Chapter 23
Five years ago
In the nearly three years since I lived in Hall Hall, almost nothing has changed.
The tables and rugs still look like they were dragged out of a dumpster, and the beanbags are now saggy and stained, which better matches the overall aesthetic of the space.
The fourth-floor common room also still has the distinctly freshman smell of cheap beer and Clorox and heavy perfume—which is impressive seeing as the freshmen moved out a few days ago, and the only people left on campus are the seniors about to graduate tomorrow morning.
The reasonable conclusion might be that the common room reeks of alcohol (the drinking kind and the Bath and Body Works body spray kind) because of the seniors who invaded it tonight, but I refuse to take personal responsibility for any of those scents.
I’ve been consuming wine tonight, like a real adult.
I cannot comment on whether I used Bath and Body Works body spray.
Taking a look around to make sure I’m the only one left, I collapse into a beanbag, giving up all hope that my floor-length, emerald-green dress will remain wrinkle-free.
As per college tradition, this common room has played host tonight to a rotating cast of Hall Hall fourth-floor alumni, coming to visit their freshman dormitory before they enter the real world tomorrow.
Most of their faces were faint blurs in my memory, as I spent the vast majority of my time with Jo and Harrison, both of whom have already made their appearances.
I assume, anyway. I got here toward the end and didn’t see Harrison, so he must’ve come earlier in the night.
Jo, on the other hand, made an obligatory brief appearance and then ran back to our apartment with Macy.
I wasn’t in the mood to third-wheel (or listen to things I didn’t want to listen to), so here I am. Loitering, in a beanbag, in a freshman dorm. Sexiled, just like I was during the first weekend of college. Life is good.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The elevator door opens, and I freeze as footsteps echo through the hallway.
“Em?” Harrison whispers.
Maybe if I don’t move, he won’t see me?
We should talk, he’d said to me this morning. I could fill in the words. About feelings. About us. About why.
I’ll see you tonight at the party, I’d replied. He’d frowned, and I’d smiled in return.
I have no intention of “talking.” Nothing good will come of that, and he should know it by now.
Harrison sees me immediately, of course, and without saying anything, he collapses into the neighboring beanbag, his suit crumpled, his knees pulled up. Dress shoes with orange-patterned socks.
The party we attended tonight—a college-hosted soirée with college-approved drink tickets and a college-budget deejay and mostly college-appropriate formal wear—could not be more different than the party that was raging in Hall Hall the night Harrison and I met.
Nothing about that was college-sanctioned, and the only formal part of the night was Harrison’s odd introduction and handshake.
I’m Harrison. Harrison Carter, he’d said.
Are you okay? he’d asked.
Tonight, he’s silent. The open windows let in the sounds of late-night crickets and reveling college seniors, all mingling with our steady inhales and exhales.
After a few minutes, he finally speaks up. “Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds.
“Oh my god, yes. What?”
I can see his face shift in the darkness as a dimple appears. He waits for a moment before asking, “What actually happened that night?”
It takes me a moment to register what he’s talking about, but when I realize he means that night as in that first night, I turn my head to face him.
“How did you know?”
A curl falls into his forehead as he tilts his head, studying me. “Instinct, I guess.”
Yeah. Instinct.
That’s the thing about accidentally falling in love with your best friend.
It happens slowly, over years—four years, in this case—and you don’t realize it’s happened until you wake up one day and realize you know everything about them.
You’ve gone from asking how they’re feeling to knowing instinctively how they feel.
You’ve created a whole dictionary of their facial expressions, and you have the whole thing memorized.
You’re suddenly only cracking jokes you know they’ll laugh at because you’ve accidentally learned the ins and outs of their sense of humor.
You’ve learned how they take their coffee, and you’ve learned they love talking on the phone but hate making calls.
You’ve spent hours staring at one specific curl that juts out across their forehead at a different angle every day.
You’ve learned they love you in a more-than-platonic way, and you’ve realized you love them in a more-than-platonic way, too, even though you lie to yourself and to them about it, and you’ve realized they definitely know you’re lying.
I press my eyes together so hard I begin to see spots. When I open them, I still see polka dots everywhere.
Harrison leans forward, beads rustling inside the beanbag. He rests his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands and running his fingers through his waves before letting them plop back onto his forehead, one by one.
He looks at me, opens his mouth again, then changes his mind, instead sitting up straight and removing his suit jacket. After tossing it onto the floor, he leans back and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. I stare the entire time, too uncertain to move.
When he’s done, he turns his attention back to me.
I never bothered to turn the lights back on in the common room after everyone else left, so he’s mostly illuminated by the streetlights coming in through the window, but the low lighting creates an eerie sparkle in his eyes.
Instead of being dark, as they typically are, they’re a beacon of light in the otherwise matte landscape.
“We messed up,” he says.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
“How did we get here?” he whispers.
“I don’t think it matters,” I say. With one night left of college, now is not the time to be ruining a years-long friendship. A friendship that will, in all likelihood, be ruined if this conversation continues.
Harrison sits forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his face. When he looks at me, his eyes are wide and glassy and a little bloodshot.
“You’re lying to yourself,” he says. “It matters more than it ever has. Every time I think about us graduating, I feel sick. Not because I think we’ll drift apart, but because I’m so afraid we’ve missed the only opportunity we’ll ever have.
You’re going to get a job and get new friends and be busy all the time and move on with your life, but I won’t be able to.
” His voice cracks. “I won’t be able to because I can’t imagine my life without you, and I shouldn’t have waited until now to tell you.
You mean the entire world to me. And I don’t understand it, but you make me feel like myself.
Like when I’m with you, that’s who I really am.
That’s the truest version of Harrison.” He takes a shaky breath.
“How did we let this happen, Em? How did we waste so many years?”
My breathing has stopped, but I find the strength to eke out, “I don’t know,” which is neither fair nor true.
“Can I—” he says, then stops himself.
I nod him on, even though I don’t know what’s happening. He scoots forward out of the beanbag, kneeling a few inches in front of me. His eyes are so close, I see my reflection in them.
And maybe I’m cruel for this, but in this moment, I forget why I ever had any hesitation.
My chest collapses in a way that may or may not send my head up and down in a nod, and I’m not sure whether that was intentional on my part, but his lips and eyebrows shift slightly up and his head shifts slightly down.[*]
“Can I kiss you?”
Our lips are inches away. Centimeters, now.
His slow breathing tickles my face. Chills rack my body, and goose bumps form everywhere I can see, and then some.
I lift one hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, and the other arm wraps around his neck.
He inches forward, one hand weaving its fingers through my hair and the other holding my waist.
Our lips meet.
His touch is unexpectedly soft, and my lips part to welcome him.
Or maybe his lips part to welcome mine. He tastes like cheap wine: sweet, but still a little bitter.
His lips draw out every emotion I’ve hidden from him over the last four years, and as I let out the tiniest of sighs, I can feel his muscles shift as he smiles, his lips still pressed to mine.
Another kiss. And then another one, and another one, each one impossibly slow even as my heart beats impossibly fast.
I’ve kissed other guys before, but this—this is different.
Kissing Harrison is buying a scratch-off and winning a million dollars.
You’re hopeful and allow yourself some limited, realistic expectations, but when you take your quarter to the first layer and realize what you’ve actually won, your life is forever changed.
“Harrison,” I whisper in between kisses. I’m not even sure what I want to say. My mind is completely blank, unable to form cohesive thoughts. Lips. Harrison. And then, as his tongue gently enters my mouth, running across my bottom lip: Holy shit.
I want more, so much more—and suddenly, our hands are everywhere.
One slipped under my dress and resting against my bare waist, the other on my thigh.
My hands in his hair, on his chest, across his back, gripping his arms. I whimper as his thumb brushes the bottom of my breast, naked save for nipple pasties.