Twenty-Two
As February fades into March, Garrett and I pretend that our relationship doesn’t have an expiration date, that we will live like this forever.
We go on dates, feeding each other forkfuls of way-too-expensive pasta at the Italian restaurant in Blue Harbor.
He introduces me to his friends from home on a video call, and they are just like he described: Lisbeth effortlessly cool, Corey dramatic and hilarious.
They work hard to help me feel included in their inside jokes, and by the time we hang up, we’re making plans to meet in person someday.
Garrett and I play board games with my family—always competitive, always tense—while the endless winter presses against the panes of the dining room windows.
He tells me he loves me one night, under the endless formation of winter stars.
We are walking home from a party at Tyler’s place, talking about something ordinary and stupid, and then he turns to me and the words tumble from his mouth.
His voice is music, and these three words are an unexpected key change, the kind that transforms the notes you thought you knew into something different, lifting the melody onto another plane.
His eyes search my face, our breath clouding the air between us. I tell him that I love him, too, and it feels like exhaling for the first time after being underwater, and we pull each other into a tight hug, gloved hands pressed against puffy coats, my cheek against his jaw.
When we reach my bedroom, I close the door behind us and he kisses me, and it feels different from our other kisses.
I am filled with the scent of him: warm paper and winter woods.
He pulls my shirt over my head, then removes his own, and we look at each other in the warm lamplight.
He traces his fingers across my shoulder blade and down my arm, his breath heavy, his eyebrows question marks.
I look at him, at this person I know so well but who suddenly seems foreign. I think back to the game of Never Have I Ever at Dana’s party, aware that Garrett has done this before and I haven’t, but I trust him. I trust him with all of myself.
I nod, and he crashes into me like a Lake Superior wave against a rock face.
I find myself propped against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his lips on my throat.
I kiss the freckles cascading across his shoulders and arms. Blood rushes to my ears, and I’ve never felt so aware of my skin, of its heat and smoothness and the way it stretches over my bones.
He’s tugging me away from the wall and we’re falling onto my bed, him on top of me, exploring my body with one hand, unbuttoning my pants with the other.
His hand pauses. “You’re sure?”
“So damn sure.”
He kisses the small of my neck, then the corner of my mouth, then my lips, pressing all of himself onto me, and I devour the heat of his bare chest radiating into my own.
That is what I will remember of this night.
Not the awkwardness of all the firsts or the pain or the wondering if I was doing it right or going too fast or too slow.
It will be the unstoppable force pulling us together, telling us to leave no distance between ourselves.
It will be the sheen of sweat that is both mine and his clinging to my chest. It will be the warmth of our bodies meeting in the space that no longer exists between us.
In mid-March, the college acceptance letters arrive.
Garrett and I get home from school one afternoon to find two envelopes in the mailbox, one from Los Angeles, the other from Atlanta.
We bring them inside, taking our time removing jackets, putting shoes in the shoe rack, hanging backpacks on the peg by the door.
Then we stand at the kitchen island, examining our respective envelopes.
They are heavy and thick. I haven’t checked the online application portal in a few days, and I wonder how long the decision has been available.
“Together?” Garrett asks.
I nod.
I slide my finger under the flap and tug. A shower of purple and gold confetti falls onto the counter. It’s quiet for a second as we both read. We look up at the same time.
My mouth is dry, but I manage, “You?”
He nods. “You?”
I nod.
He rushes around the island and pulls me into a hug. “God, Enzo,” he says into my hair, “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“No,” he says, “yours is the way bigger deal here. You got in!” Then, his joy becoming physical, he grabs my shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face a miniature sun. “You got in, Enzo!”
The news begins to sink in. Burton-Clark accepted me.
That panel of discerning professors decided I was talented enough to study at one of the most prestigious composition programs in the country.
The years of theory classes, the hours at my keyboard, the oboe lessons: They all mattered in the end. I could become a film composer.
“We have to tell everyone!” Garrett says, a golden retriever in his enthusiasm. “Aunt Liz and Emma and your dad. They’ll be so pumped for you!”
“No,” I say. “I think … I think I want this to stay between us. Just for now.”
His face falls at me dampening his desire to share the news. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. But, Enzo … you’re going, right?”
Before I think, I’m nodding. “Definitely. I just need some time to process, you know?”
He smiles, reassured, and I gesture at his letter. “Maybe we make today about you. My family will be so proud.”
They are. Dad and Emma and Aunt Liz insist on celebrating, so the five of us cram into Dad’s truck, head to Blue Harbor, and eat a long meal at the Dockside, sharing plates of fresh-caught fish and watching the sky over the lake shift between deepening shades of pastels as the evening light fades.
Garrett remains his charming self, but every time his college plans surface, he changes the topic, as if he cares less about Ellison than the rest of us do.
So we talk about the things we’ve always talked about.
Dad complains about the inept Irontown Chamber of Commerce.
Aunt Liz gushes about each dish our server brings out.
Garrett and Emma delve into a debate about the most recent Star Wars movie.
I want this to be forever, I think, watching Garrett break into incredulous laughter at something Emma said.
I want to always feel like this. The thought is fierce and brief, a fire flaring up in my consciousness.
But then it vanishes as quickly as it came, because I know that what we have is temporary, that he is not meant to stay here forever, and neither am I.
Our futures are beginning to feel so solid, so inevitable, and I can’t imagine how they’ll include the both of us together.
A month later, the school holds a banquet for seniors receiving scholarships from local businesses.
They say it’s a chance to recognize us for our hard work, but I think it’s mostly so that business owners can feel good about themselves and get some positive publicity.
I’m receiving a music scholarship from the credit union, so on the night of the banquet, my family heads over to the school.
We arrive at the cafeteria right before the banquet is about to start, weaving our way through the crowd of parents and seniors milling around tables adorned with fake flowers. We find a spot at a table with Trevor, Katrina, and their families, and we settle in.
Ms. Hammond approaches the podium, and the room quiets.
“Welcome!” she intones. “Thank you for setting aside this evening to celebrate our most talented, hardworking seniors. Before we begin the dinner portion of the evening, we’ll have a short program.
When their name is called, each senior will come up here and meet the benefactor who has awarded their scholarship. Please hold applause until the end.”
“They’re making us get recognized?” I say.
Dad raises his eyebrows. “You thought this was just about free food?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Kind of.”
Even now, Ryan Beltrami is striding to the front of the room to receive a scholarship for cross-country runners. While he walks, Ms. Hammond reads from her tablet, describing Ryan’s plans to attend Michigan Tech to study engineering.
“How did Ms. Hammond know where he’s going?” I whisper to Katrina.
“Probably from that form Ms. Ferris had us fill out in government class,” she says.
I vaguely remember the form. She had told us it was only for the school’s records.
Someone had asked what they should put under the college decision section if they hadn’t yet decided, and Ms. Ferris said to write whatever school we were leaning toward at the moment and then to stop by the guidance office once we made our official decision.
My face suddenly feels numb, my ears ringing with the sound of two out-of-tune piccolos attempting to play in unison.
Garrett, noticing my expression, leans over and whispers, “It’s okay, Enz. You’ll have to get used to public recognition once you’re a famous composer.”
The audience, ignoring Ms. Hammond’s instructions, claps loudly as Ryan returns to his seat. I haven’t told anyone at this table. My family has been pestering me for weeks about whether I’ve heard anything from Burton-Clark, and I’ve pretended I haven’t. I told Garrett that I’m going there.
Katrina is called to the front, having earned the Makinen Family Award for Excellence, the scholarship that goes to the valedictorian each year.
Our whole table cheers boisterously, and she makes a face and trots forward to receive her certificate and fake check.
Ms. Hammond describes Katrina’s plan to attend St. Olaf College to major in biology.
Tyler’s name is called—followed by deafening cheers from the audience—to receive a scholarship from the football booster club to attend the University of Wisconsin–Madison, and we’re another senior closer to my college being announced.