Which is why I went outside. Out here, I can watch the campus in the nighttime. It’s better than nothing. Facing the cold, I zip up my coat and rub my hands together in front of my face, hoping to generate heat.
I met my abuela on a cold night like this. I remember distinctly our car rolling for the first time into the driveway of the house I now call home. Heavy snowbanks sat on the slanted roofs and the windowsills. The lights were on in every room. When I hopped out onto the driveway, my shoes crunching the snow, the wind stung my cheeks and nose the way it’s doing now. I followed my parents up the path to the porch.
The front door opened, revealing a woman framed in the doorway. She greeted my father with a crushing hug and my mother with a hesitant kiss on the cheek, which I know now was because she’d never met her son’s wife before. Her eyes caught on three-year-old Callie, held on my mother’s hip, and she leaned in to whisper inaudibly to my sister. When she drew back, her eyes had filled with tears. She looked down, and finding me and Marisa clinging behind me, she smiled.
“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice weathered and warm, “but I’m your abuela.”
I blinked. I didn’t know the word. Since I didn’t meet my dad’s family until I was seven, even now I have only a fragmented fluency in Spanish. When we moved to Springfield, I didn’t know a word. I knew nothing of my dad’s family’s culture. Not their food, their traditions, their histories. To this day, I consider those things part of my life but not of me. They’re ours but not exactly mine.
“Your grandmother,” my abuela clarified.
I didn’t know what to say. Marisa, who hadn’t yet exited her shy phase, stood stock-still in my shadow.
“This is my sister,” Abuela continued when a taller, sterner woman entered the doorway. “Your tía Sofi.” I had no idea how familiar I’d become with the expression on Tía’s face then—reserved and wary, with a kind of proud and loving protectiveness. “We’re very sorry we’re only meeting you now. We have a lot of missed time to make up for.” Her expression turned a touch conspiratorial. “Do you know I make a really special meal for everyone in my family every year on their birthday?”
She looked from me to Marisa, who hid even closer behind my back. “But my birthday is in October,” I said.
“Yes,” Abuela replied, “and I have seven years to catch up on.”
I’ll never forget what I felt then, the tentative unfolding of curiosity and surprise and excitement of my own, and the edges of this new indescribable thing I could only begin to understand then. In the span of only minutes, I realized I had a new person in my life who would change everything. It felt like discovering a continent.
“You made me a birthday cake?” I ventured.
“Better.” Abuela’s eyes gleamed. “Have you ever had a tamale?”
I shook my head. Abuela led me inside, and the smell enveloped me.
My phone vibrates, distracting me from the recollection. I pull the phone out and find a text from my mom. She wants me to check in, and I reply quickly, describing the dorm and my day. I look up, watching the quad from under the streetlight where I’m waiting. Waiting for . . . I don’t know what. I feel restless.
I didn’t come to Brown to be bored in a fraternity basement, and I didn’t come outside to relive old memories. I’m in a new city, on a new campus. I have only this week before I have to return home to everything I know in thorough, inescapable detail. I want to explore. I want to walk through Waterplace Park, over the Venetian-inspired bridges on the river. I want to visit downtown, admire the architecture, people-watch. Instead, I’m spending another night playing beer pong with Matt and Carter like I’ve done countless nights before.
I’ve had enough of lingering under this streetlight in the freezing night. I’m going inside to find Matt and ask him if we can venture into the city instead of partying for the rest of the night.
I walk with purpose into the frat, fighting through the throng to reach the stairs to the basement when I’m caught short.
I recognize the head of red hair on the other end of the crowd. I remember cannoli and conversation and the possibility we’d cross paths again.
Fitz.
For F. Scott Fitzgerald. He’s pressed to the wall, openly uncomfortable, not holding a drink. He looks incoherent with the revelry surrounding him, in the midst of the party but not part of it, despite the short blonde talking to him. She’s wearing a pink tank top with white Greek letters on the front, and I nearly laugh at how she clashes with Fitz’s crisp button-down and discomfited demeanor. The blue book I remember from the BU information session protrudes from his front pocket. Of course he brought a book to this party. He read during the presentation. Why wouldn’t he read here?
The girl keeps touching him, grabbing his wrist and poking his arm. It’s obvious she’s flirting with him. Obvious to everyone except Fitz, that is, who appears confused and lightly agitated, his eyes flitting from the girl to the room. I wouldn’t have expected him to be the kind of guy who’d attract college-girl attention as a high-schooler. Now that I think about it, though, Fitz is kind of cute. His wiry build, his keen, refined features. He has a subtle, soft intensity I understand one could potentially find attractive.
I shake my head, smiling, and head downstairs. Matt’s where I left him, playing beer pong with Carter and a couple of other guys in the hallway. When I sidle up next to him, Matt places the ball on the table and hooks an arm around my waist. “Hey, babe,” he says. He smells like beer and sweat.
I tug gently on his shirt, pulling him from the table. “Can we talk?”
He nods. “Give me a minute,” he calls behind him. I catch annoyance in the expression of the tall, unequivocally handsome Indian guy on the opposing team.
“Do you want to head out?” I ask once Matt’s followed me into the stairwell. “I was wondering about visiting Waterplace Park. It looks kind of cool, and I heard it’s great to walk around in at night.”
Matt checks his watch. “We just got here, Juniper,” he says delicately.
“I know,” I reply, repressing impatience. “It’s just, we’re leaving in the morning. I want to explore the city a little more. Don’t you?”
Matt looks back to Carter, who’s laughing with the other guys. Matt’s expression is pained, and the realization settles onto me.
“You’re having a good time,” I say softly, understanding what I hadn’t when I pulled him from his friends. Matt’s usually really generous and receptive to what I want to do. He’s a good boyfriend that way, and I know he’s conflicted. He wants to tour the city with me, but if he’s hesitating, it’s because he really wants to hang out with his friends too.