There’s only one reason to go. Juniper. It’s reason enough a thousand times over. I’m not ready to part from her, not yet. If UVA’s where she’s going next, I’m going with her.
Like magic, there’s a knock on the door. I roll out of bed, conscious I’m wearing a rumpled T-shirt and sweats, and open the door. Juniper’s in the hallway, looking perfect. Her hair is still wet, her nose pink from the cold. She’s holding a paper bag I know without a doubt contains bagels—plain for me and chocolate chip for Lewis.
“Hey.” Her voice is gently questioning. “Sorry, I should’ve texted. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I was up,” I say defensively, my self-consciousness over my shirt-and-sweats combo and bed head skyrocketing.
She doesn’t seem convinced. “I brought you breakfast.” She holds out the bag. “How are you guys?” she continues delicately.
Her eyes have filled with sympathy, the respectful kind where it’s clear she’s not pressing me to confide or be okay. It makes me want to kiss her and cry in equal measure.
“We’re good,” I say, taking the bagels. “We talked and . . . it’s nice to have him understand me. To understand him.” The sentences come out clumsily. I guess I have to get used to them being true.
Juniper nods. “Is he awake?” She glances past me into the room.
“He’s showering. We’ll be ready to hit the road in thirty minutes.”
“Actually,” she says, chewing her lip. “I was thinking, maybe we should skip UVA.”
I frown. “Skip it? What about your itinerary?”
“Forget the itinerary,” she replies. “I think we’re all about ready to head home.”
I’m half relieved, half heartbroken. True, I don’t want to see any more schools, but canceling the tour means bringing Juniper and me closer to goodbye. I imagine how hard it’s going to be, hugging her for the last time, backing away before driving out of each other’s lives. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s probably a good idea.”
She smiles, but I notice the sadness in her expression. “Great. It’s a seven-hour drive. We could do it in one day, if you’re up for it.”
“Sure.” I’m forcing every word, every gesture. I feel like I’m following commands to break my fingers or something. “Do you want to head out now, before we’re ready, or . . . ?”
The sadness flees from her smile, and she crosses her arms authoritatively. “We have seven more hours together, Fitzgerald. You’re riding with me.”
Relief races over me. “Good. Maybe we’ll hit traffic,” I say hopefully.
She tugs my shirt, pulling us together. “I wouldn’t complain.” She kisses me fiercely, like she does everything.
I try to lose myself in the kiss. My hands find her hips under her jacket, and I take in the unforgettable smell of her skin, the brush of tongues. With her lips on mine, I try to forget the voice reminding me this is one of the last kisses we have left.
Fitz
IN HALF AN hour, we’re on the road returning to Boston. I’m in Juniper’s car, while Lewis follows in his.
There are thousands of things I want to say. I want to thank Juniper for understanding I needed to skip UVA. To hear her thoughts on each of the colleges we’ve visited, to listen to her mind working through variables and contingencies, possibilities and plans. To tell her I think she’s beautiful with her hair down, bronze waves cascading onto her shoulders.
Except I can’t. Everything I could say carries the unsupportable weight of being one of our final conversations.
The silence in the car is suffocating, the way it was in our first drive together. We’ve come heartbreakingly full circle. I know without having to confirm it out loud Juniper isn’t speaking for the same reason, the inescapable knowledge our relationship ends in Boston.
“Want to listen to a podcast?” I finally ask jokingly. Anything to split the silence.
“No, I think we should get the goodbyes out of our system.” Her voice is confident, upbeat.
I don’t see how she can be cheerful. “Explain,” I say.