I led two separate but compatible lives that year. From Sunday to Thursday I did all my reading and schoolwork. My roommates, the Three Winonas, played loud music and smoked nonstop cigarettes, but were surprisingly quiet, and relatively good-natured. I found I had a lot in common with Mermaids Winona, a bookworm who, like me, grew up idolizing Nancy Drew. On Thursday evening I would go to St. Dunstan’s Manor for the weekly party. I would bring my largest purse, packed with a change of clothes and a few of my toiletries, since I would always spend the night, and sometimes the weekend. From Friday morning until Sunday evening Eric and I were rarely apart, with the exception of classes, and Eric’s racquetball matches, or Ultimate Frisbee, or any of the numerous pickup games that it was important for him to win. We saw movies at the campus repertory theater, and would venture into New Chester to eat Italian food, and would sometimes go to parties not hosted by St. Dunstan’s or any of its members, but that was rare. We slid into a comfortable relationship filled with predictable routine, a day-to-day of inside jokes and what seemed to me to be some highly well-suited sex. We called one another Washburn and Kintner. We were blessedly free of the dramatics of disappointment or infidelity. I cherished what we had become but kept it to myself, telling Eric and no one else how strong my attachment was. He echoed my feelings, and sometimes talked of our future together after Mather.
Eric’s ex-girlfriend Faith was also a senior, and still a regular at Thursday night parties. She was now dating Matthew Ford, and because Faith and I were the respective girlfriends of the two most prominent members of St. Dun’s, Faith attached herself to me that year, even occasionally asking me questions about my relationship with Eric, although I never took the bait. I didn’t particularly like Faith, who was bubbly and devious and liked to be the center of attention, but I didn’t mind spending time with her. If Faith hadn’t been around at all, curiosity about the girl who had spent two years with Eric might have escalated into obsession. But she was around, and I got to know her, and, because of that, she had no place in my imagination.
I could see what had attracted Eric to Faith. She was round-faced and sexy, with short black hair. Her clothes were straight out of The Official Preppy Handbook but her sweaters were always a little too tight, and her skirts were always a little too short. When she talked, she came in close and made disarming eye contact, but she laughed often, and made funny jokes about herself. If we went anywhere together, Faith would push her arm through mine, and if she was standing behind me, she would run her fingers through my hair. Neither of my parents had been physically affectionate with me, so I found Faith’s touchiness often disturbing and occasionally reassuring. Once, when Faith was drunk, she told me she wanted to study the color of my eyes. She came in close, her own brown eyes huge in my vision.
“It’s like a tapestry in there,” Faith said, her breath warm against my cheek. “There are flecks of gray and yellow and blue and brown and pink.”
Eric rarely spoke of Faith, but one night as we lay in his bed, he asked if it bothered me that Faith was around so much.
“Not really,” I said. “She’s decided we’re best friends. Have you noticed that?”
“She’s best friends with everyone. No, delete that. I think she genuinely likes you and wants to be your friend, it’s just that . . .”
“Don’t worry. I know what you mean. I have no intention of becoming her best friend. I’m not sure we have anything in common. Besides you.”
“No, you have nothing in common. I can vouch for that. She’s not a bad person, and she and Matt make a good pair.”
“I guess so,” I said.
And that was the extent of our conversation on the subject of Faith.
That summer I returned to Monk’s. My mother had a new boyfriend, Michael Bialik, a bearded linguistics professor from the university, who was surprisingly grounded. He had his own place about a half mile from ours, a converted barn where he lived with his son, a piano prodigy named Sandy. Michael loved to cook, and because of this, my mother spent a lot of her time at his house, leaving Monk’s to me. My library job was only four hours a day Monday through Friday, and I spent the rest of my weekday time either reading or puttering around the property. I was in love, and I was at peace. I even returned to my favorite meadow, the final resting place of Chet. The well cover was still in place; it looked the way it had—years ago—when I had first discovered it, hidden by winter-yellowed grass. The nearby farmhouse was still unoccupied.
My plan had been to visit Eric in New York on the weekends, but when Eric came to visit Monk’s he fell in love with it, or at least he claimed he had.
“I want to spend every weekend here, Kintner. This will be the perfect life. Weeks in the city, and then I can take the train out Friday evening and be here with you. Country weekends.”
“You won’t get bored?”
“Not a chance. I love it here. What about you? I’d be asking you to spend all your time here.”
“You’re describing every summer I’ve ever had. I don’t mind. And I’ll have you to look forward to on the weekends.”
And so our summer turned out to be a replication of our school year. Weeks alone. Weekends together. I didn’t mind, because I had never minded spending time alone. And the days I spent alone were days that were getting me closer to the weekend, to seeing Eric step off the commuter train, overnight bag slung across his shoulders, huge grin on his face. And these weekends were that much more intense. Away from Mather, our relationship seemed more mature, more comfortable. We felt married. So, no, I didn’t mind just seeing Eric two days each week.