kisses and sweaty palms while we held hands for the first time, and all the other firsts we shared in our hometown just outside of Austin, Texas.
I haven’t seen him since last summer when I went home to visit. My last night in Texas plays through my mind like a favorite scene from a movie. We’d picnicked in an old field near his parents’ house so I could enjoy one last Texas sunset, sipping cherry limeades—my favorite drink—and laughing way too hard after being chased by a swarm of mosquitos. We kissed until we forgot about my impending flight and how it would be months before we saw each other again. We didn’t talk about it as we stripped from our clothes and slept together under the endless Texas sky, or after when he fell asleep holding my hand. I watched a million stars fall that night, wishing on each of them that things would always be like that.
Time has been a test, though, and distance proves to be a struggle. It’s harder to find things to talk about. I don’t know many of his friends, and he doesn’t know mine, our colleges are different, our classes are different, somedays everything feels different.
Matt: Good to hear from you, Olivia Reid. Things have been crazy here. Spring football and classes. How are you?
My heart pitters and then patters.
Me: I’m well. Busy with school and work. I miss you.
I bite my bottom lip, thinking of flirty innuendos I could send in hopes that he’ll respond sooner than his two-week average. But our lack of conversations and texts make that seem almost misplaced. I wait for several minutes, then go, realizing I’m already going to be cutting it too close.
A pang sits heavy in my chest—one I’ve grown familiar with and expect since moving to Washington halfway through my junior year of high school, nearly four years ago. Some days, I miss simple things. Little things. Things I unknowingly took for granted. I miss Whataburger and being able to drive eighty-five on the highway. I miss the H-E-B grocery store I’d shopped at my entire life, where Miss Deb, who worked the bakery section for as long as I can remember, would slip me cookies even though I wasn’t a kid anymore. I miss big, open skies and kolaches for breakfast. Sometimes I miss Texas so much the pain in my chest feels crushing, and other times—moments where I’m laughing with Rose, or am experiencing something new that only the Pacific Northwest offers—I feel optimistic, realizing life goes on. This morning, I’m stuck near crushing, hearing from Matt usually has that effect. It leads me through a darkened maze of what-ifs that connect to a tunnel of what would’ve happened if I’d stayed? I know I shouldn’t dwell on the hypotheticals—since there’s literally nothing I can do to change the past—but sometimes, my heart doesn’t get the memo.
My trip down memory lane fades like the miles as I reach Brighton University, one of the most prestigious and sought-after schools in the state of Washington. Home of college kids who drink coffee like it’s water and who are itching to save the planet while becoming the new tech bazillionaire. And while I’m team save the planet, sometimes I feel like a complete outsider.
I never saw myself attending Brighton. I always imagined I’d be going to a school in Texas because I never thought I’d leave the state. I know I’m lucky and that this opportunity isn’t one to scrounge, but days like today make it a bit harder to remind myself of this as I narrowly avoid a puddle that could easily be the sixth Great Lake and choke on a cloud of bong smoke. Not that kids I grew up around didn’t occasionally smoke, it’s just so openly accepted here that I still catch myself staring when someone smells like they’ve been locked in a hot box all day.
My tennis shoes hit the sidewalk in a rhythm, hearing my mom’s words in my head. “Dust yourself off, and try your best. No one else knows what they’re doing either.”
Her words offer a bloom of comfort as I pass by person after person who all seem to know exactly what they want and where they belong.
My professor looks at me as I slide into my seat five minutes after class began.
I try to smile my apologies, but he does a short shake of his head as he continues his lecture, confirming he’s going to