Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  Gazing at Natalie, Sam found no signs of a casual brush-off; but Natalie didn’t look like a woman desperately in love with her either. She swallowed her disappointment and shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  Natalie slid off Sam a little and rested her head on Sam’s shoulder. As Sam outlined little circles on her back, the air, thick with their lovemaking, weighed heavily on them as they sunk into a deep sleep.

  The sheets were green instead of white and smelled of mountain air rather than Downy. The pillow was a little too fluffy. Running heavy fingers awkward with sleep across her eyes, Sam fought to wake up. The smell of sex clung to the skin of her hand, and her eyes flew open as memories of the previous night flooded through her. She bolted upright, glanced around the room, and slumped back down onto the bed. She was alone. The clock on Natalie’s nightstand read 9:40 a.m. She ran her hand over the sheets and pillows around her but found no warmth other than her own.

  Natalie never spent the night with anyone, a trick she might have picked up from her first girlfriend, the closeted Vivian. Sam snorted; she ought to feel grateful she wasn’t sent home in the middle of the night. She pulled her clothes on slowly, working out the kinks in her overtaxed muscles, grateful for the fabric that seemed to mask some of the shame of being abandoned after a night that was so unbelievably beautiful, so perfect. Taking one last glance around the room, she confirmed that the woman who had touched her and held her mere hours ago had left no note. She slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and dragged the door open, stepping out into the garish sunlight. She tried not to think about what they’d done. Or wonder what would happen now. Or feel anything.

  Everything had changed, that much was clear. What wasn’t clear was how things had changed or what shape their relationship would take now. But as the afternoon sun gave way to gray skies, Sam refused to reach out to Natalie, and her phone never rang.

  They were both supposed to head to the Bay Area in the fall, Sam to Stanford and Natalie to a Master’s program in public policy at Berkeley. They had talked about living together in San Francisco, which was the perfect, albeit expensive, middle ground between their two graduate schools. They’d decided on these two programs in part because the short distance between Palo Alto and Berkeley meant continued nightly joint forages for snacks, weekend piano lessons, and catch in the street during football season. Although they’d known each other for less than four years, it was inconceivable that they might plan their futures without taking the other into account.

  As the hours ticked by with Sam alone, curled on her bed, she imagined living by herself in Palo Alto so she wouldn’t have to commute. Ironically, apartments in the affluent suburb bore the same price tag as their San Francisco counterparts, so she wouldn’t necessarily save money, except perhaps in gas.

  Two days later, she ran into Natalie in front of the library. They proceeded to look anywhere but at each other.

  When, at the same time, they each said the other’s name and then stopped, Sam couldn’t take it any longer.

  “This is stupid. You obviously think that we made a mistake, so why don’t you just say it, and we can try to figure out where we go from here.” She didn’t even try to keep the harshness from her voice, and her face burned with embarrassment and anger.

  Natalie cleared her throat. “I don’t. Think it was a mistake.”

  Their eyes met briefly. “What? You don’t think it was a mistake?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Obviously, you’re upset—you never ask a question with a negative; it’s impossible to reply to.” Natalie paused. “God, I can’t even begin to think how I would embed that preposition in my sentence.”

  Sam was in no mood for semantics. It was overwhelmingly foolish to have this conversation in such a public location, but her feet were rooted to their spot, and she might not get another chance to hash this out. “Look at me. Dammit, Natalie, you know I’m in love with you. Don’t fuck with me.” She was proud she managed to get the expletive out without stammering or faltering.

  Natalie ran her hands through her hair. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

  “I don’t think we can. If I let you go, you’ll just run. So we’re staying here until you talk.” To emphasize her point, Sam unceremoniously dropped her bag to the ground and crossed her arms.

  Natalie slumped a bit. “Fine. I don’t know what this means. I love you, Sam. But you know I don’t do relationships. Part of me thinks I should try one with you, but I’m also terrified of losing your friendship.”

  Sam growled, disgusted. “‘Terrified of losing my friendship?’ That’s what high schoolers say when they really just mean ‘I’m not interested.’ You’re blowing me off with that?”

  “I fucking mean it, Sam. You’re my best friend. What I have with you, it’s the most important thing in my life. I just…God, can I just have some more time to think about all this?”

  Natalie looked like she might cry, and Sam hated herself a little for the feelings of compassion that surged through her whenever Natalie was distraught. She had to get out of there before she reached for Natalie, or slapped her, or broke down herself. “Fine. Two weeks,” she said before snatching up her bag, spinning around, and fleeing from the library.

  She’d made it halfway across the plaza when Natalie caught up with her and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her to turn around. She put both hands on Sam’s face and brought their mouths together roughly. Pulling away, she looked deep into Sam’s eyes.

  “I do love you, Sam. Two weeks.” With that, she turned and walked away.

  Sam stood there, her heart pounding, turned on and crying at the same time. It was perhaps the lowest moment of her life. That her nadir should hit forty-eight hours after her apogee struck her as the epitome of tragicomedy.

  The next two weeks were marked by moments of overwhelming pleasure, especially when Sam relived the passion they had shared together during that one magical night, and acute doubt and nervousness when she imagined being finally, thoroughly rejected. The sex had been incredible, and when the taste and feel of Natalie surged through her memory, she had to remind herself not to act the part of girlfriend, trying to woo a yes from her. She refrained from sending her flowers. She picked up an adorable stuffed otter from the shelf of a bookstore, only to return it to its home between similar animals. She bit back invitations to dine at the expensive French restaurant they had always wanted to try but that was decidedly out of their undergraduate price range. Inaction drove her nuts, and she fervently hoped she was doing the right thing by allowing Natalie the space to make this decision.

  The day before her two weeks elapsed, Natalie called. “Can I come over?”

  Sam hesitated, wholly unprepared for Natalie’s answer. Sitting at her desk, she tinkered with her computer mouse. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  “See you soon, then.”

  Sam minimized the paper she had been writing and stood up from her desk, looking down at her clothes. The T-shirt had been a gift from Natalie over a year ago. Talk nerdy to me was written underneath a pair of horned-rimmed glasses. Maybe she should change. Into something…sexier. She could put a leather jacket on, but it would be weird to wear a coat inside. Boots or barefoot? Take her hair down? It was always in a ponytail—if she took it down, she would obviously be trying too hard.

  Her dorm room was messier than usual. Stalling until she could figure out her attire, she returned the books strewn across her bed to the bookcase and straightened the sheets. The shades were open. Considering that sometime within the hour she might be having wild sex or crying buckets, she closed them. The computer speakers on her desk were eerily silent, but she wasn’t sure what kind of music suited the occasion. She scrolled through iTunes, pausing at Bonnie Raitt, Nine Inch Nails, and Cole Porter. Her mouse was hovered over her favorite Counting Crows al
bum, “August and Everything After,” when a knock on her door interrupted her.

  She hadn’t changed her clothes.

  Her hands trembled when she opened the door.

  Looking winded, Natalie walked past Sam and took her coat off before sitting on the love seat.

  Sam stood awkwardly for a moment, then perched on her bed. “It’s been a while. How’ve you been?” God, that was lame. She could barely bring herself to look at Natalie.

  “Sam, I can’t give you want you want.”

  The walls of Sam’s dorm room were crumbling, her bed was an ocean of waves drowning her, and she couldn’t make sense of the words coming out of Natalie’s mouth.

  The next thing she knew, Natalie was sitting on the bed next to her, holding her hands. “Sam, look at me. You need to hear this. I love you. I loved spending the night with you. But I don’t love you enough, not like that, and we would fall apart, implode, or fade away. I don’t even know. All I know is I don’t want to lose you.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “Please don’t abandon our friendship.”

  Natalie’s hands on hers—hell, the skin of her own body—were trapping her in some kind of hell, and Sam roughly threw off Natalie’s contact to pace around her room. No coherent thoughts came, save one: someone else would be kissing those perfect lips soon. She was trying not to picture Natalie in bed with a faceless, nameless man or woman when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she could see Natalie’s tears had multiplied. She grabbed her one-time lover and clung to her.

  She didn’t cry.

  She also didn’t call, e-mail, or otherwise reach out to Natalie for over three months. Sam thought back to her mother’s words about Natalie, which she appreciated now in a way she hadn’t imagined when Eva first delivered them: She loves you, but if it’s not enough for you, if it comes to that, you might need to have the strength to walk away.

  SENIOR YEAR:

  SPRING 2007

  On an overcast May day, when she walked to her dorm on her lunch break, she recognized Natalie sitting on a bench, bent over a notebook writing. She meant to walk past her, but instead sat down next to her. So engaged was she in whatever it was she was writing, Natalie seemed oblivious that someone now shared the bench with her. “What are you writing?” Sam asked softly.

  Natalie looked up, startled. Relief, then tears filled her eyes, and she closed her notebook. “Sam. Hi.”

  Sam tried to smile, but it didn’t really work, so she gazed out at the collegiate gothic architecture—arresting visions that she passed multiple times a day without really seeing. Maybe that’s what she would always be to Natalie.

  “God, Sam, I miss you so much.” The pain in her voice lanced through Sam, who found it more than a little ironic that on top of her own pain, she felt guilt for shutting Natalie out of her life.

  Sam’s voice cracked. “I miss you too.” They sat silently next to each other for a long time, afraid of breaking whatever tenuous connection they managed to find in that moment. When Sam finally spoke, her voice was raw with unshed tears. “I’m tired of being angry with you. I…look, we can try to be friends again.”

  Her suggestion was rewarded with a soft gasp. “I would…really…like that.” Natalie said, as if with each word she feared Sam would retract her offer.

  “I think I would too.” It lacked the warmth of a genuine commitment, but it was the best Sam could muster.

  They still hadn’t really looked at each other, and Natalie shifted in place, recrossing her legs and fidgeting with her notebook. “The Palace Theater is doing a sing-a-long showing of the musical episode of Buffy. It’s tomorrow. Will you go with me?”

  “Depends on what goodies are in the giveaway bag.”

  “I’m pretty sure it comes with a talisman for you to summon your own musical theater demon.”

  “Count me in, then.” She dared to glance at the woman who had hollowed out her heart, scraping out the parts that mattered and leaving nothing but bruises. Months earlier, the promise of an evening spent with Natalie and Buffy would have filled Sam with anticipation and joy; now she questioned whether the problem with her relationship to Natalie was that she would always be the Xander to her Buffy, a supporting character with a pitiful crush on the lead.

  Natalie looked at her with such gratitude that Sam shoved down her resentment. She second-guessed herself even while she spoke: “Want to grab food beforehand?”

  “I’m always up for Mexican. The sing-a-long starts at eight.” The storm of emotions in Natalie’s eyes ebbed and flowed too fast for Sam to identify them all; still, she recognized guilt, trepidation, hope, and, most frustrating of all, love.

  “Let’s meet at my car at six thirty then,” Sam said, shouldering her backpack and rising.

  “Sounds great. Looking forward to catching up and stuff.” The hesitation in Natalie’s voice haunted her as she walked away.

  Sam paced back and forth by her car and checked her watch. 6:42. She considered getting in and driving. Just driving. Away.

  When Natalie jogged toward her, winded, Sam crossed her arms.

  “I’m so sorry. I got tied up.”

  Trying not to wonder if she meant it literally, Sam got in the car. “Let’s just go.”

  They drove in silence for a while until it was past the point where either of them could turn on the radio without it being a glaringly obvious attempt to mask the tension. Maybe it was Sam’s responsibility to generate conversation, since she was the one who walked away from their friendship, but a petty voice in her head insisted that since Natalie more or less dumped her, she should have to do the talking.

  “How’s stuff in the lab?” Natalie asked, either agreeing with her or else similarly uncomfortable with the quiet.

  “Fine.” Screw it, Sam thought, and she turned on the radio. Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable” came on, and she stifled what would have sounded like a hysterical laugh. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What were you writing yesterday?”

  “I was editing my thesis.”

  “Do you have a full draft?” Natalie had never written something earlier than the night before it was due.

  “It still needs a conclusion. But my advisor’s really happy with it. He thinks I should send it to the provost.” The pride in her voice as she talked about academic work was a first.

  Sam couldn’t remember what Natalie was writing her thesis about, which might have had something to do with the number of times Natalie had switched topics during the fall. “Why would you show it to the provost?”

  “Well, it’s about the importance of a liberal arts education in a time when universities are becoming more and more like trade schools. That’s kind of a tired argument, but I’m basically saying that the key to liberal arts education in the Information Age is to break down disciplinary boundaries and to organize students’ study around multidisciplinary questions. I sort of say we need to reconsider the current university structure, which has been around for a couple of centuries. So, it’s a bit controversial, especially since universities change slower than molasses. But, like, consider world hunger: Rather than having students in anthropology studying it from their disciplinary angle, and poly sci students approaching it from theirs, and biochemical engineers working on GMOs that lawyers will later patent—what if everyone trying to eradicate hunger worked together in a multidisciplinary approach? Universities could be organized around issues.”

  “Oh. That’s really smart.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “What? No,” Sam lied. After all this time, Natalie had found a way to transform her wide range of interests into a cogent and original thesis. If they didn’t share so much history, Sam might begrudge her uncanny ability to always land on her feet.

  “No worries, I surprised myself, really. How’s your thesis coming?”

  “It’s okay.” Her research wasn’t coming toge
ther easily, and she only had about ten pages of prose written. Hoping her change of subject wasn’t as transparent to Natalie as it felt to herself, she asked, “Are you excited to graduate?”

  “I like it here. I met so many great people and learned so much. I’m going to miss it.”

  God, Natalie was so much more globally happy than Sam. Maybe that was part of her allure. “I won’t. I mean, college was fine and all. But it’s not all there is.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply it was,” Natalie said, her voice lined with defensiveness.

  Well, this was going well. Sam parked the car at Oaxaca Kitchen, and they went inside. They were midway through their enchiladas when she asked, “Are you still going to Berkeley next year?”

  A hint of doubt passed over Natalie’s face before she answered. “Yeah. I haven’t decided what aspect of public policy I want to focus on, but I’m pretty excited about my undergrad thesis, so I was thinking education policy.” She nibbled on a chip, clearly uncomfortable with this subject, although for the life of her, Sam couldn’t figure out why. “Are you still going to Stanford?”

  “Yep. All set.” The silence that followed made Sam’s hands clammy. “Where are you living?”

  “Um, my girlfriend and I are renting an apartment in Oakland.”

  At least Natalie had the good grace to look abashed, and take a sudden interest in the tile on the walls of the restaurant.

  “Your girlfriend,” Sam said. Because of course now, after everything they’d been through, Natalie would have a girlfriend she wanted to move across the country with.

  “Her name’s Anika. She’s in Manuscript with me—the Arts and Letters society. She’ll be in the Visual and Narrative Culture program at Berkeley.”

  It shouldn’t have been surprising that Natalie had been tapped to join one of Yale’s secret societies. “And you’re going to be living together. How long have you two been dating?”

  “Two months,” Natalie said, her voice barely a whisper.