“Sorry about the mess,” Lewis says. I’m distantly grateful when he begins grabbing loose items and tossing them back in his bag. “I thought you might be staying with Juniper.”
“We’re not even dating,” I mutter. I pull my sweats from my suitcase, hoping to escape this conversation quickly.
“Yeah . . .” Lewis draws the word out. “That’s not really the way things work in college. Come on, dude. This is one of the perks of traveling with your chill older brother.”
“I wasn’t aware there were any perks,” I snap.
In the corner of my peripheral vision I catch his expression falter. It’s not a frown, not a flinch—only a nearly imperceptible fading. It’s enough to make me feel guilty, not enough for me to be conciliatory. Especially not when he’s prodded and joked and insinuated every chance he gets.
He continues to consolidate his unpacked clothes, saying nothing. I change quickly, and it’s not long before we hit the lights. Even with the room dark and quiet, I feel the tension pressing out on the walls, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. We’ve had moments, flickers of levity and something like friendship, over the past week. But the pressure beneath them is growing. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend it’s not.
Tomorrow is a new day, I remind myself, the starchy hotel pillow crunching under my head. I roll over once, twice, becoming gradually aware how far I am from sleep. It takes me longer to figure out why, to realize it’s not only the disconnect with my brother or the unpleasant tension with Juniper.
It’s the possibility she’s right. I know I’m not wrong to worry what’ll happen when my mom’s prognosis turns into a diagnosis. What’s wiring my thoughts right now is the question of where real worry ends and where excuses begin. I’ve convinced myself for years I don’t care where I go to college, convinced myself I couldn’t try things because of my mom’s situation. But furthermore, I’ve convinced myself she’s the only reason I wouldn’t have tried those things. I didn’t consider the possibility I would’ve found other excuses if circumstances were different.
It’s disorienting because I honestly don’t know if I’ve been lying to myself this whole time.
Juniper
I WALKED INTO the lobby fifteen minutes early to wait for Fitz and Lewis to emerge from the elevator. Swarthmore’s only tour today was full, so I prepared my own in the hours before I went to sleep last night, hunting up destinations and history on my phone while under the covers in my empty room. But today, I’m hardly thinking of touring Swarthmore, too wrapped up in the regret that preoccupied me while I showered in the tight hotel bathroom and robotically threw on my clothes, my scarf and jacket.
I want to correct the things I said to Fitz. I went too far, criticizing him for using his mom as an excuse. It’s not that I don’t believe what I said—I do—only, in the context of the fight, it sounded like it’s the only thing I think of him. Which trivialized how difficult I understand his situation is, how brave I know he’s being in the face of hard problems. There aren’t many people who would challenge themselves the way he has. He needs to hear those things too.
Five minutes past the hour, the elevator dings open and Fitz steps out. Lewis is right behind, rubbing his eyes. Fitz looks everywhere but at me.
“Good morning, Juniper,” Lewis says wearily when they reach me.
I give him a tight smile, but I’m focused on Fitz. His expression is muted, his eyes distant. It’s not the cold expressionlessness of a statue. It’s closer to the apprehensiveness of a statue that’s just come to life and has no idea who he is.
Lewis seems to notice the off-kilter dynamic between us. “Well,” he says, clearly trying to sound cheerful, “I’m off to find a café. I have a take-home final due by midnight, and I have not studied. Have fun.”
“Good luck.” I tug nervously on my scarf.
Lewis glances at his brother, and I read the concern in his eyes. Instead of