If you love words, are you a writer? I bet you’d be great at poetry. You have poet face.
Poet face?
. . . Is that an insult?
* * *
I hope New York’s worth it. If I weren’t a homebody already, this traffic would do the trick.
It’s worth it, I promise.
And I think you’d leave New Hampshire for the right girl.
Is she asking?
IMPOSSIBLE, I say.
* * *
Fitz texts me a photo of himself looking disgusted by the guy in the driver’s seat, who has one hand on the wheel while gnawing determinedly on a piece of jerky. I recognize the tall, angular-featured Indian boy. Matt played beer pong with him in the basement of the Brown fraternity.
Lewis is currently eating python jerky. Please send help.
Wait, that’s your brother?
I know, I hardly believe it myself. He also bought alligator.
Well, yeah, and . . . you know, you look nothing alike.
Oh, did I not mention we’re adopted?
* * *
Here’s my favorite. Hiraeth.
What’s it mean?
Homesickness for a home to which you can never return or that never was.
Juniper
I’M THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED when we reach New York City. It’s nearly eight, the daylight long gone. We check into the hotel our parents put into our itinerary, one of the nondescript kinds that host new rotations of out-of-town businessmen and convention-goers every weekend. Of course, we only check in for one room. I canceled the other a couple of days ago when I restructured all our hotel plans.
I text my mom we got into the city okay, and she replies immediately with the thumbs-up emoji. As we pass used room service trays on the beige carpet, I trudge behind Matt to the elevator and into the hallway. He’s quiet, and I wonder what he’s thinking or if he’s only tired.
When he unlocks the door, I hardly look at the room. In this moment, the only thing I care about is the bed. I collapse onto the comforter, the over-washed threads scratching my face. The miles we walked in Westport, the two hours of traffic, and the uneven night of sleep are catching up to me.
“I think I’ve figured out how to take the subway to Justin’s place so we don’t have to deal with New York traffic or pay for a cab,” Matt says, letting the door swing shut behind him.
I crack open an eye. Matt drops his duffel bag and checks something on his phone without removing his jacket or scarf. Justin is another former teammate of Matt’s who’s now at NYU. He invited us over to a party tonight. When Matt mentioned it a week ago, I said it sounded like fun. But that was before the party at Brown, before I decided I didn’t want to waste time on this trip doing what we could do at home in a week.
“I’m beat,” I say, dragging myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “How about we walk somewhere for pizza, take in a bit of the city, and then call it a night?”
Matt frowns. “We promised Justin we’d go.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he’d understand if you told him we’re exhausted.”
“You’re too exhausted to go to our friend’s party but you want to walk around the city?” Matt’s eyes flash. He’s never been quick to anger. In the history of our relationship, I’ve only seen him upset a handful of times, and it was never with me. Not even when I overslept and was an hour late to the pancake breakfast he made me, or the time I drank too much and threw up on his favorite shoes. Matt is imperturbable. I don’t quite know how to contend with the sudden resentment in his gaze.
“I guess I’d rather spend the energy I do have out in the