re-creating the picture in my mind, immersing myself in the image. The waterfall pillared into the frozen lake. The powder covering everything. Juniper’s lips meeting mine, melting the cold of outside. The two of us parting, and—
I can’t quite remember my words exactly. “Something about being glad you kissed me instead of answering my question?” I venture.
Juniper shakes her head, looking pleased.
“‘Kissing me isn’t a word,’” she says in what I recognize is an impression of me. It’s . . . not terrible.
The funny thing is, I don’t know if she’s right. The sentence sounds familiar, but I can’t recall with certainty whether I said it. I’m only convinced because I have other evidence of Juniper’s incredible memory. The college-related facts and figures she would rattle off, the driving directions she wouldn’t need repeated.
“I could probably tell you what you ordered in every restaurant we went to, and what questions you asked on every tour,” Juniper continues. The pride in her voice turns gentle. “I remember more about you than you do. But does that mean you’re not the person I know?”
The question breaks me. I understand her point now, and tears well up in my eyes. I clench my teeth to fight the tremor in my jaw.
“Just because one person doesn’t remember something doesn’t mean the memory is gone,” she says. “It doesn’t mean the person isn’t who they’ve always been. You’ll be there to remember who your mom is even when she can’t. You can carry those memories for her. Just like we’ll carry the memories of this week together. Even if memory is the only place we’ll exist for each other, we won’t be less real for it.”
My throat feels thick. I put my hand on her leg because it’s the only way I have right now to tell her how desperately I needed this. While we pass highway exits in the cloud-white daylight, she gives me time to find my voice.
“Here’s what I wanted to say to you tonight,” I get out. “I’m glad I met you, Juniper Ramírez, for more reasons than I can say. And my feelings for you have gone way past ‘like’ too. Admiration. Respect. Gratitude. Love, or the beginning of it.” I continue hastily, not wanting to linger on the word. “Knowing you has inspired me. You inspire me.”
While I speak, something unfinished in me races ahead of my words. I realize I’ve made a decision, one I need to voice.
“I have no idea how much time I’ll have before my mom needs me,” I say. “But I’m going to go to whatever college I want to for as long as I can.” I don’t feel a triumphant rush when I finish the declaration. The fear isn’t gone. It probably never will be. But I think I have what I need now, truths I’ve found on this trip, to keep the fear quiet.
I might have one year at my dream college, or two, or four. It doesn’t matter. If I’ve learned anything from this week with Juniper, it’s that change can be wonderful, and wonderful doesn’t need to last to be worthwhile. Would it have been easier to have never known her so I wouldn’t have to face this goodbye? Maybe.
But I wouldn’t trade this time, however fleeting, for a thousand painless returns home. Even if things have to end, they’re worth having, no matter how difficult the goodbye.
The thought gives me an idea. I sit up straighter and check the rearview mirror. Lewis’s car follows behind us. Pulling out my phone, I call my brother.
Lewis picks up on the first ring. “Fitz? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I overheard you on the phone with Prisha last night. Where is she right now? What school?”
Lewis pauses. “Princeton.”
I turn to Juniper with a grin. “What do you say we add one more school to our tour?”
Juniper
PRINCETON IS AN hour away when we pull off the highway into a gas station, a square of pavement cut from the grass in front of the roadside woods. When Fitz explained his idea to give Lewis