It’s the perfect response, somehow. It’s everything Fitz is, reserved and understated, and yet open and heartfelt. There’s another pause, this time without the typing bubble. I wonder what he’s doing, what school he’s visiting, whether he’s in a college bookstore somewhere across the state.
Tell me about UConn. What do you like about it?
His question makes something in my chest flutter. A girl who looks about my age walks into my aisle, trailed by two younger boys, probably fourth or fifth grade. One of the boys crashes into the rack of key chains, and the other howls in laughter. The girl scowls.
“Go bother Mom,” she says, waving them off and turning her attention to the car decals.
I leave the girl and her brothers behind, heading for the stationery aisle.
UConn is actually on Matt’s college list. There isn’t a whole lot of overlap in the schools we like, but UConn has a ton of programs and great resources.
“Hey,” Matt says, suddenly behind me. I startle, whipping around to face him. He’s holding a UConn polo shirt. “You talking to your dad?” he asks.
“Oh, no, actually,” I tell him, my stomach sinking guiltily. I don’t hide things from Matt. Whenever Tía is being impossible or I get a grade I’m unhappy with, Matt is the person I go to. “This is, um, Fitz.”
“Fitzgerald?” I hear puzzlement in Matt’s voice, not resentment. “I still think it’s crazy you ran into him again last night.”
“Yeah. I know.” While we walked home from the party last night, I told Matt I ended up talking with Fitz for a couple of hours. I didn’t mention how we went up to the rooftop, and Matt didn’t ask. “He’s smart. I’m determined to get him to diversify his college list.”
Matt rolls his eyes with a smirk. I know exactly what he’s thinking. For the past year, I’ve played unofficial college counselor to pretty much our entire grade. From telling Colleen O’Connell about Kenyon’s creative writing program to encouraging Tory to reach for Berkeley, I’ve become the go-to source for everything college-related. I’m College Confidential in human form.
“Tell him to apply here,” Matt says. His friendliness is touching and completely charming. He’s that kind of guy, inclusive and welcoming. “Then the three of us could hang out,” he continues.
My expression falters, and I hope Matt doesn’t notice. He’s been unusually engaged today—admiring the campus, asking questions during the tour, picking out this UConn polo. It’s honestly been wonderful to watch. I don’t know how I’ll muster the heart to tell him that after last night, I might be falling in love with Brown.
“I will,” I say weakly.
Matt nods and wanders off toward the sweatshirt rack, either not noticing or choosing not to remark on my hesitancy. When he’s gone, my phone vibrates in my hand.
This is coming from a place of complete friendship and has nothing to do with any potentially non-platonic hopes I may have, but I feel like you’re not the type to pick a college for a guy.
I read the text once, then twice, each time with a twist in my gut. Fitz has known me for two days, and he recognizes this fundamental truth of who I am. My boyfriend of over a year . . . doesn’t. I don’t want to contemplate the questions that realization brings.
I glance up from the phone, finding Matt chatting easily with a guy in a UConn soccer sweatshirt who’s holding a pile of new notebooks. Matt says something, and the student laughs. I’m not surprised. Matt’s the life of the party. Not only the “party”—the life of the campus bookstore, the lunch table. It’s why I fell in love with him.
It’s why I still love him.
I watch him, adoration warring with whatever hint of reluctance I felt when he brought up going to UConn together. I don’t blame him for wanting college to feel the way high school does. I’ve loved high school. I’ve loved high school with him. Finding notes he’s written me stashed in my locker, sitting in the bleachers at his games, having