The empty landscape calls to mind hundreds of words. Cinereous. The whitened gray of the clouds over the water. Clement. The mild temperature on the pristine sand. Susurrus. The whisper of the wind and waves.
Yet none of them quite do this place justice. Words in isolation often don’t. It’s part of why I want to know every one of them I possibly can. It’s in their combinations that words find their worth. If I’m going to use them to capture the world the way I want, I have to know how to reach for every possible permutation.
Lewis walks up next to me. “Wow,” he says. “Right?”
Simple words work too sometimes.
“Yeah,” I reply.
We head onto the sand and unwrap our sandwiches, eating in silence near the waterline. Watching the waves, I feel unexpectedly free. It takes me a few minutes to recognize the feeling, or really, the not-feeling. The not-worrying, the jarring release of being far from home and yet not feeling Mom’s health hanging over me. Not that the worry is distant. I just know it’ll be there when I return home in a few days, and I’m okay with permitting myself this hour on the beach. This respite.
The clouds shift. There’s a moment where the sun streams through over the water, shedding gold streaks onto the shore.
I pull out my phone. I haven’t texted Juniper since we discussed UConn yesterday. Of course, she hasn’t texted me, either, which is a detail I decide to ignore. I’ve tried hard today to be cool, to not pester her. But it wouldn’t be overeager if I texted her now, I rationalize. I send her a picture of the glittering waves, then return my phone to my pocket, pretending I’m not hoping she’ll reply.
It’s a now-recognizable thrill when my phone vibrates in minutes. I read the message immediately.
That wouldn’t happen to be on the way to New York, would it?
While I reply, I notice Lewis eyeing me. I ignore him.
This IS on the way to New York. (Does this mean you’re coming to New York?)
Indeed it does.
Okay, so after taking in that view, you still want to spend the next four years right where you grew up?
I don’t know why she dropped the conversation yesterday. She’s evidently willing to have this one. Whatever is different in her day or her outlook on me, I definitely won’t question it.
Yeah. I do.
If circumstances were different, though. Would you want to leave home?
I face the water, weighing her question. It’s a question I’ve told myself time and time again wasn’t important, one I’ve avoided while assuring myself college isn’t everything. Talking to Juniper, I’m forced to wonder if that wasn’t just a lie I told myself to make my decision easier.
It’s close to impossible to imagine my life without my mom’s impending Alzheimer’s. Nevertheless, I try. I try to remove every trace from the image in my head of the next four years, every visit to her doctor, every question of her care. It’s not my life. It’s foreign, unrecognizable.
I’m not sure.
What about you? What’s so horrible about home that you’re desperate to leave?
Nothing’s horrible. I just want the freedom to be my own person, to try new things and figure out what I want. You know?
I don’t.
Yeah.
Definitely.
Well, assuming you don’t live in New Hampshire, I’m wondering if you’ve considered the venerable institution of Dartmouth College. It’s only an hour from my hometown. . . .
Juniper’s typing bubble appears before I have the opportunity to doubt the forwardness of the question.
HA.
It’s a possibility. . . . I’ll apply if you will.
It’s honestly the closest I’ve come to entirely reconsidering my college plans. I reply embarrassingly quickly.
DONE.
I rolled my eyes so hard, I think I strained something. You’re kind of impossible.
I grin reading her text. Lewis claps me on the back. “You ready to go?” he asks. I nod and stand up, swiping the sand from my jeans. While we walk to the car, I reply to Juniper.
You’re not the first person to tell me that.
Juniper
FITZ AND I are friends. Just friends. When he texted me today, I decided in a rush of wonderful clarity I wouldn’t be giving up on Matt if I were to text a friend. I would be lying to myself if I said the decision had nothing to do with my conversation with Tía in the middle of the night. Her implication I would have no one to call, no one who would be there if I needed someone when I’m in the world on my own, might have kindled my desire to have one more friend.
We drove into New Haven that morning, Matt leaving me to my Yale tour while he explored the city. Wanting a break from the constant college touring, he convinced me to spend the rest of the day in Westport, which was only forty minutes away. He’d read it was one of the wealthiest towns in the country and decided he had to see for himself. We wandered the pristine sidewalks and around the perfectly trimmed hedges, imagining ourselves living together in each of the palatial houses, me a Pritzker Prize winner and him the owner of the Red Sox.
While we stopped for coffee and sweet potato scones, my dad called to fill me in on the state of affairs at home. Tía is livid I hung up her, obviously. Mom found Marisa at Steve’s house, and she’s been grounded for the rest of winter break. Dad recommended I enjoy my trip and then “put together a respectful, even if fake, apology to Tía” when I get home. I told him I’d think about it.
I did text Marisa, hoping she would understand why I had to violate the sacred sibling code and tell on her, but she ignored me. Usually when Marisa and I fight, I can expect angry emoji responses to my olive branches—flames, puking faces, skulls, or the dreaded frowning cat. But today, nothing.
I’m trying not to think about it. I know I did the right thing. For now, I’m allowed to focus on this trip. But no matter how much I tell myself to ignore the conflicts waiting for me at home, I can’t. Not completely. It’s a layer of frost on my window, making the world look cracked and gray.
Texting Fitz is the best distraction I’ve found.
We leave Westport in the evening. With night falling, in the gridlocked expanse of highway leading into New York City, we continue messaging. He tries to convince me to apply to Dartmouth, and then the conversation threads through everything, like the Hudson River out the window on its way to the sea.