmying out of our jeans without hitting our heads on the roof. Fitz laughs when I lose my balance, nearly elbowing him. It’s kind of awkward, and kind of hurried, and completely perfect.
I don’t even remember the cold outside, burning with the heat of our bodies pressed together. Fitz traces his fingers up my thigh, and I run my hands through his hair, past his chest, farther down. His lips nearly never leave mine, like we’re breathing through each other. Sweat beads on his brow. His heart is pounding, passion and anticipation and probably nerves fusing in one rhythm. He interlaces our fingers, and then the world becomes huge and bright and beautiful.
The whole time, I’m here and only here. We’re an hourglass on its side, the sand suspended, hanging in temporary eternity.
After, I rest my head on his chest, our breaths quieting while he strokes my arm. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and for once my mind is wonderfully blank. I’m not thinking of tomorrow or the next day or the next. I’m utterly in the moment.
The moment, which I’m learning to cherish. I remember wanting only a week ago to reach up for the stars, the yawning ceiling of the world. For a few more months, the precious path from moment to moment will be enough. For a few months, the stars will wait.
Fitz
WE PULL ON our coats afterward and deliver our bags to Prisha’s friend Madeleine’s room. I try to play it cool, like it’s no big deal I just had sex with Juniper in her car. But it’s a really big deal, and I’m not cool about it. It’s possible the permanency of the smile I’m wearing will require medical attention. I know Juniper notices, though she doesn’t mention it—she only keeps throwing me smiles in return.
There’s a hammock strung up between two trees outside, and we bring down a blanket we find in the dorm. The night air is cold, not freezing, and while we still need multiple layers, I consider the temperature a tiny gift from the universe. Wrapped in the blanket and in each other’s arms, we rock in the hammock, staring up into the sky the way we did at Brown.
“I won’t forget a moment of this,” Juniper says.
I press my lips to her temple. “High praise from you,” I reply, repeating our exchange from the rooftop. I know she’ll remember perfectly.
She laughs, and fuck will I miss her laugh. “You said, ‘High praise from the girl who remembers everything.’” Raising her head, she looks me in the eye. “And I meant I’ll cherish every memory.”
It takes the breath from my lungs. I realize right then—none of it helped. The decision not to go home tonight, the “getting goodbyes out of our system,” the knowledge from the start that this couldn’t last. None of it lightens the inescapable pain of us ending in the morning. I reach for the one sliver of hope I can see.
“Maybe this won’t be goodbye forever,” I say. Juniper bites her lip nervously. “I just mean,” I rush to clarify, “if it’s meant to be, maybe we’ll find each other again.”
I’m relieved when Juniper smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “Maybe one day I’ll walk into a pastry shop to buy cannoli and you’ll be in line in front of me.”
“Or I’ll run into you at a party where I don’t know anyone,” I reply. Juniper turns from me, wiping her cheek.
“Serendipity,” we say together.
“Fate,” I add quietly. It doesn’t feel like it could be anything else. There’s a providence to it, a perfection I can’t explain.
We fall silent, just enjoying the rhythm of our heartbeats, the comfort of being close. Finally, Juniper speaks. “What’s the word for this? For this exact moment?”
I run through every word I know, discarding adjectives and gerunds, nouns and antiquated usages. I kiss her when I have my answer.
“It can’t be described,” I say. “Not with words.”
As I look up at the sky, with Juniper’s head on my chest, the truth settles onto me. I’ll be looking into this field of stars from the front porch of my home tomorrow. Except it won’t be the home I left a week and a half ago, and it won’t be the home I’ll know years from now. I hear the word hiraeth in my head, and it’s in Juniper’s voice.
Holding her close, I think of homes unreachable and people, lives, memories that continue anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS IS A book about family, and writing Juniper’s and Fitz’s journeys wouldn’t have been possible without our own parents and grandparents. It owes to Emily’s grandfather Don, who embodies the importance of family (and who asks every time we visit when our books will be turned into movies). The Ramírez family was meant to be a tribute to Emily’s grandmother, Catherine, and the traditions she’s passed down from the Contreras family to the Robles family, through the Selleks and to ours. For us, it’s not tamales, but the best enchiladas and guacamole there is. So much of Juniper was born hearing your stories while watching you turn taco shells in hot oil without burning your hands.
We were fortunate enough to take college trips like Juniper’s and Fitz’s, and that’s entirely due to the support of our parents. It’s a privilege we don’t take for granted, and one that not only inspired this book but also helped us make our own decisions about our futures. Thanks for sitting through endless nearly identical information sessions and walking into some of the grossest freshmen dorms with us.
Our agent, Katie. We’ll never forget how you read this book overnight. You were the first one to tell us this story was special, and you’ve been our champion in every way we could dream of. Like you did with Megan and Cameron, thank you for hearing these characters’ voices and helping them find their way to the page.
Dana Leydig, thank you for every thoughtful question and direction you brought to developing this book. Authors always dread getting their editorial letter, but yours was nothing but inspiring, and we’re very grateful for how constructive, insightful, and (dare we say) fun the process was. You’re the Moira to our Stevie in this production of Cabaret.
We’re indebted to those who’ve helped us portray the nuances of Fitz’s and Juniper’s stories with authenticity. Thank you in particular to Michael Hayden for talking to us about his experience growing up in the United States and seeking out his birth family after being adopted from another country. Your story could fill multiple books, and we’re grateful you let it inform a piece of ours. Thank you to Dora Guzmán, our authenticity reader. While Juniper’s family is drawn from ours, one experience is not representative of every experience, and your comments helped fill Juniper with a life of her own.
To Tessa Meischeid, thank you for being the best publicist we could ask for, and for having the coolest book-cover-themed nails. To Felicity Vallence, thank you for inciting cover-color wars and branding us #Wibbroka. So much of what makes Penguin Teen special is because of you. Thank you to the intrepid marketing Penguins, James Akinaka, Kara Brammer, Caitlin Whalen, Friya Bankwalla, and Alex Garber. If we were on a road trip down the coast, we’d want you in our car. To Kristie Radwilowicz, for (three times now!) exceeding our imaginations with gorgeous and iconic cover design. To our copyeditors, Abigail Powers, Krista Ahlberg, Janet Pascal, Kaitlin Severini, and Marinda Valenti, thank you for your diligence and impeccable thoroughness (and for one unforgettable discussion of the nuances of pumping gas in New Jersey).
Part of the writing process for us is the coffees, the text
chains, the head-clearing hikes in between the pages. For these things, we’re very grateful to our friends in the writing community: Alexa Donne, Alyssa Colman, Aminah Mae Safi, Amy Spalding, Bree Barton, Bridget Morrissey, Britta Lundin, Dana Davis, Demetra Brodsky, Derek Milman, Diya Mishra, Farrah Penn, Gretchen Schreiber, Kayla Olson, Maura Milan, Robyn Schneider, Sarah Enni, and Simone DeBlasio. To our friends not in the writing community, some of you love YA and some of you don’t, and all of you have read our books and listened to us talk about publishing. It means the world.
Finally, to the readers who we’ve met in person or online, who’ve told a friend to pick one of our books up, who’ve roasted us on Twitter (never change) or campaigned for cover colors, and who’ve given us handmade fan art, you’re the reason we get to keep writing books and the reason it’s worth it.
TURN THE PAGE TO READ AN EXCERPT FROM
Text copyright © 2019 by Austin Siegemund-Broka and Emily Wibberley
“This delightfully feminist rom-com has characters that feel like friends and will surely appeal to fans of Sarah Dessen.”
—BuzzFeed
One
“BITCH.”
I hear the word under Autumn Carey’s breath behind me. I guess I earned it by daring to walk ahead of her to reach the dining hall door. I cut her off while she was examining her reflection in her phone’s camera, trying to decide if her new bangs were a bad choice. Which they were. Part of me wants to whirl around and tell Autumn I don’t have the entirety of lunch to walk behind her, but I don’t.
Instead, I tilt my head just enough to tell Autumn I heard her, but I don’t care enough to respond. I have things to do. Autumn’s not remarkable enough in any way to hold my attention, and I’ve been called that name often enough, under enough breaths, for it not to hurt. Not from a girl like her. It’s hardly an uncommon thought here. Cameron Bright’s a bitch.
Time of Our Lives Page 27
