I grin reading her text. Lewis claps me on the back. “You ready to go?” he asks. I nod and stand up, swiping the sand from my jeans. While we walk to the car, I reply to Juniper.
You’re not the first person to tell me that.
Juniper
FITZ AND I are friends. Just friends. When he texted me today, I decided in a rush of wonderful clarity I wouldn’t be giving up on Matt if I were to text a friend. I would be lying to myself if I said the decision had nothing to do with my conversation with Tía in the middle of the night. Her implication I would have no one to call, no one who would be there if I needed someone when I’m in the world on my own, might have kindled my desire to have one more friend.
We drove into New Haven that morning, Matt leaving me to my Yale tour while he explored the city. Wanting a break from the constant college touring, he convinced me to spend the rest of the day in Westport, which was only forty minutes away. He’d read it was one of the wealthiest towns in the country and decided he had to see for himself. We wandered the pristine sidewalks and around the perfectly trimmed hedges, imagining ourselves living together in each of the palatial houses, me a Pritzker Prize winner and him the owner of the Red Sox.
While we stopped for coffee and sweet potato scones, my dad called to fill me in on the state of affairs at home. Tía is livid I hung up her, obviously. Mom found Marisa at Steve’s house, and she’s been grounded for the rest of winter break. Dad recommended I enjoy my trip and then “put together a respectful, even if fake, apology to Tía” when I get home. I told him I’d think about it.
I did text Marisa, hoping she would understand why I had to violate the sacred sibling code and tell on her, but she ignored me. Usually when Marisa and I fight, I can expect angry emoji responses to my olive branches—flames, puking faces, skulls, or the dreaded frowning cat. But today, nothing.
I’m trying not to think about it. I know I did the right thing. For now, I’m allowed to focus on this trip. But no matter how much I tell myself to ignore the conflicts waiting for me at home, I can’t. Not completely. It’s a layer of frost on my window, making the world look cracked and gray.
Texting Fitz is the best distraction I’ve found.
We leave Westport in the evening. With night falling, in the gridlocked expanse of highway leading into New York City, we continue messaging. He tries to convince me to apply to Dartmouth, and then the conversation threads through everything, like the Hudson River out the window on its way to the sea.
I used to live in NYC, you know. Well, Brooklyn.
Why did you move? (Where did you move btw?)
My grandmother was sick. We moved to Springfield, Massachusetts, to help her run the family restaurant.
How about you? Have you lived in New Hampshire your whole life?
Yeah. Tilton to be exact. I’ve stayed with my dad in Canada a couple times, though. He lives in Toronto.
* * *
I couldn’t get a pic fast enough, but I swear I just passed a billboard for the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg.
. . . the eyes of who?
From The Great Gatsby!! The optometrist’s billboard!
I wouldn’t know. I haven’t read it.
I’m sorry, FITZGERALD. You’re named after the author and you haven’t read The Great Gatsby?
* * *
You’re into architecture, right? Are you applying to the schools with the best architecture programs?
Why do you know I’m interested in architecture?
You mentioned it in the BU information session, remember?
Of course I remember. But I’m the one with the good memory.