Blank Pages

by Alice Darlington

  “Yeah?” His answer was posed more as a question. Maybe because I was so uncertain, now he was too.

  “I was thinking of maybe looking for a job or something there…in Connely. Maybe. If, you know, you want me to?” I kept my back to him, concentrating on folding my clothes into overly neat stacks, something I’d never cared to do. Usually if they were clean, they stayed in a chair until I wore them again. Folding them was a small victory.

  “Lex,” he said, turning me to face him. “Is that what you want?”

  “I mean, it’s pretty close to my parents, too—close enough. If you don’t want me to, that’s fine. We haven’t really talked about it. I just—”

  “Baby, of course I want you to. I would love that.” His smile told me he really would. “My sister’s best friend works at the library, and she’s been saving a spot for you. It’s not a lot of money or anything, but it’s books.” He shrugged as if he hadn’t just lifted a burden off my shoulders.

  “You found me a job?” I asked him. At a library?

  “Yeah. If you want it, it’s yours,” he told me casually, as if it wasn’t the greatest job in the world.

  “Of course I want it! I’ve been trying to find a job for months. Why didn’t you tell me?” He could have relieved this mountain of stress on my shoulders a while ago, and he hadn’t. Why did that annoy me so much?

  “Because I didn’t want to force you into a decision. I didn’t want to make you choose with me in the picture.”

  After taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, I smiled. “I get it. Thank you for helping me.”

  “I’ll always help you. I was standing right here the whole time.” His hand reached out for mine, lacing our fingers together while he continued. “I’m always going to be right here, beside you, ready to help whenever you need me to. I’ll always support you. I was just trying to wait until you needed me.”

  A little laugh escaped my throat. “I think I needed that months ago. I’ve been struggling.”

  “You’re much stronger than you think. Sometimes I forget. I just didn’t want you to lose something you wanted because of me. I want you to have everything you want.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. I’ll have you, I’ll work at the library, and I’ll write. I just need to find an apartment, and maybe a cat.” I winked.

  “About that…” I lost his eyes for a moment before they met mine again. “I think you should move in with me, and I think we should get a dog.”

  “Like in the same apartment?”

  “It’s a house, actually, with a yard for the dog.”

  “You have a house?”

  “It was my grandparents’ house, and it’s near work. Maybe a golden retriever? Or a lab?”

  “How much is the rent?”

  “It’s free, babe. Or maybe we’ll go to the shelter?”

  “I mean, how much is the rent for me?”

  “Free. Definitely a big dog.”

  “This is a lot to take in.”

  “It’s not,” he disagreed. “I love you. You’ll write, you’ll move in with me, and we’ll get a dog.”

  Just like that, I had a job—a job, a roommate, and apparently a dog.

  My first year at Dixie, I had made my home in dorm 318. It was at the end of a hall, in an old, rough building nestled on the north side of campus, bordering the football field. Aside from the long walk to classes and my unfriendly roommate, I also had to deal with communal bathrooms and neighbors who were obsessed with cleaning. Who vacuums at two thirty in the morning? Trust me, even if your carpet fibers are dirty at midnight, they can wait until morning.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled with the dorm situation. I hated waking up early, and if I wanted a hot shower, that was the only option. My roommate didn’t exactly fall into the friend category, so I spent too much time avoiding her, and consequently my own room. About a month into my freshman year, I began the search for a new roommate, preferably one off campus. I only dreamed of hot water and the teensiest bit of privacy.

  That’s when I met Jules—or rather, she stole my coffee. It was hardly an introduction.

  “White chocolate mocha with a double shot of espresso!” a bored voice called out. The young girl yawned, already on to the next order.

  I went to grab it when I was bumped to the side.

  “That’s mine,” she said, already reaching out to take it.

  “No, I think it’s mine,” I argued. I was sure I’d ordered the white chocolate mocha with the double shot. It was my go-to order.

  Her eyes narrowed, allowing me to appreciate her winged eyeliner. Her anger was obvious as she took in my name written on the side of the cup. This girl took her caffeine seriously. I could appreciate that.

  I took the cup, now proven to be mine, and sat down at a small table next to the window, scouring the classifieds for apartments that had addresses where I didn’t think I’d be murdered in the middle of the night. I was only there for a few moments before a shadow fell across the table.

  “Sorry about that.” Her coffee had clearly improved her attitude. “I’m Jules.”

  “Lex. It’s no problem. We all have our mornings. I probably would have given it to you if I were having a better morning than this.” A grimace took over my face as I held up the newspaper, showing her my goal. “Roommate troubles.”

  “I’m looking for a roommate,” she said seriously.

  I was sure my eyes widened and my smile was manic because she continued.

  “Now, hold on. I’m particular, which is why I don’t have a roommate now. Tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m a freshman, planning to study writing. I’m clean, I pay bills on time, and I don’t throw parties.” Basically, I was a sixty-five-year-old lady, but I didn’t tell her that. What if, for some silly reason, she thought that was a negative?

  She narrowed her eyes at me, as if I were lying. “What about TV habits? Eating preferences? You know, the things that matter. I’m wholeheartedly for brunch, reality TV, and snuggling up and not leaving the house on rainy days.”

  If I believed in soul mates, I was looking at mine.

  “I’m thoroughly against wearing pants on Saturday, early Christmas decorating, and wasting good ice cream,” I told her, witnessing the first genuine smile I’d seen on her face.

  It was love at first episode when we sank into the oversized couch and watched thirteen straight hours of very unrealistic television, making fun of lives that seemed far more complicated than our own.

  With the exception of those tiny dorm room, I had gotten extremely lucky in the roommate department.

  CHAPTER 44

  I HAD BEEN lucky in my roommate situation, at least when she wasn’t waking me up before the sun rose, like she was today.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead! We have work to do.” Her cheerful disposition was especially unnerving at seven a.m. She had pulled back the curtains and blasted the radio. Unfortunately, my covers couldn’t block out the light and noise.

  “If you want me to be productive today, you better turn off the country music,” I mumbled from my cocoon of blankets.

  “What should we play, then?” She was scrolling through my music library, not finding what she was looking for.

  “If you really want to get stuff done, better hit the thug playlist. Nothing gets me going like rap.”

  “Yeah, you know, rhyming about Glocks and drugs really gets me hyped.”

  And so we started the day of cleaning, officially beginning the process of saying goodbye to our home of the last three years.

  “Lex!” she hollered from the vicinity of the kitchen. I barely heard her over the vacuum. I’d been busy cleaning out the couch for a solid hour. I was now three dollars and sixty-eight cents richer, and I’d found over half a dozen socks, none of which matched.

  “What did you find?” I asked, leaning over her shoulder. “Oh, wow.”

  “Look at these pictures!” she told me, laying out a timeline of our co
llege years. Our junk drawer had been filled with pictures from various escapades: midnight premieres, football games, concert tickets. We’d held on to proof of our memories.

  There were a few birthday cards my mom had sent, too many takeout menus, and many colorful sticky notes. Most of all, though, there were pictures.

  There were pictures of us in our pajamas, and pictures of us with various extras, mainly Jules’ flings of the week. There was photographic evidence of my brief attempt at bangs, which I would be sure to burn later. There was a picture of Jules dressed in a cat costume from her Intro to Theatre class sophomore year. The pictures included Tay as well, the toga party from junior year, the back-to-school BBQ on the quad, and a particularly good one of all three of us laughing outside the library.

  We probably spent more time that day reminiscing than actually cleaning, but by six o’clock, the walls were bare and my heart was aching.

  When the room was back to the basics and all the personality had been boxed up, it looked sad, as if it were mourning our loss just as much as we were.

  “I don’t want to be sad right now,” Jules insisted. “It’s a time of celebration. Let’s go get ice cream.” As if I would say no.

  “Ice cream and tattoos,” I amended.

  “Alright. Let’s get tattoos,” she agreed readily. She’d been trying to talk me into it since freshman year.

  The tattoo parlor, Needled, was very clean. I didn’t really know what I was expecting, maybe grungy biker dudes in muscle tees with multiple face piercings. The face piercings part was right. My tattoo artist was a tiny thing with purple hair and a colorful tattoo sleeve. She was rocking.

  After much deliberation and hand squeezing, Jules now had the phases of the moon across her wrist from new to full, showing the waxing and waning. “I was just going to get the new moon, you know, anticipating a new beginning and all,” she explained, twisting her wrist around for me to see. “But then I thought, it’s an ending as well as a beginning. All the moon phases will correspond to whatever stage of life I’m at.”

  I loved it. If I had been the type to get matching tattoos, I would have wanted my body ink to mirror hers. After thirty-five minutes of ignoring the sting of pain down my right pointer finger, I now had a Walt Whitman quote decorating my skin. In old-fashioned, small script, it read: The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

  “Very appropriate.” Jules admired it while we listened to the care instructions. “I guess that settles it—you’re bound to be a writer if you permanently mark your skin with inspiration to contribute a verse.”

  If only it were that easy. That night, I sat at my desk, drowning in inadequate words. I couldn’t stare at my computer any longer. Writer’s block felt like a slow, effective tactic of torture.

  “You have such a way with words. It’s music to my ears,” Ben told me after I groaned a little dramatically, prompting me to burst out laughing. “What are you writing?” he asked.

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

  “What are you trying to write? I thought you had finished your last article for the paper.” Technically, I had weeks ago, but I wanted it to be perfect. It was my last article, the last chance I had to impact a life here, to make a change.

  I’d helped with the paper for three years now. For six issues every year, I’d given a little part of myself to this campus with my words. All those words, all the issues I’d touched on, and every truth I’d tried to throw out there was done. This last article was the only one I still had any control over, so I kept staring at the words, demanding their perfection.

  The May edition was always directed at graduating seniors, and for the first and last time, I was among them. These words, and these hair-pulling hours, were meant to inspire. For those of us graduating, it was an intersection, waiting for a new direction. I learned more about myself writing that article than I had writing any article before it.

  This intersection I was standing at now was filled with big decisions and big consequences. For some people, maybe the choice was easy. Sometimes it’s obvious which direction to point our compass. Sometimes, though, the road isn’t so recognizable. I knew, in this life, there would be times the fog would appear so thick I’d lose all visibility. Maybe it was the right way, but maybe it was the left.

  I wasn’t always going to know. Maybe I’d go with my gut, or seek guidance from a wiser superior. Sometimes I’d learn from others, and sometimes I’d just have to learn for myself.

  And then, if I found myself in the wrong spot, I’d have to decide whether to keep going or turn back. Do I push through? Cut my losses and move on? Do I stay in security or risk it all? Do I venture out into the unknown?

  Do I walk the road alone? Is it a popular path, paved and well-worn? Safe? Am I going to be content taking the path laid out before me? Am I brave enough to forge my own way?

  The world couldn’t tell me which way to go. I had to listen to my own heart, because if I’d learned one thing about college, about love, about life, in these last four years, it was that time keeps going, even if you’re standing still, and life keeps going, whether you’re living or not.

  When the final edition of The Dixie Chronicle was published and I’d finished reading my printed work, when I finally got to see the words I’d worked so hard for in black and white on the thin paper, I cried—just a little. I passed it off as allergies.

  Hardly anyone on campus knew me. There was no fame that came along with writing articles. It meant everything, though, to see my name right there, printed neatly, giving me credit for words that meant something to me.

  Dixie College was just a normal college. We didn’t win football championships. We didn’t have a cappella singing groups, unless you counted drunken girls screeching lyrics long after the music had died down. I didn’t throw perfect spirals, I couldn’t hit a baseball at ninety miles per hour, and I certainly hadn’t scored the highest grades in anything. But maybe, with these articles, I’d affected someone who went to school here. Maybe I’d played a part in their story, just the teensiest smudge on the outline of their journey.

  CHAPTER 45

  COLLEGE DRAGGED ON after I stopped focusing on the paper. Every class was more boring than the one before, each one breaking my enthusiasm for being an adult a little more. Senioritis was an incurable disease that plagued us all. Classes got skipped, papers were winged, and procrastination became an art form. We were nearing the end. As happy as I was to be done with the tests and classes, I was nervous about moving forward. College isn’t real life. I had Fridays off and my classes didn’t start until ten, when I had decided they should start. Although studying was a lot of extra hours, I was sure my new job at the library wasn’t going to let me work from ten to three and be off Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Eight to five was probably more manageable.

  College is this limbo between childhood and adulthood. You’re both, or neither, or it depends on who you ask. If you want to join the army, you’re an adult. If you want to get married, you’re still a kid. It infuriated me to try to determine aspects of my life based on a number. If I wasn’t considered an adult and couldn’t act like a child, what could I do?

  I was learning to adult. Ben had everything lined up. He had a job, a house, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, somewhere he’d written down a five-year plan. He’d started an IRA and balanced his checkbook. Some of us are more adult than others, and I was lucky to have him share some of my adult burden.

  I’d been putting in my time and counting the weeks, days, hours, and nanoseconds until graduation. Now, it had arrived. I was almost free. After one more week of classes and four finals, I would know what being a graduate feels like. Two more weeks until I had to face harsh, unforgiving reality. At the moment, my biggest plan for the future consisted of pizza delivery and re-watching intense crime dramas.

  Finals week was slowly killing us all. Students who’d never seen the inside of a library were suddenly living there. Every night was an all-night
er and sleep became a luxury denied to anyone with a comprehensive exam.

  We would all fail if it weren’t for Wikipedia and Google. We’d fail our classes, and we’d fail at life. After two finals, I was hoping I’d passed, and I was just chilling at the intersection of deciding my life plan and dropping out of college short of two tests. No biggie.

  Normally, a little caffeine could pep me right up. These days, it wasn’t enough. I needed to spike my coffee with an energy drink just to get out the door. Tired couldn’t even begin to describe how I felt. It was like a permanent state of being. My bones were tired. My eyes were tired. My brain was tired.

  “I don’t want to take tests,” I told Ben the night before my last final. “I want to write. I want to write something so powerful and deep that it makes people believe in it, in another world, in hope, in love. I want to give that to someone.”

  “You have,” he said, turning me over to face him. “You give that to me every day. Your depth is the ocean when I’ve only ever been in a creek. Now I’m standing on the shore, terrified to go in, terrified the ocean will take me and even more terrified it won’t. You make me feel everything so deeply. It’s like before you, I only lived in the shallow end of life.” His eyes bored into mine, making me believe he meant every word that came out of his mouth. ”You’re such an inspiration to me, Lex, how deeply you feel things, the intensity of your heart, and how emotions take life inside you. You make me a better man, a stronger person, and happy. My God, do you make me happy.”

  I could live with that, sharing my blank pages with him.

  “You know, I loved you for a while before I told you.” His smile was worth the anxiety I had about getting this off my chest. “I loved you softly, in between everything else, and I could handle that. But like the best kind of disease, you started taking over everything, eating away at my self-preservation. You’re like a shooting star, a wishbone, a fountain. I was scared I was throwing all my pennies into you.

  “I didn’t expect to love, not this much. Maybe I should tell you good luck, or I’m sorry, or just go ahead and beg you to stay even when it gets hard. Because it’s going to get hard. It’s not going to be easy, and I don’t expect it to be. I’m not a fairytale princess, remember? Hell, I’m not even a fairytale stepsister. The unconditional, certain love is going to take effort. Every day.