“How was your first-ever American Thanksgiving?”
“You people really like your football.”
“Do you want to know how mine was?” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyebrows arched. She was drunk.
“I do. You wanna get out of here?” I slipped my hand into hers, which was warm and familiar, and it flooded me with hope. “Let’s get something to eat.”
“No.” She pulled her hand away. Yanked it, almost. “Come on, stay! Don’t you want another drink?” She started to refill my empty cup. Then Patrick called her name from across the room, asking for another beer.
“You got it,” she called back. She handed me my cup and went back over to Patrick, who ruffled her hair. She avoided me for the rest of the night. When the last of the liquor was gone, Julia and Abby announced they were going to the deli on Broadway for sandwiches. Julia didn’t seem to notice or care when I didn’t come along.
But I wasn’t tired yet. Back in our room, I stared at a muted rerun of SportsCenter. I couldn’t make sense of it—of her. What explained her sudden distance, her caginess? Julia didn’t bother playing games, not usually. I liked that about her.
Later I felt a hand on my shoulder, someone saying my name. I opened my eyes, and Julia was standing in front of me.
“You came back,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I got this for you.”
She held it out like an offering: a sandwich from the deli. My favorite kind, the one I always ordered. I never realized that she’d been paying such close attention. The heft of the paper-wrapped mass in my hand sparked the strangest feeling, or, really, two feelings at once. A homesickness I hadn’t realized that I’d been feeling all along, and a sudden cure for it. “Can I sit?” she asked.
I patted the couch, and she folded herself around me, resting her head on my shoulder, draping her legs across my lap. She was always so at ease in the world. Taking my hand at a party, resting her head on my shoulder: those gestures made the world feel big and small at the same time. It was just me and Julia, but what lay before us stretched so far you couldn’t see the end.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” I said. “I never asked.”
“Abby told you, right?”
“Yeah. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really. There’s not much to say.”
She lifted her head to look at me. The sparkle and flush I’d seen earlier that night were gone, replaced by the old steadiness. “Abby went home with that guy,” she said. “Patrick. That guy I was talking to. She’s not going to be back until morning.” She took my hand and led me upstairs.
One week later, we were walking back from dinner, Julia’s hand in mine. It was a cold December night, our breath clouding white in the air, and she slipped our twined hands into my jacket pocket for warmth. I’d been thinking about it all week, and I wanted to say it.
“Julia,” I said. I stopped and pulled her closer. “I love you.”
We stood together for a long time. She wrapped her arms around me inside my jacket, my chin resting on top of her head, the night dark and still. She was silent except for the sound of her breath, dampening my shirt. It had been only a week. Maybe this was too soon, too fast. Maybe I was alone in feeling this way.
But then: “I love you, too. Evan. I love you.”
The heavy certainty of it, like a smooth stone in your pocket. We stood there for a long time, rooted to the ground by what we’d just said. When we started walking again, I realized my toes had gone numb from the cold.
*
The years went fast. We had our separate lives, but they were lived in parallel, and we ended every day the way it began: together. I couldn’t untangle the feeling of my new life—the one I’d always imagined having—from the feeling of being with Julia.
Spring of our junior year, Julia went abroad, to Paris. She said that she’d always regret it if she didn’t. And, she added, it might do us good to have some time apart. To become our own people. I didn’t disagree. Occasionally I wondered whether there was some chance I was passing up in being with Julia, some mistake in committing to one person so early on. I missed her when she was away, but the hockey season didn’t give me much time to be lonely. And it wasn’t loneliness, in any case, that I felt in those rare moments of quiet. I didn’t feel particularly different when Julia wasn’t there—but the world felt different. The horizon drew nearer, the colors grew paler. That semester was when I realized how much I needed her.
“I can’t wait to see you,” she said, her voice scratchy over Skype. It was late May; I hadn’t seen her since January. “I miss you.”
“Me, too.”