Juniper’s expression lights up. “Ooh, a local! Hey, any tips?” She gestures to Fitzgerald. “We’re on a road trip up the West Coast, and we have twenty-four hours here.”
Fitzgerald’s now watching me too, blue eyes set in freckled features. I wonder what their relationship could possibly be. They’re definitely flirtatious, and taking a road trip just the two of them feels romantic. Yet Juniper ordered him not to flirt with her. I don’t know why they’ve caught my curiosity when I have other things to concentrate on, but they have. Maybe other people’s inscrutable romances are easier to figure out than my own.
“Um, what do you like to do?” I ask.
“Everything,” Juniper promptly replies.
I kind of love the response. It’s in keeping with the restless energy underwriting this girl’s every move. However, it is somewhat unhelpful. Fitzgerald appears to understand this. “We’re into food, desserts in particular,” he elaborates, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Oh, uh.” I pause, realizing I’m out of my depth. I don’t know the restaurants in downtown San Francisco. There could be a world-famous bakery nestled under the stone and stucco skyscrapers five minutes from here—I’d have no idea. It feels childish to admit it, though, like I’d be betraying the fact I have neither a car nor disposable income and eat my parents’ home-cooked food every night. I offer the only idea I have. “You could check out where the Sweet Wieners food truck is tomorrow.”
Juniper diligently makes a note in her phone. Right then, Clint comes out to the counter, and Juniper rushes over to check in.
“She takes traveling seriously,” I say to Fitzgerald. “Is she your girlfriend?”
He watches Juniper, fondness in his eyes mixed with something searching. “No.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “It just looked like—”
“It’s fine.” From the lightness in his voice, I get the feeling it really is. He closes his dictionary. Everything about his manner and clothes is Ethan’s opposite, from the endearing way he gently joked with Juniper to the denim jacket he’s wearing over his T-shirt. “We’re just friends. We might be more if we went to college together. She’s in Rhode Island, and I’m in Pittsburgh right now, but I’m transferring to New Hampshire next year.”
“Did you go to high school together?” Wondering if they’re a high school pair who stayed in each other’s lives, I feel my thoughts stray back to Ethan in the other room.
“No. But we met in our senior year on a road trip,” Fitzgerald says. “We’ve decided to make it a tradition, taking road trips together whenever we can. Last year we did the South—Charleston, Atlanta, New Orleans. It’s like our annual reunion.”
The word resonates with me. Everyone and their reunions, carrying people from the past into the present and on, no matter how much changes. They felt forced to me, like stuffing yourself into a childhood sweatshirt. Like grabbing on to old pieces of your life, ignoring how they don’t fit.
But Fitzgerald and Juniper don’t look like they no longer fit. I catch sight of Ethan lingering in the ballroom, rubbing his heel on the flat carpet. Does Ethan fit into my life now or in the future? I don’t know. I’ve realized, however, being here with him isn’t helping.
Because there’s no figuring Ethan out. Regardless of what I feel, I can’t be certain of how he feels. As long as I don’t know what he wants, what our competition is, I’ll never know what this unnerving evolution of it represents to him. If he’s only ever found our rivalry to be a game, then this new phase is nothing more—just changing the board from checkers to chess. Maybe he’s bored of competing over exams and class discussions, and he’s only hooking up with me to entertain himself for a couple more weeks or months. Isn’t that what he told me seconds before Harvard decisions came out? For a little while, it might be fun.
I know it’s not the only explanation. It could be expertly executed payback, or a combination of the two. The one thing it definitely isn’t is real.
My head clears. The way I need to deal with Ethan is no longer confusing. It’s obvious. I refuse to feel something for him, plain and simple. Not while I don’t know if I’m just one more empty pursuit of his. One more preoccupation, one more impermanent cure for his boredom. Every time we’ve talked about what’s going on between us, he’s treated it like just another chance to beat me at something. Conversations built on tactics and superiority aren’t going to get me the answers I want, but I don’t know if we’re even capable of having a conversation founded on anything else.
In the ballroom, Ethan’s not looking at me anymore. He’s surveying the room with his usual skepticism, hands in his pockets. I don’t have to be here. The thought comes like it’s from outside me. I grab on, enjoying the crisp clarity, the freedom. Ethan can finish the design meeting without me.
I get up from the couch. “I hope you have a nice trip,” I say to Fitzgerald.
He smiles. “Thanks.”
I walk past the wooden table in the lobby, decorated with a full vase of flowers, and head for the door. On the way, I overhear Clint checking Juniper in while she waits in front of the ornately carved counter.
“Would you like a room with two double beds or one queen?” he asks.
“One bed is fine,” Juniper replies.
Forty-Four
I HAVE MY DRIVING test on Friday. In the front seat of Mom’s car, waiting outside the DMV, I compulsively rehearse in my head the controls I’ll need to know. Wipers. Defroster. Hazard lights. The way I do before tests in class, I remind myself I’ve practiced and memorized. There’s no reason to be nervous. I feel prepared. Three weeks of lessons with Hector and I’m a fairly capable driver.
My mom’s in the passenger seat, and my dad’s in the back. Annoyingly, both of them took off work and insisted on coming. They decided to schedule the test during an ASG postering party at Isabel’s house, where I wish I was. It’s not like I enjoy postering or am particularly good at it, but I hate to fall short on my commitments, especially when Ethan will be there, making sure to remind everyone of my absence.
The car ahead of me moves up, and I roll forward in the line. We’ve formed a procession from the drive-thru to the parking lot, in which we’ve waited for the past twenty minutes. It’s like the interim in class where they’ve passed out the exams facedown and you’re not permitted to look, except it lasts for half an hour of pedal, brake, pedal, brake.
“Where are you going to drive first?” Dad asks.
“The ASG thing I was supposed to be at twenty minutes ago,” I remind him, permitting irritation to enter my voice. He’s used to it.