I nod. He’s right, she would, and without Lewis’s credit card, I couldn’t pay for hotels and food. What’s more, in a way I don’t exactly understand, Lewis’s presence keeps the idea of this trip with Juniper grounded. Juniper and I are teenagers, crossing paths in cities not our own. If we were to embark on this with only the two of us, it would be inconceivably impulsive. With Lewis, we’re just fitting her into a shape that already exists instead of drawing the outline of some new romantic odyssey.
“By the way,” I say, “Juniper and I want to extend this trip a couple days of days. I don’t know what your schedule is. . . .” I trail off, not knowing how to ask for this.
“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind traveling with you guys. But if it were up to me,” he continues, “I wouldn’t be here cockblocking you.”
The warmth of my brother’s earlier friendliness frosts over. I register the joke for what it is. He’s decided what I’m supposed to want, to find important, and he’s implicitly judging me if I don’t.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Just—just, chill,” I finish fumblingly. The word feels weird and uncharacteristic.
Lewis raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it. “I’m chill, dude, I promise. In fact . . .” He nods in the direction of the hotel, the illuminated logo reflecting red on the nearby buildings. It’s similar to our hotel, just twists on the same template of business-casual rooms and unused rooftop bars. “I’m so chill, I won’t wait up if you want to follow her. You don’t have to,” he adds. “I’m just saying if.”
If. The word is wonderfully open-ended.
It has me looking up, weighing Lewis’s suggestion and wondering which one of those rooms is Juniper’s. It’s not like I’m considering the hookup he’s obviously insinuating—it’s very possible my brother literally does not understand the existence of other things you could do in a girl’s hotel room—but I won’t deny I’m contemplating other ways the night could go.
The possibilities play out in a montage in my head. I’d text Juniper, asking if I could come up. She’d tell me her room number and invite me in. We’d watch something dumb on TV and share the overpriced candy on top of the fridge. When we tired of TV, we’d talk, describing our friends, our hometowns, our high schools, our favorite movies no one else likes, our favorite childhood board games. I have a hunch she’s a Trivial Pursuit fiend.
Except what if she’s not?
I don’t know why Trivial Pursuit is the detail that does me in, but it does. In a horrible lurch I recognize I’ve constructed this entire fantasy in my head founded on nothing. While I feel like I know Juniper, I don’t. I’m enjoying embarking on this indefinable thing with her, but I don’t do well with unknowns. Juniper is enchanting and fearsome, and a huge freaking unknown.
I decide not to follow her up to her room. It’s a fear-driven decision, just like not confronting my brother when I feel the tension between us pushing us further and further apart. Pusillanimous. Timorous.
In a blink, I hate the dictionary-definition thing I do. The point of memorizing words is feeling a degree of control over the unstable, unforeseeable world. It hits me now—cataloging and describing every feeling in the world isn’t control. Having the word for cowardly doesn’t change me. It changes nothing.
I turn and follow Lewis, feeling things I no longer want to name.
Fitz
THE NEXT MORNING, I shower early to meet Juniper for the NYU tour. When I step from the shower into the steamy bathroom, I overhear Lewis on the phone. “They said I’d hear from them this weekend. No idea when,” he says. There’s a pause. He’s recapping his job interview.
For a moment I wonder if he called Mom like I mentioned. The possibility vanishes instantly. It’s probably Prisha.
I ignore him. Wiping the mirror, I focus on my reflection.
God, I’m pale. And skinny. I usually only glance into the mirror in the morning. Today I linger, viewing my appearance from Juniper’s potential perspective—in the unlikely event she ever sees me shirtless.
I need to cut the red hair flopping onto my forehead. I have freckles everywhere. Not cute freckles like Juniper’s, either. I look like my entire body got splashed when someone dropped the world’s largest pot of marinara sauce. Instead of the six-pack and V-formation upper body everyone expects from TV, I have a flat stretch of stomach and shoulders devoid of definition except my collarbone poking out halfheartedly.
Juniper is way out of my league.
I wish I’d devoted even minimal effort to exercise of any kind in my entire existence. Even though I just showered, I drop to the floor and begin doing what could be considered push-ups.
I do twenty and feel like my arms have been forcibly detached from my body. I only have stumps now. Excruciating stumps. I don’t understand why people do this frequently. Except I do. The Junipers of the world are why. I mean, I know other people exercise for personal pride and enjoyment. But my reason is five foot three, unfairly curvy, and infatuated with college.
I hear Lewis through the door. “Babe,” he says chuckling. Definitely Prisha. “You know I’d hate San Francisco. The start-up culture and everything? Come on.”
I scowl, nearly frustrated enough to do five more push-ups. It’s obvious Prisha wants him to consider a job close to hers next year, and Lewis couldn’t be more careless with his disinterest. He’s probably looking forward to being single, free to follow through with girls like the one he danced with in the basement at Brown.
I dress quickly and collect my jacket from the bedroom. Lewis is still on the phone, typing on the computer and giving only half his attention to whatever Prisha is saying. I wave quickly on the way out.
Juniper is waiting when I reach the lobby. Her hair is in her characteristic ponytail, and when I walk up, she holds out the brown paper bag in her hand.
“I didn’t know what bagel you like. I got you plain with cream cheese. Sorry if you hate it,” she says.
I smile. She’s direct even when it comes to breakfast. “That’s my order, actually,” I tell her, digging the bagel from the bag. I unwrap the tinfoil while we walk out of the hotel’s revolving door.
“Why does that not surprise me?” She takes a bite of her everything bagel. “Let me guess. You’ve never tried any other flavor.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze my bagel preferences, Juniper.”
We walk in the direction of NYU, following the map on her phone. It’s colder today, the sun smothered in gray. The hotel Mom picked for Lewis and me is a couple of blocks from the NYU admissions building. As we head along West Third, Juniper hits me with a barrage of information about the university. I find it intensely attractive. She details the number of dorms and dining halls, facts about financial aid, and the early decision process. I retain about half the information because while she’s talking, she unzips her jacket halfway, revealing a triangle of skin at her collar.