Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  It makes next year real in a way nothing has before. This everyday, unremarkable view of college life is somehow bigger and more significant than a thousand tours or information sessions, parties or Primal Screams.

  It’s scary, but kind of thrilling.

  “What class is it?” I search the room for indications, titles on textbooks or handwriting on the whiteboard. I figure it’s probably related to architecture, given Juniper’s evident anticipation.

  “It’s called the Nature of Language,” Juniper tells me. “Carnegie Mellon has an excellent linguistics program. This is the introductory course.”

  It takes me a moment to understand. “Linguistics?” I repeat. It’s not a topic either one of us has expressed interest in.

  “You have a gift for words, Fitz. I thought . . .” She takes my hand. “Let’s just go in and listen.”

  I nod numbly, touched and overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness and her effort in talking to the department head, finding the class, rerouting her trip. I guess I should have expected Juniper would bring the same care and intensity to others that she brings to her own life.

  We walk in and find seats in the back of the lecture hall. While we wait, the gentle clatter of laptops being placed on desks and jackets dropping onto empty chairs gradually dies down. I feel like an interloper, but in a good way. Like I’m meant to be here. I’m only early.

  The professor launches into a review of what I’m guessing is the entire semester’s coursework. I listen, swept up, following the thread she’s tracing of how words work and evolve, how language relates to psychology and philosophy and literature. It’s captivating.

  Sitting beside Juniper, our shoulders pressed together, I feel a thought steal slowly over me. The interest I have in words could be more than a marked-up dictionary, more than a vocabulary my brother finds odd. It could be an entire future.

  Juniper

  FITZ IS FLIPPING through a linguistics book while we wait in the student center. He loved the class, which I knew he would. He even went up to the professor at the end of the lecture. I watched from the door, unable to hear the conversation and entirely adoring the obvious interest illuminating Fitz’s expression, the animated way he nodded and hung on to the professor’s every word.

  She recommended a few books for him to read, and we went directly from her class to the campus bookstore. The bookstore clerk, a junior named Daniela, helped us find the books, and we ended up talking while Fitz decided which one he wanted. She told me about nearly missing a final because she’d driven to New York City to see her favorite band the night before, and her easy, confident rebelliousness reminded me of my cousin Luisa. I found myself wondering how Luisa’s liking UC Santa Cruz and if she ever gets lonely so far from home. I don’t know if talking to someone with the subtlest accent like my aunts and uncles was unexpectedly nice, or if I just miss my cousin, but I decided I would call Luisa when I get home.

  Now Fitz and I are waiting for Lewis, who’s meeting us for dinner after doing who-knows-what today in Pittsburgh. The guy is a master of giving us space. I steal a glance at Fitz, wondering if he’s going to call his mom. He normally does whenever we have extra time. He hasn’t today, though, and I can’t help thinking he’s uncharacteristically comfortable taking time for himself, getting distance from home.

  While Fitz reads, I look up directions to Washington, D.C., for our drive tomorrow. Pittsburgh was considerably out of our way, but thinking of the lecture and Fallingwater and what happened at the waterfall—the detour was completely worth it.

  I hadn’t planned on kissing Fitz. At least, not consciously. I realized it was inevitable when he was right there in front of me, finding the perfect words for the waterfall and for us, being exactly the person I needed. Truthfully, I’ve been replaying the kiss in my head the entire day. The way his surprise melted into wanting, the way he kissed me slowly, like we were skirting the edge of something desperately wonderful. I was right—he was a deliberate kisser. But before long he shed the deliberateness, and neither one of us was in control. We collapsed into the rush of being together. It felt like we weren’t below a waterfall but on top of one, and we’d just embraced each other and thrown ourselves off.

  Bickering from the adjacent table yanks me from the reverie. I glance over, irritated. It’s a couple fighting, I think. The girl is a gorgeous blonde with a perfect tan and effortlessly cool clothes. The boy has unruly brown curls, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that reads NAUGHTY DOG.

  The girl throws her fork down and shoves her plate away. “The food here is terrible,” she declares. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “It’s not terrible,” the boy replies. “It’s just not LA.”

  LA. It explains the girl’s Urban Outfitters style and the magazine-cover bronze of her skin.

  “Exactly,” she shoots back.

  The boy sighs. “Then go home, Cameron. I don’t know why you’re even here.”

  “Fine. You want to do this now?” She leans back, and from where I’m sitting, it looks like the girl—Cameron—very much wants to do this now.

  “I don’t know what this means,” the boy says, exasperated. “We already broke up. A month ago. It’s over.”

  I glance at Fitz, not wanting to hear this, yet I can’t help but listen. I don’t want to think about breakups. Not now. Not yet. Fitz looks focused on his book, and I consider getting up and joining him on his side of the table, immersing myself in philology instead of dwelling on fights and distance and endings.

  “You broke up with me in the middle of a fight,” Cameron says, crossing her arms. “I had more to say.”

  The boy lets out a harsh laugh. “You flew across the country to get the last word in an argument?”

  “Yes,” Cameron says simply, like it’s reasonable.

  The response nearly cracks the boy’s anger, but he finds it again quickly. “What did you want to say, then, Cameron? We tried long-distance. It didn’t work. You said yourself you weren’t happy.” There’s heartbreak in the way the boy admits it. I can tell he’s still hurting over it, over losing her.

  Cameron furiously wipes tears from her eye. “Stupid,” she says under her breath, like she’s frustrated by the show of emotion. “I’m not even sad,” she tells the boy. “I’m mad. I should’ve been the one to end this.” She looks upward, no longer meeting his eyes. “I still can’t believe Brendan Rosenfeld dumped me.”

  “I can’t believe I dumped you either,” Brendan Rosenfeld replies. “Everyone from Beaumont must be reeling.” They share a look, and this time it’s not bitter or despondent. It’s halfway to humorous.

  Then Cameron’s face falls. “Paige told me you weren’t coming home for winter break. She said you’re doing some winter program and staying with your roommate’s family for the holidays.” She self-consciously runs her hand through her sun-bleached hair. “That’s why I flew across the country.”

  “You didn’t wonder if you were the reason I didn’t come home?” Brendan asks. “I knew seeing you would be hard, and I was right.”

  I glance up, hoping Lewis will walk in and deliver me from having to overhear the rest of this disastrous conversation. He doesn’t. The student center remains nearly empty, and there’s nothing I can do to block out Cameron and Brendan.

  Cameron frowns. “Yeah? Well, too bad,” she replies harshly. “Because sometimes being with the person you love is hard. Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes you’re unhappy. Sometimes you need time to adjust to your formerly reclusive boyfriend now having fifty million friends who are stupidly smart and, in certain cases, frustratingly attractive.”

  “You think it was easy for me when you started college?” Brendan’s voice is low, his eyes fixed on hers. “You think I enjoyed hearing about the fraternity parties you would go to with your sorority? No.”

  “You could’ve spoken up,” Cameron says, her face flushed. “You
always shove everything down and then you use it against me. Speak your mind, Brendan,” she orders. “Like this. I’m pissed at you for breaking up with me when we were having a real conversation. It was immature, stupid, and selfish of you.”

  Cameron is close to combusting, but I notice Brendan’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to apologize,” he says, sounding like he finds this funny.

  “Of course I’m not apologizing, Brendan,” she replies with a withering glare. “If anything you owe me an—”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence because Brendan reaches forward and takes her hand.

  “Cameron,” he says. “I’m sorry. Take a walk with me?”

  I watch Cameron’s anger evaporate. It’s uncanny, how her expression, her whole person changes. It’s like there are two of her, one fiery and one forgiving, and they coexist in imperfect harmony. “Okay,” she says.

  They get up from the table and head for the door. I try to forget their conversation, to focus on my phone and not on the tightness in my chest. It doesn’t work. The thoughts tumble one over the next like rocks falling from a crumbling mountaintop. Cameron and Brendan clearly broke up because of the strains of going to college in different cities.

  I don’t know why I’m taking their breakup personally. It’s not like I’m contemplating a long-term relationship with Fitz. But being faced with this reality takes hold of the memory of our kiss and gives it a painful twist. Whatever happens in the rest of our time together, I don’t want to think of Fitz and me being over. When we part, I’ll have nothing tying him to my present. My family doesn’t even know he exists. Tía won’t question me about him, my sisters won’t pry and tease. He’ll exist only in my memory. I don’t want to imagine our connection consigned to the past, which I’ve disregarded for years while putting my hopes in the future. I don’t want him to become a piece of everything I’m leaving behind.

  It’s bound to happen, but I’m not looking forward to it.

  I glance at Fitz. He’s no longer reading his book, his eyes fixed on the retreating couple. His expression reflects mine.

  Neither of us says anything.

  Fitz

  I OVERHEARD THE entire fight. It’s a harsh reminder of exactly how unlikely this thing with Juniper is to outlive the week. Thing. Ironically enough, I don’t even know the proper word for whatever we are. It’s that new and uncertain. Fling? Relationship? Pattern of kissing I hope continues? Whatever we are, I need to prepare myself to say goodbye in a couple of days. I don’t know if I can.

  “I got the job.” I hear my brother’s voice behind me.

  I turn, finding Lewis standing by the table. He’s holding his phone, looking stunned.

  “The recruitment officer just called me. . . . I got it,” he says, repeating the news like it hasn’t set in.

  I jump up without thinking. In a corner of my mind, I know what I’m expecting to feel. I should be upset, should be frustrated that he’ll be going to New York when he graduates, leaving me with the obligations of home and the entire emotional weight of our mom’s situation on my shoulders.

  Improbably, I’m not. I’m happy for my brother. Elated, actually. Even though there’s an unspoken well of resentment lingering between us, I want this for him.

  It takes me a second to comprehend why. Lewis living in New York will make things harder for me eventually, but I understand wanting something the way Lewis wants this future. I get having hopes and dreams big enough to push the fears from your periphery.

  “That’s great, Lewis,” I say, meaning it. “We should celebrate.”

  Lewis nods, looking distracted. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.” He sounds distant.

  I study him, wondering if he’s finally feeling guilty for leaving home. I quickly extinguish the thought. It has to be something else. Maybe the offer is shitty. Maybe he didn’t like the boss. I can’t imagine Lewis would mope about details like those when it comes to this opportunity.

  “This is what you wanted, right?” I ask tentatively. Juniper watches wordlessly from her seat.

  “It is,” he replies, staring past me. “I’ve been working toward this moment for years. It’s my dream job. I should be thrilled.” He speaks slowly, unevenly, like he’s reciting the details of someone else’s life.

  “But . . . ?”

  His eyes find mine, his expression broken. “Prisha will be in San Francisco.”

  I pause, not quite understanding what I’m hearing. “I thought—weren’t you planning to break up?” Whenever Lewis talks about his and Prisha’s future, he’s cavalier to the point of careless. I never predicted she would figure into his career considerations.

  “We were. We are,” he corrects himself morosely. “I guess it’s just hitting me now.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen my brother like this. Not when he got rejected from Columbia, not when he broke up with his high school girlfriend, not even when we heard our mom’s test results. Juniper and I exchange a look.

  “You’re right,” Lewis says, straightening. “We should celebrate.” He sounds like he’s convincing himself. In the next second, the old unflappable Lewis returns, and in the interim, I feel like I’ve seen behind a curtain. I’ve stolen a glimpse into how efficiently Lewis stows whatever is bothering him into someplace unseen. “Sushi?” he says cheerfully.

  “Are you sure?” Juniper asks, still looking concerned.

  “I want to focus on the win tonight,” Lewis replies, his voice taking on a hint of the sincerity it held moments ago, before his collected persona returned. “The rest will be waiting for me tomorrow.”

  Juniper nods. With that, we collect our jackets and head from the student center into the snow and wind. Juniper searches for sushi restaurants on her phone while I walk with Lewis, neither of us speaking. It’s a tentatively comfortable silence. We settle on Sushi Fuku and head for the city.

  We’re stepping off campus when I see the couple from earlier. Cameron and Brendan. They’re wrapped in each other, kissing like they have forever to do it. Warmth flutters in my chest. I reach for Juniper’s hand. When I interlace my fingers with hers, she smiles.

  Lewis was right. Focus on the good tonight. The rest is waiting.

  Juniper

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you told Dad you and Matt broke up before you told me.”

  I’m on the phone with Marisa in the hotel room. It’s nearly ten, and I’m uncomfortably full of sushi and sashimi and soy sauce. The evening was fun, despite Lewis’s momentary melancholy. He ordered saké, though not enough that Fitz had to carry him home. I was getting out of the shower when Marisa called, having just heard about Matt from Dad.

  “I didn’t want to tell him,” I protest. “He trapped me.”

  “I’m just glad he didn’t force you to come home,” she replies. “Having the room to myself is kind of the best. Hey, could you not come home very much when you’re in college? Or ever?”

  “You butt.” I laugh. “I know you miss me.”

  She scoffs loudly over the line. “Miss you? More like I miss your car.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t miss you talking in your sleep. Or your morning breath.” I put the phone on speaker and pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  “You’re such a liar.”

  I start distractedly packing in preparation for leaving for D.C. in the morning. Picking up the Carnegie Mellon pamphlet I grabbed from the admissions office, I remember Fitz’s enthusiasm in the linguistics lecture. I wonder if he’s mentioned to his brother why we’re here, why I rerouted the trip to Pittsburgh. Lewis admitting his feelings about Prisha today was a rare confidence between the brothers, and I can’t help hoping it begins a pattern of letting each other in. Fitz could use a brother to confide in. Lewis could too, even if he doesn’t show it.

  “Hey, Marisa?” I say. I take the phone off speaker and return it to my ear like
bringing her voice closer to me can close the geographical gap between us. I don’t want to keep everything from my sister. I don’t want us to fall into Fitz and Lewis’s uneasy relationship of unspoken words and silent resentments.

  “What?” She sounds somewhat distracted. I figure she’s painting her nails. Her favorite shade, Indignantly Indigo. I like that I know that.

  “I kind of met someone on this trip,” I say. It’s funny—just mentioning Fitz gives me a giddy, weightless feeling. I find I’m smiling into my phone.

  Marisa gasps exaggeratedly. “Juniper Ramírez. Is this someone why you and Matt broke up?”

  “No,” I insist. “Matt and I wouldn’t have lasted regardless.” I cross the room carrying the clothes I wore today. When I fold and place them in my suitcase, my hand brushes Marisa’s sweater with its impossible-to-ignore coffee stain. “Oh, and I have to come clean about something. I, um, stole your sweater and sort of got coffee on it.” I wince in anticipation of the explosion I know is coming.

  “You what?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new one,” I rush to say.

  I can hear her fuming over the line, probably plotting how to inconspicuously murder me in my sleep. I remember when I dropped her phone two years ago, cracking the edge, and she retaliated by writing Juniper is a loser on the back of mine in permanent marker. I followed a YouTube tutorial involving dry-erase markers to rub the ink off.

  “Wait,” Marisa says suddenly. “Does Dad know?”

  “About the sweater?” I ask, not following.

  “No, dummy,” Marisa replies exasperatedly. “This guy you met. Does Dad know?”

  “No one knows but you,” I say, grateful to move on from the subject of her stained cardigan. “Please don’t tell anyone,” I continue hurriedly. I have no idea how she’ll feel being my confidant. This is uncharted territory for us.