“Our secret then.” His words thrill me more than I like. Glancing over, I see his expression’s grown serious. “Harvard complicates this,” he continues. “If only I’d gotten in and you were heading to Princeton or something, these decisions wouldn’t be so weighted.”
“First of all, if only one of us had gotten in to Harvard, it would have been me. But yes, I know what you mean.” It’s ironic, really. Our classmates hesitate to enter relationships right now for the opposite reason. With only a couple months before graduation and college in different cities, they know they’d be facing fast-approaching, definitive end points—which I’d wish for right now. Instead, we’ll both be in Cambridge. There’s no convenient out for our relationship, and going to Harvard with my high school boyfriend paints a very different vision of the future than the one I’d imagined. Holding on to this piece of high school feels wrong while I’m supposed to be starting this new, adult phase of my life.
“How about rivals with benefits?” Ethan proposes out of nowhere.
I pause, realizing what he’s saying. I laugh, which seems to surprise him. His eyes flick to me, then return to the intersection. “What kind of commitment is that, exactly?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Ethan replies. “But I’ve always been more committed to our rivalry than anything else.”
I feel a pleased flush stealing into my cheeks. It’s flattering. I remember every hour I’ve devoted to besting him, every night he’s been my final thought before bed. There’s an odd pleasure to imagining the comparable hours for him, the times he’s heard my name echoing in his head while he’s working. I know it’s true. Our rivalry is his first and favorite commitment.
It raises the usual questions with Ethan, though. If our competition is his number-one focus, what occupies the lower places on the list? “What do you want to study at Harvard?” I ask. “I realize I don’t even know.” I half expect him to dismiss my curiosity defensively the way he’s done before. Instead, he only looks thrown by the change in topic. We’re really in uncharted waters now.
“I’m not sure.” It’s one short sentence of uncertainty before he flashes me a sharp smile. “Maybe I’ll study whatever you do, just so you’re not the best in your department.”
I return the expression, my heart not in it. “Very funny. I know pestering Williams until she switched you into my AP US period last year didn’t actually affect your future, but don’t you think taking this to college might be too far? You could graduate with a degree you don’t even want. I mean, you joined the Chronicle only because I did. Do you even enjoy it?”
“I was joking, Sanger,” he says. I recognize the flippancy in his voice. It usually only provokes me into formulating carefree comebacks of my own. I don’t let it. I want an answer, not a fight.
“Okay,” I say evenly. “What concentrations are you interested in? Regardless of what I do.” I’ve done enough research to know no Harvard student would call programs of studies majors. They’re concentrations, for whatever reason.
Ethan says nothing. It’s the longest pause of the drive, including the one after he called me his girlfriend. We’re in my neighborhood now, and Ethan rounds the corner with deliberate focus. He fixes his gaze forward. “I guess I don’t know yet.” His voice is quiet.
We pull up in front of my house. It’s gotten dark outside, the light over my front door dimly streaming through the windshield. I don’t get out or unbuckle my belt. Today we’ve broken down boundaries with each other. This feels like my opportunity to put my toe over one more. “Ethan,” I start gently, “why do you compete with me? Do you have a goal, or is it just fun for you?”
He doesn’t look at me while he answers. “I don’t know.” His expression is drawn, his features emptied of their imperiousness. The car’s interior feels intimate, this leather- and freshener-scented space just large enough for everything we wouldn’t say otherwise. I swear I’m memorizing every detail of the black dashboard while I wait for Ethan to continue. “Sometimes I feel like our competition is the only thing driving me, and without it, I don’t know what I want,” he says. He rubs his neck uncomfortably, like his confession scares him.
I nod. His explanation makes sense. I could never figure him out because he hasn’t figured himself out. “What does that mean for us?” I ask into the heavy quiet. “Am I just another thing you don’t know if you want?”
“Alison, if you think having feelings for you was something I wanted, you’re a lot dumber than our four years of rivalry have led me to believe.”
I fire him an unamused glare. “Charming. I feel great about this.”
Ethan grabs my hand.
The gesture is incredibly tender. Until now we’ve only touched through fevered kisses, volatile embraces, high-contact fireworks of skin on skin. This almost innocuous clasping of hands is so much less, and yet so much more.
“What I’m saying is,” he begins, “I know what I want. Not in everything. But with you, I know. If there was any room for error, I would have taken it as reason enough to never admit any of this to you. Because believe me, telling my nemesis I like her was not something I would have elected to do if given the choice.”
I lean over the console and kiss him. “I like you too,” I say.
It flies in the face of everything I thought I knew about myself, everything I expected of this year and of us. I probably wouldn’t have recognized my feelings if Ethan hadn’t said what he did. His certainty is contagious, however. The words feel right yet foreign, like picking up a new pen and knowing instantly it’s your favorite.
Ethan smiles. Not smirks. Really smiles. I reach my other hand to his bicep, finding soft fabric on muscle. He straightens, evidently not having expected the touch. He looks sheepish, or sheepish on the Ethan scale. “This is going to take getting used to, isn’t it?” he says.
“Obviously.” I lean back in, closing the distance between us, but pause before my lips meet his. His chin tilts consciously or subconsciously, like he’s ready for the kiss. “Up to the challenge, Molloy?”
He doesn’t bother replying. When he kisses me, it’s different. Careful. Delicate, even. With every brush of lips, we’re feeling out what we’re becoming. I decide I prefer this kind of kissing—which is definitely saying something. Typically, I thrive on efficiency, economy of time, but here, in Ethan’s car outside my house, I’m okay with slowing down. I close my eyes and let the minutes slip by.
Forty-Seven
WHEN I WALK INTO the house, Jamie’s playing guitar in the front room. I’m probably feeling good from the pleasant tingle lingering on my lips, but her playing doesn’t sound half bad. I hear traces of melody, complete chords here and there. It’s possible she really is improving.