Chapter Forty-two
Sean
Flora and I don’t talk again after graduation. It seems we’ve exhausted all that can be said.
I spend the summer without her. At first, it’s brutal. Thinking of her is like a broken rib that hurts with each inhalation. Gradually, I get used to it. It’s a tolerable kind of sadness, the way fragrances lose their scent after a while.
At least I have the freedom to think of her all I want.
When summer is close to an end, a plane takes me and my unresolved feelings across the ocean. Germany is everything I hoped it would be. I write a postcard to Flora every day, even though the plan is to never send them. These postcards serve as an archive of my trip.
I write about how Jake smiles at everyone and insists on chatting up the people at the next table, how Dylan has to repeatedly explain the White House isn’t in Washington State—he’s never been so passionate about geography—how I order in grammatically correct German and always get replied to in English.
How Jake’s uncle is somehow even cooler than him—if that’s even possible—and pulls off the chill American in Europe vibe so well.
How we braved Bavarian clubbing, jogged along the Rhine, plunged into the freezing hellscape that is Eibsee, and played public chess.
How Jake and Dylan forced me onto a karaoke stage, where I butchered a song so badly that even the polite Germans struggled to clap, only for Dylan to go next and absolutely obliterate.
How I jaywalked once and they refused to let my descent into lawlessness slide, insisting “our sweet, innocent boy is gone,” and debating whether I should be banned from reentering the US.
I swear, these two bond over tormenting me.
See, Flora? I am willing to try new things when it doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg.
I tell her about the two Korean students who stayed up all night playing bridge with Dylan and me, while Jake was out doing whatever it is that Jake does.
About the middle-aged Frenchwoman we met at a bar who’s a small celebrity after one of her YouTube videos went viral.
About the Jamaican obstetrician we met in the hotel lobby who decided to take a year off from delivering babies.
And about the old lady who roped us into moving a couch into her apartment, and then made us the best grilled trout of our lives to thank us.
Writing is my therapy, to get over Flora, but also to hang on to her.
One evening, Dylan leaves the room to call his mom and Sydney, in that order. I’m sprawled on the bed, writing.
Jake asks, “Are you writing to Flora again? Anything dirty in there?”
“Yeah, you and Dylan. You can read it if you want.”
He skims it, and smiles. “I like your writing. We’re really having such a good time in Germany.”
“Yeah. So where are we going next? Summer after freshman year of college?”
He doesn’t even hesitate, like he’s already been planning it. “Somewhere Spanish-speaking so Dyl can do all the talking and we can nod along and be useless.”
Then, just to be annoying, he double taps my face in that obnoxious big-brother way. “I love you, but your German sucks.”
* * *
After my first grueling semester at MIT, I come home for winter break. When I finish packing again, getting ready to leave the next day, Lindsey refuses to get out of my room.
She stands in the doorway, blowing her nose every few seconds because she’s “crying tears of joy” and she “can’t wait” to see me go.
I chuckle. “Would it kill you to admit you’ll miss me?”
“Fine. I’m going to miss you,” she says, sniffling. “Just a tiny bit.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
She hands me my yearbook. “You forgot to pack this last time. Want to take it with you?”
There’s a picture of Flora and me dancing in there. It feels like a cruel prank, and I skip that page every time. Josie says we were an epic couple, and it makes sense to have us in there, as a fragment of history, a UNESCO World Heritage Site of Lakeridge High.
Flora never signed my yearbook. When I got it back from the cheerleaders, I skimmed the last few pages. Every one of them had signed it except her.
I get it. We were too much to be summed up in a few sentences.
I touch the cover, breath held, and flip to the page with us dancing. A thin piece of paper slips out. Flora’s handwriting.
Dear Sean,
I paraphrased below some sentences by Simone de Beauvoir. They conjure up what I’m trying to say:
What you gave me meant so much, it’s mine to keep.
Losing your love hurts, but I’ll never lose the part of you that stays with me.
Your kindness and friendship mean more than you’ll ever know.
I hope, so much, that I’ll see you again someday, but I won’t ask for it, not because of pride.
Seeing each other again will only matter if it’s what you want too.
I’ll be here, waiting. Whenever you feel like reaching out, it’ll make me happy.
Your Flora
PS, I hope our story doesn’t end here
My throat tightens. The letter digs up emotions I thought I’d buried, and it isn’t just because my baby is now quoting Simone de Beauvoir. Lindsey leaves the room quietly. I read the letter again. And again. A third time.
She still cares. She longs to reach out, but she’s leaving the choice to me. My eyes drift to the stack of postcards I’ve written her. We never lost contact.
Perhaps some differences can’t be solved by negotiation, by compromise, by tears. Maybe we can’t find a way to be together now, but maybe we still need each other.
Maybe we can try to be friends.
On impulse, I pick up the phone and press her name. It rings. Three times. Five.
“Who’s this?” A peeved male voice picks up. “Flora can’t come to the phone right now. She’s in the shower.”
I was wrong. I do not want her to be happy. Not this soon. She can’t have replaced me this quickly. “I’m her—”
Laughter. “Sean, I’m messing with you. This is Jeremy,” he says. “Flora’s brother? You remember me.”
My pulse slows. I exhale, unclenching my fist. “Hi, Jeremy. How are you?”
“Fantastic. Hey, Harvard is only two bus stops from MIT. Swing by and I’ll show you where your future bosses went to school.”
“Jeremy!” Flora’s voice, horrified. Muffled sounds, wrestling over the phone and Jeremy laughing.
Then her voice, breathless on the other end. “Sean. Sorry about that. He’s being a jerk, as usual.” Just a few sentences in, and I miss her so much already. “Are you back home for the holidays? And how was Germany?”
I tell her about our trip, and she responds with enthusiasm to everything, even when all I’m sharing is how many miles we rode each day.
“I’m home too. My mom pulled some strings and connected me with an FIT grad who’s a buyer for Moncler, and it’s been eye-opening.
Apparently, being a buyer isn’t just shopping with a company credit card, which is fascinating but also mildly disappointing.
I’ve also been looking into personal shopping, because, you know, if I can’t be a fashion editor judging other people’s outfits from a distance, I might as well fix their wardrobes up close.
Oh! And I landed a summer internship at a fashion company, plus a local brand found my style blog and wants to collaborate.
So yeah, branding, business strategy . .
. I’m kind of a big deal now. Don’t be intimidated. I have so much to tell you.”
“You’ll be great at whatever you do.”
She pauses for a second. “If that’s the case . . . I want to be your friend.”
My eyes flick to the stack of postcards I never sent. “Listen, Flora—”
“I didn’t mean to twist your words again. It’s just . . . it’s really nice to hear your voice. Can we keep talking? Please don’t hang up.”
I clear my throat. “I was going to ask if you want to meet for coffee, if you’re not doing anything later.”
Silence. A long one. My heart thuds hard.
“Flora?”
“Sean.” Flora laughs on the other end, in that flirty, charming way of hers I’ll never get enough of. “See you at the Pavement in an hour. I thought you’d never ask.”