Will ducked to my eye level. “It’s nothing. You won’t even miss me.”
I pressed my lips together, wishing that were true. I reached around Will for the door, holding it open with my hip. I wasn’t going to be able to keep it together much longer. I had thought what I felt for Will was physical attraction, but it was more than that—it was so much worse.
Will slipped his backpack onto his shoulders and stepped into the hallway.
“Will?” I said, waiting for him to face me. “I am going to miss you—more than a smidge.”
Over the next twelve months, I’d remember the smile that took over Will’s face. I’d close my eyes and picture that very moment. The bend of his lips, the surprise in his eyes, the faint lines at their corners. It was electric.
“You and me in one year, Fern Brookbanks,” he said. “Don’t let me down.”
And then Will Baxter turned around and walked out of my life.
August 21, 1990
I went to the pastry kitchen yesterday to find Peter, but one of the guys told me he’d taken the day off. I was worried he was upset about what I’d told him, but then he showed up at the front desk, took me to the library, and shut the door. He pulled out a bunch of prenatal pamphlets from his backpack—he’d gone to see his doctor for information about traveling during pregnancy. He was talking so fast about trimesters and ultrasounds, faster than I’ve ever heard him talk before. He used the word uterus at least twice.
He must have realized I was having trouble keeping up, because he took a deep breath and said, “You don’t need to cancel your trip.” I told him a vacation was the last thing I needed to worry about, and he shook his head. He said my whole life was about to change, but that I didn’t need to give up Europe. He made me take the pamphlets, and then he told me he’d been thinking about what I’d said about having to raise a baby on my own. He told me that I wasn’t alone, that he was here, that my parents were here, that there was a whole resort full of people who’d want to help.
I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that. I sat there holding a bunch of pamphlets, crying, and he asked if I was OK. I threw my arms around him and told him he was the best friend anyone could possibly have.
23
Now
Jamie sends me home in the late afternoon. I chuck out a “You are literally not the boss of me!” but it has the impact of a cotton ball.
The cool wind is the first thing I notice when I step outside, followed by the faint smell of rain on rock somewhere in the distance. Finally, a break in the heat.
I think about what Whitney said when we spoke on the phone earlier today while I walk back to the house, keeping my arms crossed against the chill.
I think about my mom and Peter and words unspoken. But I can be brave. I can let Will know how I feel.
He’s still working, so I send him a text, saying that I’m home early and to come over when he’s ready, and then I climb up to the guest bedroom. There’s a queen bed, a suitcase stand, and a carafe for water on a tray—but the room’s main function is kept behind the bifold closet doors.
I slide them open and run my fingers over the rainbow of skirts and sleeves and memories—all of Mom’s cocktail dresses and holiday outfits, and many of mine, too. There’s the purple taffeta number and the long-sleeved black gown. There’s the pale blue A-line hanging next to a tiny white dress with a matching pale blue satin bow. So much of our lives are woven into these threads.
Mom’s green velvet shift and pink sequined bolero: Peter and me playing fancy tea party, and Mom coming home to find us eating crustless sandwiches and listening to Smashing Pumpkins.
The matching tartan dresses: the Christmas dinner when Grandma and Grandpa announced they were moving out West.
A strapless silver gown: telling Mom she was too old to wear something that showed so much skin, even if it was New Year’s Eve.
I pull the silver dress out. It’s floor-length with a slit up the leg. It is pretty sexy—too sexy for the summer dance, and my god, it’s tight. I try on about a dozen more, growing hot and itchy as I do, but most are either too small or too froufrou. I do not do ruffles. Or pink floral. Or rhinestone-bedazzled sleeves. I throw open the window and a gust of crisp air blows through the room, slamming the door shut.
Sweating, I pull out an armful of clothing so I can get to the back of the closet, and wedged between a toile tea dress and a navy and white striped frock is a short orangey-red number with a scoop neck and thin straps. I’ve never seen it before. Red isn’t really my color, nor was it my mother’s, but when I slip it over my head, the fabric is light and floaty. It’s fitted but not tight.
I head to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The dress looks incredible. It’s kind of nineties but not in a costumey way. The color somehow works. Smiling at my reflection, I know this is what I want to wear when I tell Will how I feel, when I tell him I want to be a part of his life—his real one—even if I don’t know how that works. If he feels the same, we’ll figure it out. We’ll make a plan.
So that settles it. I’ll tell Will tomorrow. I’ll tell him while we dance.
I hang everything up and run my hands over the fabric one last time.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, and slide the doors shut.
* * *
—
There’s one entry left in the journal—I’ve been saving it until I have some alone time. I grab the diary from my bedside table and take it out to the back deck. It’s shielded from the wind here, but I’m bundled in a sweater and cozy pants.
“Hey.” Will pokes his head out the door as I find my place.
“Hey,” I say as the rest of his body follows. White shirt. No tie. A casual meeting day. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
“I cut out early.” He clocks the book in my hands. “Am I interrupting? I could come back later.”
“Don’t do that.” I put the journal down and stand, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You always smell so good,” I say into his shirt. “You smell better than other men.”
“I’m going to pretend you don’t know what other men smell like,” he says, pulling back and tipping my chin up with a smile. He kisses me, and it’s slow and lush and as sweet as a lemon drop. “I’m going to pretend there’s never been anyone but you and me.”
I laugh. “We both know that’s wildly inaccurate.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice if it were true?” he says, tracing the line of my jaw with his nose.
“I don’t know . . . we might not be as proficient without all that experience.”
“Or maybe it’d be even better,” he says, “if I had ten years to figure out exactly what you like.”
“I think you’re doing just fine. But if you want a little more practice . . .” I take his hand and lead him to the couch inside, wiggling out of my sweats, and pulling him down over me. I want to feel the full weight of him pressing me into the cushions.
After, we survey the scattered pillows, the shirt flung over the lamp.
“Might need to try that again,” Will says, sitting up and hoisting me on his lap. “To make sure I got it right.”
“Good idea. I’ll order dinner from the restaurant so you can focus all your energy on studying tonight. Your final exam will be next . . .” The word week is about to slide from my lips. Will’s smile falls, and a heaviness settles between us.
“Tonight, can we pretend like you aren’t leaving on Sunday?” I ask. “Like it’s any other night?”
Something flickers in Will’s eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished. He moves his hands to my lower back, pulling me tight against his chest. “If that’s what you want.”
“Just for tonight.”