Ended?

by Kilby Blades

  Zoë: Are you into Brown or what? People are already updating on their results.

  I realized she was talking about Instagram. I thumbed out of my text message window and navigated to the app.

  That was when I saw it: my feed was bursting with logos and emblems from various universities and captions announcing success.

  @DeckDeckG00se$ had posted the UC Berkeley logo and reported on his feed, I’m in like Flynn!

  Replying to his thread, @OhAnnikaOhAnnika$ had written, I’m packing my bags for Berkeley, too! Not that we were old enough to drink, but she’d followed it up with the yellow emoji that blew a noisemaker and wore a party hat, then three popped champagne bottles in a row.

  @$enorDutton posted that he’s “not doing shit for the rest of the year now that I’m in to Davis”.

  @CivilWarBuff$ had posted that he was “headed south for the winter!” No surprise there.

  @DerbyGirlZoe said she was “in to Tulane but waitlisted at Duke.”

  But I didn’t see anything from @moves_like_jagga. Not even after I checked. I considered whether to post any of my own news, but immediately decided against it. No offense to Zoë, but I couldn't deal with this right now. When I glanced again at the time, I realized I’d burned a solid few minutes reading other people’s news. Results had been out for an eternity and I still didn’t know where I stood with Brown.

  9:32

  Shit. My dad would call soon. Figuring I'd better get it over with, I navigated to the final tab, tapped out my user name and entered my password.

  Dear Roxanne,

  Congratulations! You have been accepted to Brown University for enrollment in the upcoming fall semester. You have been selected from an extremely competitive applicant group, and are among only 350 students selected specifically for the Literary Arts Program, from a pool of more than 3,500.

  In addition to a space in next year’s class, we are pleased to be able to name you a Literary Promise Fellow. This prestigious fellowship is awarded to the student who has demonstrated considerable potential in writing, and includes personal mentorship from Literary Arts Program alumni, including National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize winners.

  An enrollment packet has been sent to you in the mail and digital versions of these documents can be found on this portal. Please notify our offices directly with news of your intention by April 15th.

  On behalf of the faculty and staff at Brown University, we extend our warmest welcome and look forward to seeing you in the fall.

  Sincerely,

  Grayson Alexander

  Director of Admissions

  9:45

  I didn't even hear him come in; didn’t sense him reading over my shoulder; didn't register anything until he was pulling me up and swinging me around in his arms; didn't realize tears were streaming down my face until he pulled away and wiped them from my cheeks; didn't realize until after he'd left that he'd placed a Brown University hat on my head. He'd had faith in me all along.

  "I am so proud of you," he whispered, pinning me with intense but watery sage-colored eyes and a sincere but quivering voice.

  I cried harder then, understanding for the first time how much Jagger really loved me, how he was still my biggest advocate, how he was truly my best friend. I knew from the second I'd seen his face that he'd gotten into Juilliard, but he’d come in waving his white flag. There'd be no interrogation about whether I got into the New York schools or the Boston ones or any sharing about whether he’d gotten into UCLA. In that moment, he had only pride and congratulations and the most beautiful kind of love.

  I should have been indescribably happy. I'd gotten into my dream school and had Jagger's support, no matter my decision. I'd be one of a small handful of people in my extended family to go to college and—for once—my parents agreed about something. In a few short months, I'd be on my own, responsible for nobody but myself. So, why did I feel like leaving Jagger would be the biggest mistake of my life?

  10 White Flag

  I know you think that I shouldn't still love you

  or tell you that.

  But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it.

  Where's the sense in that?

  I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder

  or return to where we were.

  I will go down with this ship.

  And I won't put my hands up and surrender.

  There will be no white flag above my door.

  I'm in love and always will be.

  -Dido, White Flag

  * * *

  Jagger (Late September)

  "Tell me why we're doing this again," I pleaded brokenly.

  At that moment, I honestly couldn’t remember. How had I ever convinced myself that letting Roxy go like this was remotely acceptable? Parting over something as trivial as the miles between Providence and Manhattan suddenly seemed like the worst fucking idea ever.

  "So we don't end up resenting each other," she whispered just as weakly, her voice as battered and cracked as mine. "So I'm not the reason you gave up Juilliard and you're not the reason I gave up Brown; so that we can do things normal college kids do on weekends instead of spending all our time on trains just to get to one another; so that we don’t have to keep saying these awful goodbyes.”

  Our foreheads were touching. Tears streamed down my face, and I squeezed her more tightly in my arms.

  "I should’ve gone to Berklee—“ I swiftly protested.

  But we'd had the conversation a thousand times.

  "Jagger." She shook her head rapidly. “Berklee would have been a tragedy."

  I considered protesting again, but my words fell flat. Nothing I said would change her mind. Never mind that half her resolve came from all the weird baggage she had about not turning out like her mother. I wanted to hate that woman for the multitude of ways her crazy had fucked with Roxy. But what I hated more than anything in that moment was that the rational part of Roxy's resolve was absolutely right about our choice.

  What's done is done, and none of that matters now.

  All that mattered was standing alone in the middle of Grand Central Station, alone because for as tightly as I held my love in my arms, she was already gone. And in no longer than seven-and-a-half minutes, I wouldn't even have the inadequate comfort of holding her anymore—she'd have walked away to catch her train. And when we met again, even if we were the same, we'd be different.

  Part 2

  I Keep Forgetting (Every Time You're Near)

  11 I Keep Forgetting

  I keep forgettin' we're not in love anymore.

  I keep forgettin' things will never be the same again.

  I keep forgettin' how you made that so clear.

  I keep forgettin’…

  -Michael McDonald, I Keep Forgetting (Every Time You’re Near)

  * * *

  Roxy (Freshman Year)

  My heart shouldn’t have been pounding so hard. It was only 10:15 AM, which meant I had another twenty minutes before Jag was set to show up. Him being there in the flesh would make my body’s reaction understandable at least—his actual proximity being an appropriate trigger for me to start freaking out.

  I was me and Jag was Jag, but even if I wasn’t, no boy-loving girl encountered Jag Monroe without her heart picking up a beat or ten. If he wasn’t even there yet, and I was already jonesing for him this bad, how the hell was I ever going to survive him and a six hour flight?

  Chamomile tea, I said to myself, wishing for something a little harder, but being off campus meant it actually mattered that I was underage. I’d been back to California twice since starting school. The ritual had become jarring—not just leaving the distinct little city of Providence, but going home and seeing my dad and my friends.

  “Fucking shit,” I muttered aloud the second I hefted my duffel onto my shoulder. It made me immediately regret two things: that I’d stubbornly insisted upon only packing one bag and that, I’d declined the option to check my bag. Maybe it wasn
’t too late for that plan. Maybe instead of putting all my hopes for not being a blubbering mess when I saw Jagger into a cup of tea, I should go check my bag so I didn’t have to worry about looking elegant while carrying this enormous beast.

  “You kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?” a smooth voice asked from behind me, nearly making my heart go straight from racing to a complete stop.

  I spun around, unable to play it cool for even a second. “Jag?”

  His eyes were already sweeping my body from head to toe the way they always did when we hadn’t seen one another for a long time. He took his time, as if he were cataloging my features. I liked to do the same thing with him—every time I saw him, he changed. Small changes to anyone else, but not to me. He’d stopped dressings so preppy and had more of a hipster vibe—not full-out hipster, just bolder colors in his wardrobe and garments cut to a closer fit—and a shoe collection had begun to rival mine.

  “You just keep getting—“ hotter. “—taller,” I said, managing not to spill my inner monologue, a skill I’d had to work on since our status had reverted to friends. In the halcyon dream of our dating, we’d both become shameless flirts, as if we were making up for lost time spent not flirting in the six months it had taken us to get together.

  “Either that, or you’re slouching under the weight of that bag,” he returned with a smirk. “C’mon. Gimme that.”

  And he plucked the bag I had just struggled to heft on to my shoulders off of my back like it weighed nothing. But he didn’t lift it on to his own broad shoulders. He set that, and his own duffel, down on the floor and swept me into an enormous hug.

  Hugging Jagger, even if only in greeting, conjured the memory of other embraces—of listening to music on his bed or napping in the hammock in his backyard, safely ensconced in his arms. My nose pressed to his hard muscled chest let me greedily breathe in his distinct scent—one that still recalled Trinity County forests, even though we were miles from home.

  And Jag didn’t give short hugs, either. He really wrapped himself around me, holding his embrace for a long, long time. It was hard not to tip my head upward like I had done so many times before, to melt under his sage-colored gaze, and to let him pull me in for a kiss.

  Just as I was busy trying to be cool, think of something intelligent to say, and not pounce on him, the heel of his hand came to my jaw and he threaded his fingers through my hair. I did tip my face up then, not knowing to the marrow of my bones that I would kiss him back if he initiated it.

  But in place of the “I still love you. Breaking up was stupid” look I might’ve been hoping for, I got only his smirk.

  “Looks like I won the bet with Declan.”

  I gave him what must have been a quizzical look.

  “He bet me fifty bucks your beanie was surgically-attached to your head.”

  Being from Southern California and moving to Northern California in high school, I’d been perpetually cold. I’d worn a wide array of knit beanies, daily, to cope. In retrospect, it was laughable. Northern California was like a heatwave compared to the Northeast. Until Providence, I hadn’t known the true meaning of cold.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one with a new ‘do,” I said, trying to sound normal because Jag’s fingers were still in my hair. Hair that I might have spent twice the amount of time styling that morning, but let’s not talk about that. On the advice of my roommate, Jane, I’d kept it long and thanks to an invention called the BaByliss, I could make it fall into soft waves without having any actual hair styling talent.

  “Yeah, well, I figured if I’m gonna be a composer, I’d better start looking artsy and brooding.” To my utter regret, he removed his hand from my hair long enough to run his fingers through his own. It was longer than I remembered it and he’d either trained it to defy gravity or it held some sort of product.

  “Huh,” I tutted, cocking my head and pretending to scrutinize him. “I figured New York just had its hooks in you. Every time I see you, you look less and less west coast.”

  Jag pretended to pout. “Well, you know, not all of us can look like California girls….”

  “No,” I agreed, biting my lip to stop a grin that wanted to break through from spreading. God, it’s great to see your face, I thought to myself, but didn’t say. Instead, I finished my thought with, “I suppose not.”

  He smiled down at me for another long second before angling his head toward the counter. "Come on. Let's check in.”

  I’d been sitting in the non-secure area, right inside Terminal 8. Instead of heading us toward the automatic kiosks where you could print out a paper boarding pass, Jag went straight to the line with no wait—the one with the small red carpet lining its path—the priority line, because he had it like that.

  I hadn't fully appreciated it until we graduated high school—mainly because I hadn't completely known—Jagger Monroe was made of money. In high school, it had felt relative—like his family was just richer than most other families in Rye. Now that we were in the real world, it was abundantly clear that Jag was rich in the absolute sense, rich with a capital “R”.

  I’d known that his mother had worked in the music business, and that she been some sort of 90s-era producer. What I hadn't known was that Elsie Monroe had co-written a few hit songs. Jag’s dad, Jack Monroe, was from old east coast money. He’d shared with me, and me alone, that he’d come into a sizable trust fund when he’d turned eighteen and would come into more when he was twenty-one. It added up to these sorts of things—first-class plane tickets and entry into something called the Flagship Lounge.

  At the counter, we chatted intermittently as the exceedingly polite gate agent got Jag’s information, checked in his duffel, and, upon his insistence, took mine.

  “I get two for free," he’d said. And then my huge bag was gone and it was just me and my purse and Jag with his arm around my shoulders as we sauntered off to security.

  This was our little ritual—flying back and forth from home to the East Coast at the same time. It was just like we’d done that first time we’d come in the fall, staying together as long as we could before we had to part ways. For winter and spring breaks, he’d taken the train north and we’d flown back to California out of Logan. That morning, I’d taken an early train so we could both fly out of JFK.

  It thrilled and unnerved me in equal measure—how, even though we hadn’t seen each other in weeks—ten minutes together found us right back in our rhythm. We chatted and laughed and caught up and smiled all the way through the security line, all the way through stopping at the newsstand to buy gum, all during the time we hung out in Jag’s fancy VIP passenger lounge.

  I’d been up at the buffet, availing myself of bagel chips and hummus. When I returned to my seat, Jag was holding my magazine.

  "Sign this for me?" he asked, reaching into his bag to grab a pen.

  Three months before, I’d written a piece for Entertainment Weekly—a list of the top ten television theme songs of all time. Since magazines were molasses slow, it had only hit newsstands last week. It was a tiny, half page thing and a list really wasn’t the same thing as an article, but for a college kid who had just finished her freshman year, it was a pretty fucking good start.

  Heat rose to the tips of my ears, making me aware of my blush, a reaction that only seemed to surface when I was with Jag. I’d expected him to read it online. Hell, I’d sent him the link myself, which he’d apparently sent to his parents, because I’d gotten a nice text from his mom. But Jag had gotten a hard copy, which meant he’d found an actual newsstand to buy it.

  “Autographing magazine articles isn't really a thing…you know that, right?” I liked giving him a hard time about his request, even though—secretly—I was brimming with pride.

  "Shut up and sign it, Vega. This is gonna be worth something someday. When I tell people I knew the famous Roxy Vega before she became the famous Roxy Vega, I want them to believe me. This’ll be my proof.”

  I plucked the magazine from h
is hand, not knowing what to write or where to sign. There was barely any room in the margin, so what I wrote was small:

  If this ever becomes a collector’s item, I'll eat my hat. -Roxy Vega.

  He smirked as I handed it back to him and took a quick glance at my words. After replacing it carefully in his messenger bag, he snaked a bagel chip from my plate.

  "It was a great piece," he complimented.

  I was still getting used to accepting praise for my victories, so I just shrugged. “It was a start."

  "Everyone's gotta start somewhere," he argued sensibly.

  Focusing on becoming a writer first and a music writer second had been the tradeoff of attending Brown. The small music scene in Providence was no place to break into the business. More often than Jag had visited me there that year, I’d visited him in New York, where the shows were a lot better. Maybe it was because getting to see Jag made me so blissfully happy that it felt New York was growing on me.

  Jag was in his element there in a way that surprised me. He’d caught the rhythm and had learned the city and took me to all manner of places. I’d thought that Juilliard might be a little stuffy and intense—full of “serious musicians” with obscure or highbrow tastes. His friends were talented, to be sure—but they were also really nice. When it came to adjusting, he was doing a lot better than me.

  That first Christmas home had been the worst, the bliss of having a full two weeks together sullied by the familiarity of places that reminded me how things used to be. It was easier back east, with the distractions of the city, the utter lack of privacy that came with having roommates, and the party-like atmosphere nearly everywhere we went. But back home, when we were all alone, in the quiet surroundings of our forest town, Jagger had no problem sticking to our agreement to just be friends.