“I don’t know, Juniper,” he cuts me off. “We can find a weekend to visit the schools you’re interested in as a family.” I hear his argument hardening, encasing me within his decision. I have to break through before I’m stuck.
“No,” I say too forcefully. “I mean, it’s a nice offer, but I want to do this by myself. I just . . . want to see the schools on my own, without anyone telling me what to think or how to feel.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t say that once my family is involved, what’s best for me won’t be important. It’ll turn into what’s best for them. “I know you understand, Dad,” I continue. “You remember how domineering family can be at my age.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. I can tell he’s genuinely confused.
“How you moved to New York and never came home,” I remind him.
“I’m not proud of that decision, Juniper. I regret not having your abuela at my wedding. I wish she had been there when you were born. Yes, the family was domineering. But I was stubborn. I refused to give them the chance to accept I couldn’t call every night and visit every weekend. Instead, I cut them off,” he finishes evenly.
I don’t say anything. I didn’t know he regretted his time in New York, the distance from his family he created while exploring ramen restaurants and living with his best friends. I thought he regretting leaving.
Only the rhythmic hum of rubber on the road fills the emptiness in the car, waiting for me to say something. I glance at Fitz. He’s looking out the window, and I know he’s making an effort not to intrude. Days, schools, conversations, moments I can’t yet imagine wait ahead of us. I don’t want to give them up. If I drive home now, they’re gone. With the possibilities unwinding in front of us, I don’t want to cut the threads and ruin whatever fleeting future we’re weaving.
“Are you forcing me to come home?” I ask my dad.
He’ll recognize the challenge in my voice from conversations with the rest of my family. He just won’t expect it coming to him. “No,” he says after a pause. “You’re seventeen, you’re nearly an adult. This is your choice. Use your own money for the extra nights, and send me your exact itinerary every day. If you’re not home by Christmas Eve, I’ll sic Tía on you. Just . . . don’t forget we’re here when you need us.”
“Thank you.” I exhale with relief. The thought of returning to Tía right now, to endless lectures about what I should do next year, to the constant demands of my siblings, to facing school without Matt—it’s overwhelming. I need this trip in more ways than one.
“And, Juniper,” he adds, “it’s okay to need your family sometimes.”
Fitz
IT’S DIFFICULT TO decipher everything I’m feeling after overhearing Juniper’s phone call. I’m relieved her father didn’t force her to go home, returning us to our separate lives. It’s impossible to deny I’m a little jealous of the way her face broke when he mentioned Matt. Her feelings for him aren’t gone, which I guess I knew but didn’t want to dwell on. And I’m kind of confused by her adamancy to keep her distance from her family despite her dad saying he regretted doing the same.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Juniper says, her voice jarringly bright. “What were we talking about?”
I don’t understand her readiness to jump back into conversation like nothing happened. I’m unable to match her instantaneous avidity. “Your dad just wants to be there for you,” I say, knowing I’m probably overstepping.
Her smile fades. “I know.”
“It’s reasonable for him to worry about you being on the road by yourself,” I continue. I don’t quite know why her reaction bothers me.
“Yeah, but I’m not by myself. You’re with me,” she points out, effortlessly logical.
“He doesn’t know that.”
She huffs a laugh. “Believe me, he would not be cool if he knew I was traveling with a guy I just met.”
“Well, yeah,” I reply with force I fail to restrain. “It’s his parental right to be concerned. It’s what family does. Worry about each other.” Juniper is watching me, but I’m elsewhere. I’m thinking of Lewis, who’s chronically unwilling to give a shit about my worries. Juniper owes her dad respect for his fears, his uncertainties. Unexpectedly, I realize the final emotion that was rising in me during Juniper’s phone call—anger. “I know it’s easy for you to move off to college without even a backward glance,” I continue. “But for everyone else, for your family, it’s a huge change. It’s hard.”
Juniper scoffs. “This has nothing to do with my family. I don’t care whether going to college is hard. It’s necessary. It’s part of growing up, whether you like it or not. But you want everything to stay the same, forever.” She shakes her head, reproach in her eyes while she scrutinizes the road. “You’re just like Matt,” she finishes.
It’s the worst possible way to be compared to Matt. I turn from her, focusing on the trees passing on the right while I push down indignation. “You know it’s different for me. I can’t—”
Juniper cuts me off. “Just because you use your mother’s Alzheimer’s to justify your fears doesn’t mean the rest of us need to find something to hold us back.”
I glance over and see immediate regret in Juniper’s expression. She doesn’t take the words back, though. She can’t, because she meant them. They’re a wall between us, solid and infrangible. It occurs to me distantly, only moments ago she looked like she wanted to kiss me. I can’t wrap my head around how hard this conversation hit the ground, and how ugly the wreck.
I face the window and say nothing for the rest of the drive.
Fitz
WE REACH OUR hotel in Swarthmore, outside Philadelphia, a little past ten. Unspeaking, we pull our luggage from the trunk of Juniper’s car. The thunk of the hard canvas hitting the pavement, the metallic clicks of the extendable handles—everything is painfully, precisely loud while we’re deliberately quiet.
I’m trying to forget our fight. The tension is taking up more of the fleeting moments we have, and I want to enjoy this time with Juniper. It’s not working, though. There’s a new resentment in me, pushing back every time I think about bringing up our coming college visits or joking about whatever. I want to let go, but I don’t.
It’s confusing.
We walk together up the path to the hotel lobby, our breath visible in the night. If tonight had gone differently, I would be trying to wring this night for every minute together. I would wait with her, walk her to her room, even stay up late with her watching TV or talking until I can’t keep my eyes open. But I turn for the elevators, leaving her at the front desk to check into her room.