I have no doubt Juniper understands what I mean. She doesn’t reply for a moment.
When she does, her voice isn’t fragile or sympathetic. “You know,” she says, “I remember more about nearly everyone than they remember about themselves.”
I blink, thrown. I don’t understand why she’s changing the subject.
“Do you remember the first thing you said after we kissed?” She glances over, and in a half second of eye contact I catch the endless intensity I know well.
“What?”
“Do you,” she repeats, slower, “remember the first thing you said after we kissed?”
Not getting the game, I play along anyway, re-creating the picture in my mind, immersing myself in the image. The waterfall pillared into the frozen lake. The powder covering everything. Juniper’s lips meeting mine, melting the cold of outside. The two of us parting, and—
I can’t quite remember my words exactly. “Something about being glad you kissed me instead of answering my question?” I venture.
Juniper shakes her head, looking pleased.
“‘Kissing me isn’t a word,’” she says in what I recognize is an impression of me. It’s . . . not terrible.
The funny thing is, I don’t know if she’s right. The sentence sounds familiar, but I can’t recall with certainty whether I said it. I’m only convinced because I have other evidence of Juniper’s incredible memory. The college-related facts and figures she would rattle off, the driving directions she wouldn’t need repeated.
“I could probably tell you what you ordered in every restaurant we went to, and what questions you asked on every tour,” Juniper continues. The pride in her voice turns gentle. “I remember more about you than you do. But does that mean you’re not the person I know?”
The question breaks me. I understand her point now, and tears well up in my eyes. I clench my teeth to fight the tremor in my jaw.
“Just because one person doesn’t remember something doesn’t mean the memory is gone,” she says. “It doesn’t mean the person isn’t who they’ve always been. You’ll be there to remember who your mom is even when she can’t. You can carry those memories for her. Just like we’ll carry the memories of this week together. Even if memory is the only place we’ll exist for each other, we won’t be less real for it.”
My throat feels thick. I put my hand on her leg because it’s the only way I have right now to tell her how desperately I needed this. While we pass highway exits in the cloud-white daylight, she gives me time to find my voice.
“Here’s what I wanted to say to you tonight,” I get out. “I’m glad I met you, Juniper Ramírez, for more reasons than I can say. And my feelings for you have gone way past ‘like’ too. Admiration. Respect. Gratitude. Love, or the beginning of it.” I continue hastily, not wanting to linger on the word. “Knowing you has inspired me. You inspire me.”
While I speak, something unfinished in me races ahead of my words. I realize I’ve made a decision, one I need to voice.
“I have no idea how much time I’ll have before my mom needs me,” I say. “But I’m going to go to whatever college I want to for as long as I can.” I don’t feel a triumphant rush when I finish the declaration. The fear isn’t gone. It probably never will be. But I think I have what I need now, truths I’ve found on this trip, to keep the fear quiet.
I might have one year at my dream college, or two, or four. It doesn’t matter. If I’ve learned anything from this week with Juniper, it’s that change can be wonderful, and wonderful doesn’t need to last to be worthwhile. Would it have been easier to have never known her so I wouldn’t have to face this goodbye? Maybe.
But I wouldn’t trade this time, however fleeting, for a thousand painless returns home. Even if things have to end, they’re worth having, no matter how difficult the goodbye.
The thought gives me an idea. I sit up straighter and check the rearview mirror. Lewis’s car follows behind us. Pulling out my phone, I call my brother.
Juniper glances over, looking understandably confused.
Lewis picks up on the first ring. “Fitz? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I overheard you on the phone with Prisha last night. Where is she right now? What school?”
Lewis pauses. “Princeton.”
I turn to Juniper with a grin. “What do you say we add one more school to our tour?”
Juniper
PRINCETON IS AN hour away when we pull off the highway into a gas station, a square of pavement cut from the grass in front of the roadside woods. When Fitz explained his idea to give Lewis and Prisha time together today, I was immediately on board. It’s not like Prisha is moving to San Francisco tomorrow. They’ll have the rest of the school year together. But I know, and Fitz knows, no time is worth wasting.
We’ve driven for two hours on I-95, and it’s nearly noon. The gas station is crowded, three of the pumps occupied. I pull into the only open pump. Lewis, behind us, parks in one of the parking spaces. He gets out of the car and walks briskly toward the convenience store. I’ve never seen him move so fast, with this uncontainable energy, like he’s reaching for something with every step and gesture. He passes me on his way.
Pivoting, he walks backward toward the gas station while facing me. “What do you want to eat?” he asks without stopping.
“It’s fine.” I unscrew my gas tank and reach for the nozzle. “I’ll get it myself when I finish.”
“Nope,” Lewis replies. “It’s on me. A thank-you for last night.” He winks. It’s a total frat move, except I know Lewis well enough to no longer see the distant, disaffected bro in him. He’s being genuine.
I shrug. “Whatever looks freshest.”
He throws me a thumbs-up. “Solid.”
I watch him walk up to the store, where he catches up with Fitz. Lewis claps his brother hard on the shoulder. Startled, Fitz rounds on him—then looks glad to find Lewis. He shoves him off, laughing, and they walk in together.
Grinning, I return the nozzle to the pump. I recognize that laugh. It’s the laugh of Callie and Anabel pelting each other with snowballs in the front yard, the laugh of Marisa and me busting up while fighting when one of us drops a spectacular insult. I look toward Boston, and it hits me how I’m looking forward to those insults, those snowball fights.
Wanting to text my parents, I reach into the back seat for my phone, which is in my purse. The sleeve of my parka brushes the shoebox on the floor, knocking the lid off. I know the contents of the box like I know my memories, and instantly I identify what’s different.