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