“I promise this isn’t a move,” Fitz says, guessing my thoughts. He smiles, and it’s not the predatory grin I would recognize on a frat boy. It’s authentic, disarming. “I’m not the type of guy who makes moves like this on girls. Definitely not on a girl like you, even if I didn’t know you have a boyfriend.”
“A girl like me?” I repeat, not sure if I should be offended.
“You’re out of my league.” He falters a little on the words.
Now I’m even less convinced he’s not flirting. I take a step back.
Fitz stands in the doorway. “You don’t have to come,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s just, this party is nothing special, and I’m on this trip against my will, but . . . it could be worthwhile for the memories. I already know what the future holds. It’s right now that has the potential to be extraordinary.”
His words ring through me. I can practically feel the rush of resonance in my cheeks, my fingertips. I don’t generally live for the now. I live for what I can plan for and dream of. But right now is offering me something I didn’t know to plan. Something that might be worth experiencing.
I grab my jacket and follow him.
He holds out his hand to help me up. I eye him dubiously, hoping to communicate he’s not helping himself with this chivalry crap, and he flushes under his freckles like paint dipped into clear water. His frost-blue eyes dart from mine. But I take his hand. His fingers wrap tightly over mine, and I feel a tingle of warmth despite the temperature.
We walk out onto the fire escape, which looks precarious. But it is a fire escape, intended to support people. It can’t be that unsafe. I drop his hand once I’m on the metal platform and zip up my parka while the cold wind whips my hair. The noises of the party drift up, shouts and cheers punctuating the echoes of the music. We’re both part of the scene and thrillingly isolated, the feeling of being backstage in the middle of a play.
Fitz waits by the stairwell. When I glance over, his eyes hold a question, like he can’t believe I’m really doing this. Or maybe he can’t believe he’s really doing this. Suppressing a smile, I concede to myself his trepidation is kind of cute. If I had to guess, I’d say he never would have imagined himself leading a girl to the rooftop of a frat house.
To be fair, I never would have imagined following him.
There’s a blanket draped over the railing, dry because the rooftop shielded it from the snow. Fitz throws the blanket over his shoulder and begins climbing the stairs. I test the first step with my shoe and find it feels sturdy. Besides, Fitz hasn’t fallen to his death, which is comforting. I climb the single story up, my boots hitting the stairs with metallic reverberations.
When I reach the roof, Fitz isn’t waiting. He’s walked to the other end of the rooftop, looking out over the edge. I join him, tiptoeing carefully because of the patches of snow.
Coming up next to him, I gaze out over the view, breathless.
The campus spreads out below us, glittering lights in every direction. The warm glow of lamps and windows dot the trees, illuminating the university’s fascinating combination of neoclassical and Venetian Gothic. Pathways crisscross the campus. The few students walking them look small from up here. In the distance, the buildings of downtown Providence rise on the skyline.
Fitz lays out the blanket, and it’s easy to imagine students in the dorm doing this often on warmer nights. He sits, his knees touching the lip of the rooftop. I join him.
We take in the view in silence. Thoughts of tomorrow and the next day and yesterday and the future press in on my thoughts. But instead of focusing on them, I press back. Right now does have the potential to be extraordinary. To be breathtaking. This moment, this view, is everything and exactly what I wanted from today.
I turn to Fitz. He’s watching the campus, his expression indecipherable.
“By the way, you’re wrong,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine, coat sleeves swishing. His eyes flit to me. “This is definitely a move,” I continue.
He tips his head back and laughs, his breath visible in front of the stars.
“Not that it’ll work,” I remind him. “Nor do I buy that you’re not the kind of guy who’d try this on a girl like me. I saw you flirting with that sorority girl downstairs.”
Fitz’s eyebrows scrunch in what I’m pretty certain is genuine confusion. “What sorority girl?” he asks. “I wasn’t flirting with her.”
“Well, she was definitely flirting with you,” I reply.
“She was not,” he protests. “She was just going on about her sorority’s semiformal next week.”
I roll my eyes. I cannot believe he’s this boneheaded. “She thinks you go here. She was hinting that she wanted you to take her to the semiformal,” I explain with the patience and clarity I used when Anabel unwrapped my tampons and floated them in the toilet.
“You couldn’t possibly know that,” he scoffs, leaning back to rest on his elbows. I notice the blue corner of his ever-present book poking out from his front pocket.
“I could possibly know that. It’s a basic girl tactic, Fitzgerald.”
He falls silent. Gazing over the edge of the rooftop, he looks like he’s contemplating this unforeseen possibility. “Huh,” he finally says. I wonder if he’s considering returning downstairs, finding his smitten sorority girl, and escorting her up here to pull his “move” for real, on her instead of me.
Which I wouldn’t mind, obviously.
“So you were watching me downstairs,” he says suddenly, his voice a little pleased.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I settle for shaking my head and rolling my eyes once again.
I lie down on the blanket, looking up into the endless field of stars. The cold of the night on my face feels wonderful, ice cream in the heat of summer or a cool shower after a run. I’m conscious of Fitz reclining on the blanket beside me.
“First you notice me in Boston,” he says. “Then you memorize our entire conversation in Mike’s Pastry. Now I hear you were keeping tabs on me at the party. . . . If I didn’t know you better, I’d start to think you’re into me.” He’s goading me, and he knows it.
“But you do know me better,” I say with a lightly warning glance. “Besides, I already told you I only remembered our conversation because I have a good memory.”
He turns his head toward me. “How good?”
I turn my head too, meeting his eyes. They’re open, bridges half built and reaching toward me. “I don’t know,” I reply, feeling self-conscious. “I just remember stuff. Grocery lists, the grades I’ve gotten on every exam this year, conversations I had with friends in September. Facts and dates mentioned in class. Like, here, I remember the number of BU applicants last year, from the information session. It’s 62,210.” I gesture vaguely in the air. “Google it.”