I grit my teeth. I knew the moment was coming. For the rest of my life, talking about Harvard will be tied to Ethan. “I don’t know where he’ll commit, but he got into Harvard if that’s what you’re asking.”
My dad’s face splits into a grin. He turns to my mom. “Pay up.”
To my horror, my mom pulls a twenty from her pocket and hands it to my dad.
“You bet on us?”
“On whether you’d be at the same school or not.” Mom shrugs. “Statistically, it seemed unlikely.”
As much as I desperately want to change the subject, a worse thought enters my mind. “Wait, have you bet on other things?”
“You’ll need to be more specific,” Mom replies.
“Related to my life. Specifically related to Ethan in my life.”
They exchange a glance that tells me everything.
“I could cut you in—” my dad starts, then stops when the sliding door opens and Jamie emerges.
“What’s going on out here?” Jamie asks. She doesn’t look in my direction.
“We’re celebrating!” Mom nudges my shoulder. “Alison, tell her.”
Jamie turns to me, perfectly polite. “I got into Harvard,” I say to her feet.
A day ago, Jamie would’ve rushed to hug me. Instead, she just plasters on a pleasant smile. “I’m happy for you.”
“Pizza?” My dad offers.
Jamie shakes her head. “Maybe later. I’m going to take a shower.” She leaves, sandals scraping the gravel loudly in the warm night.
“Are you guys in a fight?” my mom asks when Jamie closes the sliding door.
Watching the light go on in Jamie’s bedroom window, I push down the hurt that she won’t even celebrate Harvard with me. “A little one,” I say.
I do feel bad for how I upset her, but I still maintain she’s not looking at herself objectively. I don’t think me getting into Harvard helps. If anything, it’s going to remind her of what she could be doing right now but isn’t, and I don’t need to hear how she sees my sacrifices as a waste just because she didn’t like her own direction.
“Some unwanted parental advice,” my mom says. “Go easy on her. It’s difficult to watch your baby sister outpace you.”
I frown. I don’t like being told to diminish what I’m proud of. “I’m hardly outpacing her. She went to Columbia.”
“She did, and right now she’s living with her parents while her much younger sister is about to move out. It’s not like she’s happy she’s here.”
“She certainly acts like she is.”
My dad gives me a stern look. “You’re smarter than that. She may have recognized the job she had, even the relationship she was in, weren’t right, but that doesn’t mean she’s happy in this house, unsure of what’s next.”
“We’re all so proud of you, Alison,” my mom says. “Even Jamie. She’s just going through a lot right now, and we have to give her time. She’ll come around and be happy for you about Harvard. You know she will.”
“Fine.” I pick up my pizza. Even if my sister won’t celebrate, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.
My dad faces my mom. “Over-under on how long their fight lasts?”
Forty-Two
THE MILLARD FILLMORE IS just the way I remember when Ethan and I meet there the following evening for the design consultation we scheduled with Clint. We’re a little over a month out from the reunion. There’s been no unexpected remodel, no visit from one of the renovation shows on HGTV, not even the pleasant uplift of realizing we’d only had a negative first impression. It’s fine with me, of course. I only hope Williams overlooks the chipped paint and the exposed wiring where a power outlet once fit.
Ethan and I are walking up and down the room with Clint, pointing out the placements for tables and decorations, the awkwardness between us practically palpable as we don’t compete with each other. This morning we even had a downright respectful discussion of Crime and Punishment in English.
It’s undeniable where this nonconfrontational confrontation is going. We’re headed for a conversation I don’t know how to have. While Ethan points out where we want the bar, I watch him, the things he told me in my office in the Chronicle echoing in my ears. He wanted to kiss me again. He thinks about me often enough it distracts him from classwork. The memories fill my cheeks with fire.
Of course, right then Ethan catches my eye. I turn quickly to hide my blush, pretending I’m considering his bar positioning proposal.
What’s frustrating is I’ve never felt confused by my own feelings before. Not the way I do now. I know what I want and why I want it. In my previous relationships, I could rationalize why I dated the guys I did. They were nice, easygoing, not overwhelming commitments. Ethan and I, we’re nuclear fission. The explosive energy of pushing apart. We’re messy, disruptive, uncontrollable. I don’t understand why this infatuation with him hasn’t run its course.
Yet here I am, enjoying lingering glances at his lips, his hands, wondering when we’ll next find ourselves alone.
“You want the Millard Fillmore signature lemonade, right?” Clint asks. His words snap me from my reverie. I glance over and find Ethan grimacing.
“You have a signature lemonade?” Ethan’s voice is weighted with skepticism.
“Best in the city,” Clint replies. I’m ready to end this discussion and confirm we’ll have whatever constitutes the Millard Fillmore lemonade when Clint continues. “Give me a moment,” he says. “I’ll fetch you a couple cups from the kitchen.”
I realize seconds late what this will mean. Ethan and me alone, without classmates and Chronicle writers and Clint to keep us from the conversations I’m desperate not to have. “Oh, we don’t need—” I start to say. Unfortunately, Clint’s already on his way to the kitchen. I’m left with my nemesis-with-benefits, who leans on the dark brown wooden archway near him, watching me curiously.
“Well, Sanger”—he’s obviously enjoying this—“what should we talk about while we wait?”
“Nothing?” I offer weakly. “I’ve been meaning to incorporate more silence into my life.” There’s discomfort I don’t hide in the way I finger the hem of my cardigan.
“What other schools did you get into?”
I startle. His question is competition, and competition, I know how to do. It’s a respite, a removal from biting flames into the pleasant pain of an overheated bath. “Princeton, Columbia, Amherst, Northwestern,” I reply haughtily. “You?”