by Emily Henry
He nods, grinning, touching his chest where a light pink tie hangs from the pressed collar of his white shirt. “Jason Stanley. East Linfield High School.”
My brain is still trying to process this. It can’t reconcile him against this backdrop. In my city, in the life I built to never touch my old one. I stammer, “Right.”
Jason Stanley has lost most of his hair. He’s put on some weight around the middle, but there’s still something of the cute boy I once had a crush on, who then ruined my life.
He laughs, elbows me. “You were my first girlfriend.”
“Well,” I say, because that doesn’t seem quite right. I’ve never thought of Jason Stanley as my first boyfriend. First-crush-turned-bully maybe.
“Are you busy right now?” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got a few minutes if you want to catch up.”
I do not want to catch up.
“I’m actually on my way to therapy,” I say, for some fucking reason. It was the first excuse that came to mind. I’d prefer to have blurted out that I was taking a metal detector to the nearest beach to look for quarters. I stride toward the steps, and Jason follows along.
“Therapy?” he says, still grinning. “Not because of that shit I pulled when I was a jealous little prick, I hope.” He winks. “I mean, you hope to make an impression, just not that sort.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie as we climb the steps.
“Really?” Jason says. “God, that’s a relief. I think about it all the time. Even tried to look you up on Facebook once so I could apologize. You don’t have Facebook, do you?”
“Not really, no,” I say.
I do have Facebook. I do not have my last name on Facebook specifically because I didn’t want people like Jason Stanley finding me. Or anyone from Linfield. I wanted to vanish that part of me and reappear fully formed in a new city, and that’s what I did.
We emerge from the subway onto the tree-lined streets. That same nip is back in the air. Fall has finally swallowed up the last bites of summer.
“Anyway,” Jason says, the first signs of embarrassment kicking in. He stops, rubbing the back of his head. “I’ll leave you alone. I saw you and I couldn’t believe it. I just wanted to say hi. And sorry, I guess.”
But I stop too, because haven’t I been saying for a month that I’m done running from problems, damn it? I left Linfield, and somehow that wasn’t enough. He’s here. Like the universe is giving me a hard shove in the right direction.
I take a breath and wheel toward him, crossing my arms. “Sorry for what, Jason?”
He must see it in my face, that I was lying about not remembering, because he looks hugely embarrassed now.
He takes a stiff, stuttering breath, studies his brown dress shoes guiltily. “You remember how awful middle school was, right?” he says. “You feel so out of place—like something’s wrong with you and any second everyone else is gonna figure it out. You see it happen to other people. Kids you used to play four square with suddenly getting mean nicknames, not getting invited to birthday parties. And you know you could be next, so you turn into a little asshole. If you point at other people, no one will look too closely at you, right? I was your asshole—I mean, I was the asshole in your life, for a while.”
The sidewalk sways in front of me, a wave of dizziness crashing over me. Whatever I was expecting, that wasn’t it.
“I honestly can’t believe I’m even saying this,” he says. “I just saw you on that train platform and—I had to say something.”
Jason takes a deep breath, his frown drawing tired wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
We’re so old, I think. When did we get so old?
Suddenly we’re not kids anymore, and it feels like it happened overnight, so fast I didn’t have time to notice, to let go of everything that used to matter so much, to see that the old wounds that once felt like gut-level lacerations have faded to small white scars, mixed in among the stretch marks and sunspots and little divots where time has grazed against my body.
I’ve put so much time and distance between myself and that lonely girl, and what does it matter? Here is a piece of my past, right in front of me, miles away from home. You can’t outrun yourself. Not your history, not your fears, not the parts of yourself you’re worried are wrong.
Jason darts another glance at his feet. “At the reunion,” he says, “someone told me you were doing great. Working at R+R. That’s amazing. I actually, um, grabbed an issue a while back and read your articles. It’s so cool, seems like you’ve seen the whole world.”
Finally, I manage to speak. “Yeah. It’s . . . it’s really cool.”
His smile widens. “And you live here?”
“Mm-hm.” I cough to clear my throat. “What about you?”
“Nah,” he says. “I’m on business. Sales stuff. I’m still back in Linfield.”
This, I realize, is what I’ve been waiting for for years. The moment when I finally know I’ve won: I got out. I made something of myself. I found a place I belonged. I proved I wasn’t broken while the person who was cruelest to me stayed stuck in crappy little Linfield.
Except that’s not how I feel. Because Jason doesn’t seem stuck, and he certainly isn’t being cruel. He’s here, in this city, in a nice white shirt, being genuinely kind.
There’s a stinging in my eyes, a hot feeling in the back of my throat.
“If you’re ever back there,” Jason says uncertainly, “and you wanna meet up . . .”
I try to make some kind of noise of assent, but nothing happens. It’s like the tiny person who sits at the control panel in my brain has just passed out. “So,” Jason goes on. “Sorry again. I hope you know it was always about me. Not you.”
The sidewalk swings again, a pendulum. Like the world as I’ve always seen it has been jostled so hard it’s rocking, might come crashing down entirely.
Obviously people grow up, a voice says in my head. You think all those people were just frozen in time, just because they stayed in Linfield?
But like he said, it’s not about them, it’s about me.
That’s exactly what I thought.
That if I didn’t get out, I’d always be that lonely girl. I would never belong anywhere.
“So if you’re in Linfield . . .” he says again.
“But you’re not hitting on me, right?” I say.
“Oh! God no!” Now he holds up his hand, showing off one of those thick black bands on his ring finger. “Married. Happily. Monogamously.”
“Cool,” I say, because it’s really the only English word I remember at present. Which is saying something since I don’t speak any other languages.
“Yep!” he says. “Well . . . see ya.”
And then Jason Stanley’s gone, as suddenly as he appeared.
By the time I get to the wine bar, I’ve started to cry. (What’s new?) When Rachel jumps up from our usual table, she looks stricken at the sight of me. “Are you okay, babe?”
“I’m going to quit my job,” I say tearily.
“Oh . . . kay.”
“I mean”—I sniff hard, wipe at my eyes—“not immediately, like in a movie. I’m not going to walk into Swapna’s office and be, like, I quit! And then walk straight out of the office in a tight red dress with my hair down my back or anything.”
“Well, that’s good. Orange is better for your complexion.”
“Either way, I have to find another job, before I can leave,” I say. “But I think I just figured out why I’ve been so unhappy.”
35
This Summer
IF YOU NEED me,” Rachel says, “I’ll go with you. I mean, I seriously will. I’ll buy a ticket on the way to the airport, and I’ll go with you.”
Even as she says it, she looks like I’m holding out a giant cobra with human blood dripping of
f its teeth.
“I know.” I squeeze her hand. “But then who will keep us up to date on everything happening in New York?”
“Oh, thank God,” she says in a gust. “I was afraid you’d take me up on that for a minute.”
She pulls me into a hug, kisses me on either cheek, and puts me into the cab.
My parents both come to pick me up from the Cincinnati airport. They’re wearing matching I–heart symbol–New York T-shirts.
“Thought it would make you feel at home!” Mom says, laughing so hard at her joke that she’s practically crying. I think it might be the first time she or Dad has acknowledged New York as my home, which makes me happy on one level and sad on another.
“I already feel at home here,” I tell her, and she makes a big show of clutching her heart, and a squeak of emotion sneaks out of her. “By the way,” she says as we bustle across the parking lot, “I made buckeye cookies.”
“So that’s dinner, but what about breakfast?” I ask.
She titters. No one on the planet thinks I’m as funny as my mom does. It’s like taking candy from a baby. Or giving candy to a baby.
“So, buddy,” Dad says once we’re in the car. “To what do we owe this honor? It’s not even a bank holiday!”
“I just missed you guys,” I say, “and Alex.”
“Shoot,” Dad grunts, putting on his turn signal. “Now you’re gonna make me cry.”
We go home first so I can change out of my plane clothes, give myself a pep talk, and bide my time. School’s not out until two thirty.
Until then, the three of us sit on the porch, drinking homemade lemonade. Mom and Dad take turns talking about their plans for the garden next year. What all they’ll be pulling up. What new flowers and trees they’ll plant. The fact that Mom is trying to Marie Kondo the house but has only managed to get rid of three shoeboxes’ worth of stuff so far.
“Progress is progress,” Dad says, reaching out to rub her shoulder affectionately. “Have we told you about the privacy fence, buddy? The new next-door neighbor is a gossip, so we decided we needed a fence.”
“He comes by to tell me what everyone on this cul-de-sac is up to, and doesn’t have anything good to say!” Mom cries. “I’m sure he’s saying the same kinds of things about us.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” I say. “Your lies will be much more colorful.”
This delights Mom, obviously: candy, meet baby.
“Once we get the fence up,” Dad says, “he’ll tell everyone we’re running a meth lab.”
“Oh, stop.” Mom smacks his arm, but they’re both laughing. “We’ve got to video-call with the boys later. Parker wants to do a reading of the new screenplay he’s working on.”
I narrowly avoid a spit-take.
The last screenplay my brother’s been brainstorming in the group text is a gritty dystopian Smurfs origin story with at least one sex scene. His reasoning is, someday he’d like to write a real movie, but by writing one that can’t possibly get made, he’s taking the pressure off himself during the learning process. Also I think he enjoys scandalizing his family.
At two fifteen, I ask to take the car and head up to my old high school. Only at that point, I realize the tank’s empty. After the quick detour for gas, I pull into the school parking lot at two fifty. Two separate anxieties are warring for domination inside me: the one that’s composed of terror at the thought of seeing Alex, saying what I need to say, and hoping he’ll hear it, and the one that’s all about being back here, a place I legitimately swore I’d never waste another second in.
I march up the concrete steps to the glass front doors, take one last deep breath, and—
The door doesn’t budge. It’s locked.
Right.
I sort of forgot that any random adult can’t walk into a high school anymore. Definitely for the best, in every situation except this one. I knock on the door until a beaky resource officer with a halo of gray hair approaches and cracks the door a few inches. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see someone,” I say. “A teacher—Alex Nilsen?”
“Name?” he asks.
“Alex Nilsen—”
“Your name,” the officer says, correcting me.
“Oh, Poppy Wright.”
He closes the door, disappearing for a second into the front office. A moment later, he returns. “Sorry, ma’am, we don’t have you in our system. We can’t let in unregistered guests.”
“Could you just get him, then?” I try.
“Ma’am, I can’t go track down—”
“Poppy?” someone says behind him.
Oh, wow! I think at first. Someone recognizes me! What luck!
And then the pretty, lean brunette steps up to the door. My stomach bottoms out.
“Sarah. Wow. Hi.” I’d forgotten that I could potentially run into Sarah Torval here. Borderline monumental oversight.
She glances back at the resource officer. “I’ve got it, Mark,” she says, and steps outside to talk to me, folding her arms across herself. She’s wearing a cute purple dress and dark denim jacket, large silver earrings dancing from her ears; she has just a splash of freckles across her nose.
As ever, she is completely adorable in that kindergarten-teacher way. (Despite being a ninth-grade teacher, of course.)
“What are you doing here?” she asks, not unkindly, though definitely not warmly.
“Oh, um. Visiting my parents.”
She arches a brow and glances at the redbrick building behind her. “At the high school?”
“No.” I push the hair out of my eyes. “I mean, that’s what I’m doing here. But what I’m doing here is . . . I was hoping, I mean . . . I wanted to talk to Alex?”
Her eye roll is minimal, but it stings.
I swallow an apple-sized knot. “I deserve that,” I say. I take a breath. This won’t be fun, but it’s necessary. “I was really careless about everything, Sarah. I mean, my friendship with Alex, everything I expected from him while you were together. It wasn’t fair to you. I know that now.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You were careless about it.”
We’re both silent for a beat.
Finally, she sighs. “We all made some bad decisions. I used to think that if you just went away, all my problems would be solved.” She uncrosses her arms and recrosses them the other way. “And then you did—you basically disappeared after we went to Tuscany, and somehow, that was even worse for my relationship.”
I sway from foot to foot. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d understood what I was feeling before it had a chance to hurt anyone.”
She nods to herself, examines the perfectly painted toenails poking out of her tan leather sandals. “I wish so too,” she says. “Or that he had. Or that I had. Really if any of us had really known how you two felt about each other, it would’ve saved me a lot of time and pain.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “So you and he aren’t . . .”
She lets me wait for a few seconds, and I know it’s not an accident. A semidevilish smile curls up her pink lips. “We aren’t,” she relents. “Thank God. But he’s not here. He already left. I think he was talking about getting away for the weekend.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. I glance back at my parents’ minivan parked in the half-empty lot. “Well, thanks anyway.”
She nods, and I start down the steps. “Poppy?”
I turn back, and the light’s shining so bright on her that I have to shield my eyes to look at her. It makes her look like she’s a saint, earning her halo by unwarranted kindness toward me. I’ll take it, I think.
“Usually on Fridays,” she says slowly, “teachers go to Birdies. It’s a tradition.” She moves, and the light lets up enough for me to meet her eyes. “If he hasn’t left, he might be there.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“Plea
se,” she says. “You’re doing the world a favor by taking Alex Nilsen off the market.”
I laugh, but it’s leaden in my stomach. “I’m not sure that’s what he wants.”
She shrugs. “Maybe not,” she says. “But most of us are too scared to even ask what we want, in case we can’t have it. Read that in this essay about something called ‘millennial ennui.’”
I stifle a laugh of surprise, clear my throat. “Kind of a catchy name.”
“Right?” she says. “Anyway. Good luck.”
* * *
• • •
BIRDIES IS ACROSS the street from the school, and the two-minute drive over is about four hours too short to formulate a new plan.
The whole flight down, I practiced my impassioned speech with the thought that it would be said in private, in his classroom.
Now it’s going to be in a bar full of teachers, including some whose classes I took (and skipped). If there’s one place I have judged more harshly than the fluorescent-lit halls of East Linfield High School, it’s the dark, cramped bar with the glowing neon BUDWEISER sign I’m entering right now.
All at once, the light of day is shut out and colorful dots dance in front of my eyes as they adjust to this dim place. There’s a Rolling Stones song playing on the radio, and considering it’s only three in the afternoon, the bar is already hopping with people in business casual, a sea of khakis and button-ups and cotton dresses in monochrome, not unlike Sarah’s getup. Golf paraphernalia hangs on the walls—clubs and green Astroturf and framed pictures of golfers and golf courses.
I know there’s a city in Illinois called Normal, but I’m guessing it doesn’t hold a candle to this suburban corner of the universe.
There are mounted TVs turned up too loud, a scratchy radio playing underneath that, bursts of laughter and raised voices coming from the groups crowded around high-tops or lined up along either side of narrow rectangular tables.
And then I see him.