You Don't Know My Name

by Kristen Orlando

  TEN

  “Old Templeton is the oldest building on campus,” Katie, our Templeton sophomore tour guide, says, standing in the shadow of the massive stone building. With its proud spires, heavy wood doors, and arched windows, Old Templeton is the crown jewel of the gothic-style architecture on campus. “Old Templeton provides housing for upperclassmen and is said to be one of the most haunted buildings here. So hopefully you won’t mind if your roommate is a friendly ghost or two.”

  The small group of parents and prospective students politely chuckle at what can only be a canned joke Katie repeats on every tour. I look up at Luke with a smirk. His blue eyes return my silly smugness with a wink.

  “Well, that concludes our tour of Templeton College,” Katie says, clapping her hands together. “Hope you enjoyed it and hope you have a wonderful day exploring our beautiful campus.”

  If Katie was hoping her handclap would signify the end of our hour with her, she was mistaken. A foursome of uptight, East Coast, old-money parents in expensive trench coats and heavy knit sweaters swarm Katie and immediately begin firing off questions before she even has a moment to breathe.

  “The acceptance rate is twenty-three percent, so how good do your ACT scores have to be? What were your ACT scores?”

  “Tell me about the sororities on campus. Does Templeton have Delta Gamma? I’m a legacy.”

  “What’s the food like here? Is it all organic? Do you have sushi?”

  “I’m not pleased with the size of the rooms here. Could we purchase two rooms? And make one room a closet and dressing area for our daughter? Maybe knock down a wall?”

  Their children, a blond Chanel-bag and pearls-wearing girl and disinterested-with-the-world boy with black eyeliner and a lip ring hang back and watch as their parents elbow each other for Katie’s attention.

  Luke raises his chin in their direction and says, “Helicopter parents.”

  “Seriously. They look like the kind of parents that call and yell at HR when their kids don’t get chosen for an internship,” I reply with a laugh.

  “Internship! I wouldn’t stop there,” Luke says as we watch Katie frantically try to answer their incessant questions. “They probably call the hiring manager at whatever hedge fund they want them to work at when they don’t get hired in their late twenties.”

  “Poor, poor preppy princess and emo kid,” I say with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe if they both go here, they’ll bond over that and date.”

  “That guy looks like preppy princess’s parents’ worst nightmare,” Luke replies as we turn and walk toward the other side of campus where Luke’s truck is parked.

  “You’re probably right,” I answer. Our conversation falls into a comfortable quiet as we walk down Middle Path, its pebbles crunching under our feet. Middle Path is Templeton’s main artery and runs the length of the entire campus. On either side of the path, trees, thick with the passage of time, hold tight to leaves that are so orange and yellow and red, they look like they’re on fire.

  “If heaven has seasons,” I say, my face tilted up, soaking in the vibrant colors, “this must be what fall looks like.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Luke replies, his gaze matching mine. “It’s beautiful here.”

  My head nods in agreement. Templeton is like nowhere I’ve ever been, with its monstrous gargoyles, pointed arches, and peaked roofs. This part of Ohio is all rolling hills and forests and cornfields. Its “downtown” consists of a family-run grocery store where students pick up chips and energy drinks, a post office, a coffee shop, and a school bookstore. It’s the type of place where people don’t lock their doors and nothing bad happens. Very different from the life I have in front of me.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Luke asks as Templeton’s one-hundred-year-old church bell rings, its heavy, alluring clang announcing a new hour. I look up and down Middle Path and think about all the students who have loved that bell and suddenly my body aches for memories I haven’t even had.

  “I love it,” I reply, which is not a lie. Templeton feels like home or something. Or at least the feeling I think people mean when they say it feels like home. I’ve moved around so much, I don’t think I know what that feels like. But I think it’s when your heart knows before your head that this is where you belong.

  “Good,” Luke says with a relieved smile. “West Point is only a few hours’ drive. I’d miss you if you were on the other side of the country.”

  His words, always uncalculated and sincere, twist my stomach into a million little knots and I can feel my heart constricting under the weight of agony and hope.

  “Me too,” I reply, my voice quiet.

  “Hey,” Luke says, grabbing my arm. “I dare you to belly flop into that pile of leaves.”

  Luke points toward an enormous mountain of leaves on the edge of Middle Path, waiting to be bagged up.

  “Luke, you know better than to dare me to do anything,” I reply, a slow smile creeping up my face. In the last year I’ve done a series of pirouettes in the middle of AP bio, meowed at complete strangers in the mall, and stood up and licked my plate clean in the middle of the Cheesecake Factory, all on dares. This one is child’s play. I rock back on my heels, then take off running and leap headfirst into the colorful pile. Crimson, burnt orange, and gold leaves explode around me, then float back down, covering my face and body. I laugh and blow at a yellow leaf that landed on my lips.

  “I give you a nine-point-five.” Luke cups his hands around his mouth and calls out to me from down the path.

  “A nine-point-five?” I reply and sit up as best I can in the shifting pile. “What the hell? That was a ten.”

  “Your technique was good but you lost some style points,” Luke yells, shaking his head with a smile. “You didn’t point your toes during entry into the pile.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” I ask and slap the massive pile next to me. “Show me a ten.”

  Luke’s smile cracks even wider. The pebbles on Middle Path scrape loudly against his shoes as he runs toward the pile of leaves. He leaps, arms outstretched like Superman, legs spread, toes pointed, next to me, and the colors explode like harvest fireworks.

  “A definite ten,” I say and laugh, picking a red leaf out of his blond hair. “Only you could make belly flopping into leaves look so good.”

  I lay my body back down, settling in next to Luke, my torso parallel with his. Our legs brush. I wait for him to pull away but he doesn’t move. So we lie there, wrapped thick in our soothing silence, as a gust of wind stirs the leaves that hang defiantly to their branches. A few break free and pinwheel to the ground to join their fallen brothers and sisters.

  “I love fall,” Luke begins, spinning a freshly fallen leaf back and forth in his hand, changing its shade from bold red to light red. “But it’s sort of the Sunday night of seasons.”

  “What do you mean?” I reply, furrowing my brow.

  “You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach on Sunday night? When the weekend is over and you know you have to go to school the next day? That’s what fall is. As great as it is, it’s sort of tainted because you know that suckiness is right around the bend.”

  “I love the way you think.” I laugh and put my hand to his chest.

  “Would you rather,” Luke begins, “have a billion dollars or know all the secrets to the universe?”

  “Secrets to the universe,” I answer confidently even though pretender Reagan would say money. Luke gets the truth. “What about you?”

  “Same,” he says with a nod, turning his face back toward the sky. “There’s so much I want to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “All kinds of stuff. Like, do you think there are parallel universes?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Do you think in a parallel universe somewhere we’re having this exact conversation?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe in another universe we haven’t even met.”

  “Or maybe
in another universe we’re not having this conversation because we already know that there are other parallel universes. Maybe in some other dimension, we’re watching this very conversation right now.” Luke turns his face to me, his dimples deep, his hair thick with leaves. He raises his eyebrows twice and asks, “Did I just blow your mind?”

  “You know, Luke, for someone who has never smoked pot, you sure do ask a lot of puff, puff, give questions,” I reply with a laugh.

  “I know,” he says with a shrug, the swaying trees casting shadows on his beaming face. “Don’t you like my ridiculous questions?”

  “I love your ridiculous questions,” I say and throw a pile of leaves at his face. Luke closes his eyes as the reds and yellows and oranges make impact. I laugh as he shakes his face free of my leaf missile attack.

  “Mac, don’t even start that game.” He smirks and throws a pile of leaves in mine, the colors flying all around me. “You know you’ll lose.”

  “Oh yeah,” I reply and I push my body up. I grab an enormous pile next to me with both arms and bury his entire face. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Oh, you’re dead, Mac!” Luke’s muffled voice and laugh comes from below my pile but before he can make his next move I jump on top of him and playfully punch his side before dumping even more leaves on top of his face.

  “Not so tough now, huh?” I say, tickling his sides.

  “Mac, stop!” He laughs, squirming and shaking the leaves off his face. “Mac, you know I’m ticklish.”

  “Of course I know you’re ticklish,” I reply, reaching for another fistful of leaves, but Luke grabs me by my wrist, pulling me off of him and rolling me onto my back.

  “No, Luke,” I squeal, my eyes closed, my head shaking from side to side. He laughs and playfully pins down my other arm, the leaves crunching beneath the weight of our bodies. He throws a pile of leaves on my face. I spit and laugh and promise, “I’m gonna get you, Luke.”

  “You started it,” he whispers in my ear, his warm, sweet breath lapping at my cool skin, a chill pricking every last goose bump on my body.

  My eyes open and find his and suddenly, I’m no longer laughing. I’m no longer breathing. I get lost in the paleness of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the weight of his body on my own. And even before he moves his hand up my wrist to lace his fingers with mine, I know exactly how it will feel, as if it’s happened a thousand times before.

  Before I can speak or think or breathe, Luke is wrapping his hand around my neck. As he pulls us closer, I feel a rush of happiness and helplessness. A surging tide of heat washes through my blood, causing whatever limbs that remained strong to go limp. And as his lips gently brush and linger on mine, the contact sparks, hot and bright. I press my lips to his teasing mouth and the world goes dark. He kisses me, softly at first, with an aching sweetness. Then his warm lips crescendo with such intensity, my hands are forced to cling to his sweater, trying to find something solid in the dizzying darkness. My heart hammers in my chest and blood rushes through my body, drowning out any sound except the beat that swishes in my ears. I dissolve into his body, wrap my arms around his neck, and press him closer. His lips taste like cinnamon and are soft and fierce all at once. His feather-light fingertips trace the back of my neck and every part of me is electric.

  Our lips part and Luke rests his forehead on mine. I open my eyes to see him looking back at me. And through our blurry closeness, I see his lips rising into a smile, matching mine.

  “You know how we talked about favorite moments?” Luke says, his voice soft and out of breath.

  “Yeah?” I whisper.

  “This might be mine.” He smiles and leans in, and I fall once again, hard, into his kiss.

  ELEVEN

  “So Mark’s party tonight, right?” Luke asks as we pull his black truck into his driveway. “You want me to drive you?”

  “I’ll just meet you there. I promised Harper I’d go with her,” I say and squeeze the hand I haven’t let go of since Templeton. The ninety-minute drive home, I’ve studied him, my mind taking snapshots of the way his full lips part and his defined jaw moves as words spill out, one by one. The way his cheeks flush and his dimples crease when I make him laugh; the feel of his warm lips on my hand as he kisses my skin. I collect each moment and file them away.

  “I’m glad I came up with you today,” Luke says, turning the car off next to the old basketball hoop, rising tall out of the cracked asphalt.

  “Me too,” I answer, rearranging our fingers for a firmer grip. Luke reaches out, tucking a long strand of my dark hair behind my ear, allowing his fingertips to linger and trace the skin beneath my chin, sending shivers up and down my body.

  Luke looks down at our entwined fingers and touches the sterling silver bracelet on my wrist. He runs his fingers along the delicate linked chain until he reaches the double heart charm. He holds the dangling hearts in between his thumb and index finger, leaving his warmth and fingerprints on the cool metal.

  “Your mom’s bracelet,” Luke says and my eyes widen with surprise. “For good luck, right?”

  “How did you know that?” I ask.

  “You told me once,” he answers with a smile. “Last year when we were sitting in chemistry. You were nervous about our test and kept playing with your bracelet. I asked you where you got it and you said it was your mom’s. That it brought her good luck growing up and so she gave it to you. And now you always wear it for good luck.”

  “You remember that?” I reply, truly astonished he remembered that passing comment so early in our friendship.

  “I remember everything,” he says, running his smooth hand across my cheek and through the tangle of my hair before pulling hungrily and sweetly at the back of my neck. I inch closer, savoring the smell of milk and honey on his skin, the way his nose grazes against mine, the hot, syrupy air between us just before our lips touch. The space between us pulses and my heart skips every other beat. As our lips meet, my hands glide along his strong chest and pull at both sides of his sweater. He’s right next to me but it’s not close enough. I taste him and every part of my body buzzes. His fingertips graze against my cheek, float down my neck, and slip into the delicate hollow of my shoulder. I lose all sense of time.

  As we kiss, the tight knot anchored to the pit of my stomach begins to melt. My worries and longings and fears dissolve, the pain swimming to the edges of my body until they disappear. In its wake floods a secret hope that’s been lying dormant, untapped and buried, at the center of my chest. I guess that’s what happens when you kiss the only one who really matters. Nothing else does.

  Our lips part and our foreheads lean together. Luke is mirroring my smile and I struggle to catch my breath. He leans in and kisses me sweetly one last time, stroking the side of my face before letting me go.

  “I’ll see you later?” he says, more a question than a statement. I pop open the door handle and hop onto the asphalt.

  “Yup,” I say, exhaling shakily, still recovering from his kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

  I close the door and slowly walk across the Weixels’ manicured lawn. My heart fluttering in my chest, I draw in the deepest of breaths, trying to quell the heavy buzz that numbs my arms and legs, for fear I might faint.

  My head is deliciously fuzzy, unable to form complete, coherent thoughts. A few words cycle on repeat, round and round in my skull. It happened. It finally happened. Incredible Luke. Impossible me. As I climb the steps of my front porch, I wish I could freeze this moment, when the possibility of us drifts in the air like a hopeful pink balloon.

  I put my key in the front door and push it hard, expecting to hear the wail of the alarm, but I don’t. My perked ears hear the clang of coffee cups on the stone island and hushed tones in the kitchen. Crap. They’re home.

  I carefully close the door, trying not to alert them of my presence but they’re Black Angels for crying out loud. They hear everything.

  “Reagan?” my mother’s voice calls out to me.


  “Hi. Coming,” I cry out cheerfully and take three giant, silent steps toward the hallway mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my mouth is bright red. My dark, normally sleek hair is wild and my mascara is smudged beneath my bottom lashes. I totally look like a girl who has been kissing the boy next door, and they’ll know it in two seconds if I don’t fix this. I run my fingers quickly through my hair and wipe the mascara from beneath my eyes. I slather on a thick coat of lip balm and hope they’ll think I’m just wearing colored lip gloss. My cheeks … what can I do about pink cheeks …

  “Hello? Daughter?” my dad calls out now.

  “Coming,” I say and pull out my phone. I look down, faking a text, as I enter the kitchen. “Sorry. I was just texting with Harper.”

  I slip my phone back into my pocket before they can see I’m lying. Mom raises her eyebrows at me anyway from her seat at the island. Dad stands opposite her in dark jeans and a black sweater. He smiles, grabs me, and hugs me tighter than normal.

  “Favorite daughter,” he says and kisses me on top of the head.

  “Only daughter,” I answer and return his tight squeeze. “That was a quick trip.”

  I drop my purse on the floor, give Mom a hug, and take a seat on the stool next to her at the island.

  “We missed you. Did you miss us?” Mom asks, running her hand through my hair.

  “Yes. I wept uncontrollably,” I say and smile.

  “What’d we miss around New Albany?” Dad asks, leaning against the counter with his strong, callused hands.

  “Not much. Same shh … stuff. Different day.” I glance over at my mom with a sheepish grin on my face. She gives me “the look.”

  “Nice girls like you don’t swear, Reagan,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Yeah, yeah. You love me and my potty mouth,” I reply and wrap my arms around her shoulders.

  “I certainly do not. I did not raise you to sound like a truck driver,” she says. I give her arm a squeeze and feel her wince. I pull my arms away and stare at her, waiting for an explanation. She doesn’t give me one. She stares straight ahead and takes a sip of her coffee, her thin blue sweater falling down her arm and exposing a sliver of a white bandage.