returned. He blinks, and it disappears, erased so completely that I wonder if I misread him or if he’s practiced in letting go of irritation.
“It was . . . interesting meeting you . . .” I pause, realizing he never gave me his name.
“Oh, I’m Fitz,” he supplies.
“Fitz?” I repeat. “Like Fitzwilliam?” It’s not a name for redheaded teenage boys on college tours eating cannoli in Boston bakeries. It’s a name for snarky Jane Austen heroes.
“Like Fitzgerald. Not that that’s much better.”
“Damn,” Matt says. “Family name? I have a cousin named Eustace, after our grandfather.”
Fitz turns to Matt. Even though Matt interrupted us, even though his first words to Fitz were lightly disparaging, Fitz doesn’t appear annoyed. I’m convinced Matt is secretly a superhero with powers of uncanny likability.
“No,” Fitz replies. “My mom is really into twentieth-century American literature. My brother’s name is Lewis, for—”
“Sinclair Lewis,” I cut him off. “And F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Our eyes lock.
“Exactly,” Fitz says, and smiles widely for the first time. It’s not a flashy smile, not one used to being on display for large crowds. It’s the kind of smile for surprising kindnesses, for doors held open or dropped items picked up in hallways, for book recommendations or discovering you’ve both had the same favorite band since seventh grade. It’s exhilarated in a close-quarters kind of way.
Matt squeezes my hand, and I know he’s asking me if we can go.
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m Juniper, and this is Matt. My boyfriend.” I don’t know why I include the “boyfriend” designation when it’s obvious. I continue. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again on this trip. You know, if you don’t decide other colleges aren’t worth a chance.”
He nods, and I swear a wry gleam enters his unreadable eyes. “Impossible to say,” Fitzgerald—Fitz—says with a shrug.
Fitz
I LIED TO Juniper. It wasn’t impossible to say. It is very possible we’ll cross paths. I don’t do “cool” very well, but in Mike’s I miraculously pulled out a noncommittal veneer even though I knew my own itinerary put me in Providence next.
I’m not following this girl to Providence. I’m not. I reminded myself of this important fact on the walk from Mike’s to the T, from the train down to my brother’s dorm.
It’s just serendipity that my tour and Juniper’s are putting us in the same city again. Pure coincidence.
It’s pretty probable she’s visiting Brown like I am—from her unusual preparedness in the BU information session and her use of compunctiously, she exuded the overachiever vibe of student council presidents and future valedictorians. But there are plenty of colleges in Providence, I tell myself while packing up my backpack in my brother’s room the next morning. Plenty of opportunities for me not to run into Juniper and Matt. It would be impossibly coincidental if we did reconnect.
But even the possibility filled me with nervous excitement, which got me out of bed before six. It’s unlike me, wanting to spend time with some stranger. But being a stranger to her lets me be unlike myself.
I took another brief shower and quickly folded the futon back into a couch, then waited while I heard my brother’s phone alarm go off three times. I knew he was repeatedly hitting snooze. Lewis never was a morning person. In fairness, I’m usually not either. After the fourth alarm, I banged on his door and heard a groggy, “I’m up.”
We were on the road half an hour later, Lewis rubbing his eyes and dressed in a rumpled polo, one of those ones with an animal embroidered on the pocket. It was snowing softly when we headed out. Lewis drove carefully, neither of us speaking while we navigated onto I-93 and through Quincy, passing ponds and white rooftops.
Mom calls when we’re nearing the Rhode Island state line. Lewis hits answer on his dashboard display. “Hey, Mom. You’re on speaker,” he says.
Mom’s voice crackles over the car stereo. “Oh, you’re driving? I figured I’d be waking you up. I thought Fitz’s tour was scheduled for ten.” It’s a relief hearing how focused and vivacious her voice is,