Instead, it’s me. Every time. “Put my phone on silent,” I say. He does and returns my phone to the cup holder. My family is going to have to get used to the distance.
We drive into the city center, turning left onto Arlington and circumnavigating Boston Common. Last time I was here, the endless expanse of grass was filled with dogs catching Frisbees and kids feeding crackers to the ducks. Now, in the nighttime, it’s empty except for groups of teenagers sitting on the park benches or wandering the paths.
I pull up in front of the valet for the Liberty Hotel. Matt peers out my window, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“This isn’t our hotel,” he says.
“Isn’t it?” I reply coyly. I get out of the car and give my keys to the valet. Matt follows, pulling our itinerary from his pocket and unfolding the printout.
“Our parents got us rooms at the DoubleTree, Juniper.”
Together, we gaze up at the building in front of us. The façade is gray stone, with two wings reaching out from the tower in the center. Vast windows drench us in light. The circular window above us is like a face for this two-armed architectural being.
“This is definitely out of our price range,” Matt adds.
I walk toward the front doors. Matt grabs the bags and runs behind me to catch up. “I called three days ago and canceled our parents’ reservations. If we combine the money they gave us, two rooms there cost about as much as one here.” I have a nonnegotiable budget from my parents, and I’ll be grounded one week for every fifty dollars I overcharge the credit card. “I’ll pay for this hotel, and you pay for the next. Neither of us will go over our parents’ limits.”
Matt’s eyes light up brighter than the windows. “You are a genius,” he declares. “A genius who will be grounded if her parents check the hotel name on the credit card statement, but a genius nonetheless.”
I hold the door open for him. “I think it’s worth a grounding, don’t you?”
“Oh, definitely.”
We walk into the lobby. With a low whistle, Matt places our suitcases on the floor.
I take in the room. It’s dazzling like the exterior, multiplied by a hundred. The floor is a black-and-white checkerboard. White balconies with black railings ring the brick-walled room in tiers. They evoke cellblocks, because that’s what they were. The building is a converted jail.
I nudge Matt with my elbow. “Look up.”
We both do. From the ceiling hang Christmas trees, upside down, the tops pointed toward us like missiles hung in perpetual motionlessness. Each one is illuminated with strings of tiny lights, just like normal Christmas trees would be. They look like the celebratory ornaments of an inverted world connected to our own by the ceiling of this hotel.
“This is incredible,” I hear myself breathe.
Matt just stands there in awe.
We head to the check-in desk. While I’m pulling out my credit card and signing forms, Matt tries repeatedly to hold my hand under the counter. I have to swat him away and restrain myself from giggling. I don’t think I do a very convincing job, because the check-in clerk gives me a funny look. Finally, Matt settles for encircling his arm around my waist.
Once we’ve gotten our room keys, we explore the lobby. With every glimpse of every inch of this hotel, I feel my breath catch. It’s a study—no, an exhibition—in contrasts. In the restaurant on the ground floor, candles flicker under windows with jailhouse bars. On the worn brick walls outside the bar, huge panels hang depicting flowering trees.
We find the elevator, and Matt punches the button for our floor. “How’d you know about this place?” he asks nonchalantly.
I give him an incredulous eyebrow raise.
He laughs, the noise ringing out wonderfully in the small space. “Right. You’ve been researching this for weeks. How could I forget you’re the girl who prints out item-by-item itineraries when we go to the mall?”
I flush. “That was once,” I reply. The truth is, though, I do plan everything. I want to wring every moment for what it has to offer. I want to do everything I can everywhere I go, even the mall. And this trip, this week of nine schools and a hundred million glimpses of my future, is way more important than shopping.
“Well, it’s perfect,” Matt says softly.
The elevator doors open, and we walk into the hall. Matt can hardly keep his hands off me as we find our room. I give him a quick kiss and unlock the door. We hurry in, him just a step behind me, and I feel a rush in my cheeks and my chest. Yet when I hit the lights and get a glimpse of our room, I have to pause.
It’s not the details that catch my eye, the key-patterned carpet and the hash marks printed on the pillow, like the carvings on the walls of a convict’s cell. It’s the window on the far end of the room, and everything it overlooks. The lights of the hotel illuminate the street, and behind it, the Charles River. There’s a bridge to the side, dotted with headlights. The river itself is a frozen expanse, gently reflecting the lights of the Boston skyline.
I walk to the window. Matt comes up behind me, one hand finding my waist and the other sweeping my hair over my shoulder. Without a glance at the view, he kisses my neck.
I lift my lips to his and fall into his arms.
Fitz
I HAVE PIZZA with squash blossoms for dinner. Lewis and I hardly talk.
We walk from the restaurant onto the busy sidewalk, Lewis a couple of steps in front, pulling his coat close and glaring warily into the cold. We cross Commonwealth, a wide street with train tracks and overhead cables for the T running down the center. On the opposite curb, I follow Lewis toward the StuVi Commons.
In the lobby, I blurt what’s been burning in my thoughts for the past hour. “Do you think Mom’s okay with you moving to New York?”
Lewis’s step falters, or I might be imagining it, because his voice comes out characteristically easy and level. “Of course,” he says, hitting the button for the elevator. “She helped time the trip to coincide with an interview I have in the city.”
I bite back my bitterness about skipping school, about Lewis’s schedule getting prioritized over mine. This is the way it always is, me making sacrifices—me committing, doing what needs to be done—while Lewis does whatever he wants. “But what will you do when—” I cut myself off. I don’t want to say it. I have half a superstition that every time I say it, it comes closer to reality. But I force myself. “When she needs help.”
His eyes skirt mine. “I’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he says decisively, and I know it’s the end of the conversation. The elevator doors open, and I follow him in.