Chapter 16
16
The Past
College
I t’s three in the morning on a Saturday night, and what’s this college kid doing?
Cramming for an exam.
I glance away from my laptop when someone knocks on the door. River is gone for the weekend, and I’m not expecting company.
Nearly all the company we get is his anyway.
I ignore the knocking.
It’s not for me and will end soon .
We live in the dorm known for parties and drunk idiots banging on doors.
Once, we woke up to a guy who lived down the hall, passed out on our floor. He’d pissed his pants, and he was drooling on one of my pillows. After that, River and I made sure to lock the door at night.
When the knocking turns into pounding, I slam my laptop shut and climb out of bed. Since I’ve been staring at a screen for the last five hours, I adjust my eyes while walking toward the door.
I swing open the door and lose a breath.
The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen stands in front of me.
I blink.
Is she real?
Or did I fall asleep while studying?
Oh, she’s most definitely real.
I study her, entranced.
She must be here for River.
My guess, she’s around my age.
Her cinnamon-brown eyes are puffy and swollen.
Silence stands between us while we stare at each other.
She hugs herself tightly, wrapping her arms around her body.
She’s wearing a pink floral dress with brown cowgirl boots.
I swallow as the sudden urge to comfort her strikes me. It’s surprising since I’m not a hugger. It was a trait inherited from my mother. My mother believes we should save hugs for moments of success.
You learned a third language? Hug!
You graduated from high school? Hug!
You made the Dean’s List? Hug!
She stands on her tiptoes and attempts to peer past me into the room. “Is River here?” she asks through restrained sobs.
I shake my head and grip the doorknob. “He’s gone for the weekend.”
She wipes a tear from her cheek with her arm. “He probably went on that stupid trip even though my parents told him not to.”
My parents?
It clicks.
She must be River’s twin sister, Essie.
He has a few photos of her, but I’ve never paid too much attention to them. But now looking at her, I see it .
Her hand shakes as she fishes her phone from her pocket. “I’ve tried calling him a hundred times, but it went straight to voicemail. It’s probably dead. For someone so tech-savvy, he seriously sucks at keeping his phone charged.” She focuses her gaze on the phone, as if waiting for it to ring. “And I took an Uber here, so I’ll need to book another.”
“Do you think booking an Uber this late is safe?” I retreat a step. “I can drive you.”
I need every second I can to study and don’t have time to drive her, but I also want to help her.
“You don’t …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “You don’t have to do that.”
I step back a few more paces and signal for her to come in as two guys in jockstraps rush down the hallway, shouting about strip poker.
An inch of tension eases from her shoulders at my invite. She scrambles into the room at the same time a guy nearly cartwheels into her. I quickly shut the door behind us.
I open my desk drawer, searching for my car keys, and she shuffles farther into the room.
“Where did I put them?” I mutter in frustration, shoving a few notebooks and cards to the side.
I’m organized. Everything has a place, and it’s returned to that place after use. My keys always go in this drawer.
Essie drops onto River’s messy bed. “Is, uh … everything o-kay ?”A hiccup interrupts her last word.
I slide my hand along the bottom of the drawer. “Can’t find my keys.”
“It’s okay.” She attempts to mask the doubt in her tone.
She for sure thinks I’m lying about losing my keys to get out of driving her home. As if I were playing the good guy act, but it was fake.
I sit on my bed in defeat.
Her ash-colored hair is a wild mess of strands, and she isn’t wearing any makeup .
There’s something so euphoric about seeing someone when they’re at their most vulnerable. And, fuck , please tell me that doesn’t make me sound like a serial killer. But I love imperfection, seeing raw emotion and witnessing someone when not perfectly put together.
Love seeing it on other people.
Hate them seeing it on me.
World’s biggest hypocrite right here.
She studies me, hesitating, trying to decide whether I’m trustworthy, and kicks off her boots. “Do you ever feel like your past is suffocating you, dragging you down and refusing to let you go?”
I nod as if in understanding.
But that nod is a lie.
Even though I grew up without a father, I can say that my life has been pretty good. Despite having an emotionally detached mother, I consider myself lucky. I tutored kids in high school and saw firsthand how hard life could be.
I’ll take an isolated yet strict parent over an abusive one.
A deceased father instead of one abandoning me willingly.
I run my hand over my bottom lip. “Do you know the best defense against your past?”
“What?”
“You burn it down.”
She bolts across the bed, her back smacking into the wall, as if my words were a physical blow.
I expected my response to appear more philosophical.
Not terrifying.
She inhales raspy breaths.
“What I mean is …” I stand, scrambling for better words, and lower myself onto River’s bed while keeping a decent distance between us. My voice is low and even. “If you don’t let go of your past and the pain it brings, it will ruin the rest of your life. The only way to break free from the past is by releasing yourself from it first. ”
My abuela once told my mother that.
I was only four or five years old when I woke up to my mother crying. I got out of bed and peeked around the corner into the kitchen to find her curled up on the floor. My abuela sat beside her, stroking her cheek, and spoke those words to her.
The thing is, I’ve had a good life.
One free from heartache, loss, and struggle.
But my mother hasn’t.
“No one said you can’t put yourself back together, child,” my abuela told her. “But you’re the only one who can fix you. If you don’t find happiness, if you don’t find a way to release your pain, you’ll rebuild yourself just as broken as you are now.”
Her words have stayed with me for some reason.
“You can crash here, in River’s bed, if you want?” I suggest without fully considering my words.
She goes still, mid-hugging her knees, my offer surprising her as much as it does me. “Are you sure?” Her gaze shifts to the papers and laptop scattered on my bed and the two empty coffee cups on my nightstand. “I don’t want to interrupt you.”
I smile warmly. “No, not at all.”
“What are you studying for?”
I shrug. “Just an exam on Monday.”
“For what class?”
“Political science.”
“Course?”
“Latin American Politics.”
“Do you need help?”
“I’m not sure if this is one you can help with.”
She lifts forward and rams her palm into my shoulder, and I grunt.
“Excuse me? Is that because I’m a girl?”
“No, it’s law school shit. So, unless you plan on going into law?—”
She cuts me off, “Which I am.”
My body stiffens at the realization of how stupid my comment was. I deserve another jab to my shoulder. It’s not that I doubted her ability to help, but very few freshmen take the course.
“Sorry,” I sputter. “River never told me.”
She nods, an acceptance of my apology, and sweeps a chunk of hair away from her face. “Although, sometimes, I think about changing my major.”
“I can relate to that.” My eyes meet hers. “What route would you go instead?”
She picks off a loose thread from River’s comforter. “Drop out. Learn to knit. Become a chef.” She taps her finger on the corner of her mouth. “I’d have to take some serious classes to accomplish cooking, though.”
“My mother would kill me if I switched majors.”
“I don’t know what my parents would do.” She chews on her lower lip. “They’re usually supportive of our decisions. They never told me to go into law or follow in their footsteps. Luckily, they allowed River and me to choose our futures.”
My mother chose my future before I left the womb.
A step-by-step plan for the perfect son.
Born. Potty-trained early. Law school. Work at a prestigious firm. Marry after thirty. Babies no earlier than thirty-five so she isn’t a young grandmother.
My face turns sullen, but I snap myself out of it, not wanting her to pick up on my jealousy of her having supportive parents.
I spring off the bed. “You thirsty?”
“Uh … sure.”
I open the mini fridge under River’s desk. “Your options are water, cold coffee, Sprite, or these weird drinks called …” I slowly read off the name of an apple cider vinegar drink.
“I’ll take that, please.” She scoots to the edge of the bed.
I grab a grape-flavored one, hold it up for her approval, and pass it to her after she nods. “So, you’re the reason River buys those?”
They’ve been sitting in the fridge all year .
When I asked why he hadn’t tossed them, he said, “They’re gross, but you can try one,” and then returned his attention to Netflix.
I tried an orange flavor.
And it tasted like cat piss.
At least what I imagined cat piss would taste like.
She nods. “He hates them, but I pretty much live on these and vanilla lattes.”
I grab a cold coffee for myself. Coffee is what I live on.
Essie sits cross-legged on the bed, pops open the can, and straightens her posture, as if ready to get to business. “What can I do to help you study?”
“You’re upset,” I say. “I’m sure studying is the last thing you want to do.”
“Actually, it’d help.” She settles her can on River’s nightstand, pulls a hair tie from her wrist, and scoops her hair up into a ponytail before securing it.
Studying relaxes her.
A remedy to her sorrow.
I understand it because I use studying to forget my problems.
As our eyes meet, I wonder how long that suffering has been there.
“Why are you upset?” I unscrew the cap to my coffee and collapse onto my bed. “Is it a guy?” My head spins as the next thought comes to mind. “No one hurt you, did they?”
“No one hurt me.” A grave expression flashes across her face. “At least not in a physical sense.” She gets up from the bed and snatches a book off my desk. “Now, what can I help with?”
I resist the urge to ask more questions.
If studying together will help ease her sadness, I’m happy to do it.
I pat the space next to me on my bed. She grabs her drink before plopping down. The next three hours are a mix of her quizzing me, offering suggestions on my paper, and small talk .
Even though I’m not as productive, having Essie here is nice. She also gives me great tips. Worry that I’ll fail my exam creeps in, but right now, being with her feels right. Her company is better than any test score.
“I like this,” she comments around a yawn. “A future attorney helping a fellow future attorney.” She rubs at her tired eyes. “I’ve heard so many horror stories of how competitive and dark this profession is.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard all about asshole attorneys from my mother.” I power off my laptop.
“Ugh.” She throws her head back. “I hope that never happens to me … that the selfish law bug doesn’t bite me.”
I hold out my hand. “To never becoming an asshole attorney.”
She shakes her head and lifts her pinky finger. “I seal my promises with a pinky swear.”
We laugh as our pinkies intertwine.
She goes back to River’s bed, so we can get some sleep.
The following morning, Essie is gone.
But she left a note, wishing me good luck on my exam.
I carefully fold the note, stick it in my coat pocket, and bring it to class on Monday. My thoughts about Essie are even more intense than before.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
About the laughs we shared.
About how she’d lean across me, point at the computer screen, and share all her tips and tricks. I threw my head back in laughter when she called them Essie’s Law School Lowdown.
I consider asking River for her number, but then I remember the power of the internet. I’ll avoid the risk of him saying no and warning me to stay away from her. He doesn’t strike me as the type to spout off bro code , but you never know.
I unlock my phone and open Instagram. I’m not one for social media. In fact, I’ve been inactive for six months. I find River’s profile and search his pictures until I find one with Essie. He tagged her in a birthday post.
Essie’s profile is public, so I immediately follow her and look through her photos. Our feeds are completely the opposite. I have just a few pictures, mostly of my dog and a couple from my high school graduation. Essie has hundreds—selfies, photos with friends and family, and studying pictures with the hashtag #shouldidropoutoflawschool. No evidence of a boyfriend.
A notification pops up on my screen.
Essie followed me back.
I grin, as if on top of the world, and immediately DM her.
Me: I passed my exam. I think the good-luck note did it.
It takes less than a second for her to reply.
Essie: I told you Essie’s Law School Lowdown works … and the candy! That and caffeine never fail me.
While studying, Essie asked if I had snacks. I crawled across my bed and opened a care package from my abuela. Care package meaning junk food, fast-food gift cards, and a picture of my dog with a toy that resembled me in his mouth. I offered her the opened box, and she grabbed a bag of Skittles. Whenever I gave a correct answer, she threw a Skittle into my mouth.
Me: What’s your favorite candy?
I collapse onto my back in bed and hold the phone up to my face.
Essie: There’s no better candy than Skittles. Your grandmother chose well.
Me: I beg to differ. M&M’s are where it’s at.
Essie: And now, I shall block you.
I frantically type, fearing she actually will. I don’t one hundred percent know Essie’s humor yet.
Me: Just kidding.
Essie: You weren’t kidding, but that’s okay. It means I know you won’t steal all my Skittles.
We stay up all night, messaging each other.
And for the next three months, not a day goes by when we don’t talk.
We build a friendship, studying for exams and video-chatting. Essie becomes my support system, as we always wish each other good luck before exams and share law school memes.
Then, one day, I take a deep breath of courage and message her.
Me: Can I come see you?
There’s no delay in her response.
Essie: Yes.
Two nights later, I drive to Essie’s college.
The closer I get to her, the faster my pulse races. It’s wild how excited I am. I usually spend my drive time listening to audiobooks or podcasts. But not today. I turn up the music, sing along, and tap my hand against the steering wheel. You’d think I was a man who’d hit the lottery.
I text her when I arrive at her dorm. As I wait for her to come out, my excitement turns into anxiousness .
How will she react to us hanging out in person?
We hung out at the dorm, but it was unexpected and unplanned. This time, it’s by choice.
During the two-hour drive, I’d rehearsed what I’ll say to her.
Unfortunately, that plan goes out the window, and a simple, “Hi,” falls from my lips when she gets into my car.
Essie playfully smacks my shoulder. “Don’t make this awkward.”
“Sorry.” I nervously plow a hand through my hair.
“It’s just us. Essie and Adrian.” Her voice is chipper. “There’s no difference between this and when we FaceTime.”
She directs me toward her favorite diner on campus. While driving, I reach for her hand and hold it in mine. She doesn’t flinch or move it, like it’s where it belongs perfectly.
The server guides us to a booth at the back of the crowded diner. We order dinner, dessert, and then another round of dessert to share . This is just as comfortable as our calls. The awkwardness we started with has dissipated.
After midnight, we leave the diner just as it closes. As we make our way through the lit parking lot to my car, Essie stops suddenly.
“Did you book a hotel?” she asks. “Or do you plan to drive back tonight?”
We never discussed what we’d do or how long I’d stay during my visit.
I twirl my keys in my hand. “I plan to drive back.”
She wrinkles her nose. “This late?”
“I’m a guy who burns the midnight oil studying. A drive is nothing.”
She nods, but it’s clear she dislikes my answer.
I don’t expect Essie to invite me up to her room.
Would I go if she offered? Hell yes.
But sleeping with Essie isn’t why I came.
When we get back to her dorm and park, she doesn’t get out. She locks the door and lowers her seat .
“Let’s sit in here and talk longer.” She casually drapes herself across the center console and rests her head on my shoulder. “Even though I love texting and talking on the phone, doing it in person is sooo much better.”
I bite down on a smile and lower my head until it meets hers.
There’s no late-night drive for me because we stay in my car, talking until sunrise. Then, we fall asleep until someone smacks on the hood of my car. I kiss her goodbye on the cheek, and she wraps her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly.
On the drive home, I feel a crick in my neck and pain shooting up my shoulder, but the uncomfortableness is worth it.
That night becomes a pattern for us.
When I visit Essie, we select a quiet spot to spend time together, whether it’s a diner, library, or park. Sometimes, we take blankets to the park and lie under the stars, whispering our dreams until we fall asleep. Sometimes we study. Our conversations are endless, and when there is silence, it’s easy.
Familiar.
Never an awkward moment.
Scratch that.
There have been a few awkward moments.
Those times our eyes lock, dripping with tension, but we’re too scared to make a move.
When we’re sitting close in a cramped booth, sharing a milkshake, and our lips just barely miss each other as we lean in for a sip.
So many slipups have happened that would change our relationship. Our chemistry is impossible to deny.
If we were reckless, we’d have already crossed that line.
I’d have already kissed her, touched her, and confessed how hard I was falling for her.
Neither of us is one to make irrational decisions, though.
Sometimes I wish we were.
Everything we’re doing could be considered dating .
Except for sex, but that isn’t so uncommon.
Plenty of people wait to have sex.
Nights I lie beside her, I wonder if we’ll ever have that shift.
The friends-to-lovers term you hear so much.
One day, I want Essie to be mine.
Lord knows, I’d do anything to be hers.
I’m falling in love with this girl.
“My friends and I are visiting my brother this weekend,” Essie tells me while I FaceTime her from inside my car.
She hasn’t returned to my campus since the night she showed up at our dorm unannounced. Every time we’ve hung out, I’ve gone to her. Which I have no problem with since we now have our spots where we hang out when I’m there.
“Have you told River we’re hanging out?” I scratch my cheek. “That we …” My words trail off. Even after all this time, I have no idea what to call us.
She shakes her head. “I mean, we can tell him we’re friends.”
I’ve never winced harder.
My throat tightens, stopping me from telling her we’re much more than friends. I hate our sneaking around, and guilt creeps in when I see River without telling him. He mentions Essie to me, and when they’re FaceTiming, he’ll often point the phone at me and tell her to say hi.
I decide to change the friends subject because it always puts me in a funk. “Are you staying in our dorm room?”
It’d be a tight fit, and people would have to sleep on the floor, but I don’t mind. I’d much rather run off and sleep somewhere private with Essie. We have plenty of parks here.
“No.” She sips her latte while sitting outside her favorite coffee shop. “We rented a hotel room, but I’m sure I’ll see you. ”
“You’re sure you’ll see me?” I dramatically massage my neck and deepen my voice. “Esmeralda, I’d better see you.”
She rolls her eyes in fake annoyance at my use of her legal name. I didn’t know Essie was a nickname until she dropped her school ID from her bag while we were studying in the library.
“I’d never go there and not see you, Adrian,” she says matter-of-factly.
“That’s my girl.” I attempt to sound lighthearted, but I feel anything but. “You won’t act like I’m a stranger, will you?”
“Absolutely not.” She suddenly stills. “Why’d you even think something like that?”
“I’m sorry.” I blow out a noisy breath. “I’ve just never had a secret friendship with someone.”
“First off, we don’t have a secret friendship .”
“How many people know you spend nearly all your free time with me?”
“I don’t have a great history with boys I’ve hung out with.” She fingers her necklace with an E charm hanging from it. “I enjoy having you to myself.”
“When our lives aren’t so crazy, you’re going to officially be my girlfriend. Promise me that someday you’ll be mine.”
“Promise.” She raises her pinky.
I do the same, and we pretend to cross them through our screens.