Three Eden #2
We dated for kind of a long time. Most of sophomore year!
There were a few rough patches—red flags along the way that in retrospect I really should have paid more attention to.
Like the time he told me I was a little self-absorbed because I hadn’t asked him any questions in a full week; I’d only been talking about myself.
(Who keeps count of how many questions people ask them?
So rude.) Or the time he said I only wanted to go to school dances for the attention, and when I asked him why he thought that, he basically implied that I couldn’t possibly be there for the joy of dancing because my moves weren’t that good.
Ouch! I wasn’t sure which was worse, that he was insulting my dance style—mostly of the jump-around-waving-arms-in-the-air-like-you’re-steering-a-plane-on-the-runway variety—or that he thought I was both self-centered and attention hungry.
Accurate? Maybe, but definitely not cool to say.
The biggest red flag—and this one really stung—was when I found out he’d blocked my brother, Jesse, from getting onto varsity
soccer team tryouts that August. Obviously, it was the coach’s final decision, and extremely rare for anyone to make varsity
right off the bat like Leo had, but apparently, he’d been “planting seeds” in the coach’s mind that Jesse wasn’t a serious
player. That even though he showed talent, he didn’t have the drive.
Jesse did end up quitting the JV team to “focus on his beats” halfway through the season. So, it’s possible Leo was right
all along . . . but I didn’t like the fact that he was going around saying negative things about my brother. It spoke to this
judgy side of him; the part of him that thinks he knows what’s best for others.
Still, I was willing to look the other way on all these issues because I was so stupidly dazzled by how handsome and funny
and smart and well-liked he was. Is.
And who knows what would’ve happened if it weren’t for the disaster that was Becca Johnson’s fifteenth birthday party.
That, and everything that came after.
Georgia’s phone rings at the exact moment that we’re walking beneath the Washington Square Arch, and we halt our progress so she can answer.
Because, of course, it’s Rhys! I’m not trying to be a jerk about it; I actually think Rhys is fairly cool.
He’s been there for Georgia when she really needed it.
Also, he’s hot, smart, popular, and success driven.
Everything Georgia could ever want. But I’m kind of annoyed that he’s hijacking our night of independence in the city.
On the other hand, I don’t mind sitting on a park bench for a second because my clogs are killing me.
I can tell from Georgia’s face that this conversation isn’t going well—a lot of “What?!” and “It’s not that I’m not happy
for you, I’m just surprised!”—and by the time she hangs up, her hands seem a little shaky.
She turns to me. “Wow,” she says, letting out a tensely held breath. “Okay, brace yourself.”
I nod, wondering what this could be. He didn’t just break up with her, did he? If he did, I’ll personally murder him. It would
be great if Georgia started the summer single, but I don’t want her starting the summer heartbroken, and definitely not because of that guy. My mind is already conjuring a list of fitting responses when Georgia finally spits
out the news.
“Rhys got the internship!”
I stare at her. “Huh?”
“You know, the one I was telling you about over dinner? At Bank of America!”
“Bank of America?” I try not to shudder at the boringness of the word bank, and mentally replay dinner, but all I remember was some stuff about an online scammer.
Georgia shakes her head in disbelief. “He told me he was applying to a few of these finance internships but didn’t really
think he’d get one. He said the Bank of America one is the most prestigious and the only one he’d consider saying yes to.”
“So . . . what does this mean?” And no offense, but why should I care?
“It means he’s going to be living here, in New York, for the summer. Instead of up at the lake. He’ll still commute up to Laurel for the weekends, but obviously it
won’t be the same.” She rubs her jaw, clearly upset.
“But you’re used to long distance at this point. And aren’t you guys going to college together in the fall? So what’s another
couple months apart?” I ask, twisting my ankles, watching my clogs dance around on my toes.
“I know, it’s just . . .”
“Not what you’d planned,” I fill in.
“Exactly.” She sighs. “It’s . . . it’s okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be fine! We’ll still get lots of time. Every weekend is,
like, two out of every seven days. What does that come to?” She thinks for a second. “Something a little less than thirty
percent.”
For a moment, I stare at her, in awe of the rapid mind math.
But I know Georgia. And I know how much she dislikes things that weren’t part of her plan.
I throw an arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be great, babe. You’ll have me to distract you! I mean, when I’m not doing the
stupid wilderness camp thing Dad’s forcing me to do. Hey! You should join it with me! It’s probably not too late—”
“Eden, I’m committed to the lifeguard job at the lake. Assuming I pass the tests,” Georgia says. “But you’ll be fine. A little
time in the woods won’t kill you.”
“And you know what, Georgia? A little time away from Rhys won’t kill you either.”
“You’re right.” She sighs.
While she’s mulling on what the summer will look like with seventy percent less Rhys, my own brain strays into the dread I
get every time I think of Boundless Horizons, the two-week “outdoor adventure and wilderness survival” program my parents signed me up for. It’s exactly the type of activity
a person like Leo Goldbaum would love—a chance to show off his lifesaving knowledge of deciduous leaf varietals or whatever. Yet another reason we were never meant
to be—not that I thought we were.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m fully pumped to spend the summer in the Catskills.
I was just imagining most of it spent sunning on the beach, barbecuing (or more accurately, consuming the fruits of other people’s barbecuing), and bumming around town.
Laurel Lake was a fairly rustic place when our parents were younger but it’s become much more posh, full of arty Brooklyn expats, with a tennis club, lake beach, ski lifts that go up into the mountains for breathtaking views, and off-road biking—all a couple of miles outside a quaint little village with the best muffin café, cute shops, art galleries, pottery studios, candy stores, ice cream parlors, a bandstand in the town square, canoe and bike rentals, and an old schoolhouse that’s been converted into a library.
Basically, heaven. That is, if you aren’t spending your time hiking, fishing, and camping .
. . aka slapping mosquitoes and rubbing sticks together in the woods.
My parents acted like Boundless Horizons was the one condition under which I would be permitted to spend the summer up there, but honestly, I think they were dying
for me to leave the city regardless. They think I’ve been partying too hard, which is ridiculous, because I am actually very
well-behaved. Sometimes I try telling them what some of my friends have gotten into, but instead of realizing they have a
perfect saint of a New York teenager, they just lose it and worry even more. Between me running loose in the city, and Jesse,
who almost never leaves his room, they’re longing to set at least one of us straight and turn us into more well-rounded and
functional humans.
Whatever. Well-rounded and functional are overrated.
“Hey, let’s get a cab. My feet kill,” I tell Georgia, slinging my arm through hers so our elbows are linked.
“Mine too,” she admits. “Besides, it’s 10:46.”
“Crap!” I say, leaping up and pulling her with me. We head back out through the arch and prowl around for a cab. Eventually
we make our way over to Seventh Ave, where I finally flag one down, and then we’re inside, heaving a breath, heading south
to Tribeca as the night city streams past our windows.