9. Tyler
Tyler
Taking Cassie on a real date is better than I imagined.
We get dinner first, at a small Italian place that’s quiet enough to actually talk. She tells me about her family, her mom’s a literature professor, her dad’s an architect, she grew up in Portland surrounded by books and creative people.
“Why Thornhill?” I ask.
“Good journalism program. Strong creative writing department. I wanted to get away from the Pacific Northwest and try something new.” She twirls pasta around her fork.
“Plus, Carter was my RA first semester. He kind of adopted me when he figured out I was spending all my time alone in my dorm writing.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for me,” she agrees. “He introduced me to Lennox, who decided I was her project. And then eventually I got integrated into the friend group.”
“And now here you are, on a date with the guy who was complicit in making your life hell.”
She sets down her fork. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make this about your guilt. We’ve moved past that. This date is about you and me figuring out if there’s actually something here beyond apology and redemption.”
“Is there?”
She meets my eyes across the table. “I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.”
We Continue our dinner not talking about the past, and getting to know each other.
The movie is some independent film about two people finding connection across impossible odds. It’s good, the kind of movie that makes you feel things and think about your life.
But mostly I’m aware of Cassie sitting next to me, occasionally reaching over to grab popcorn from the shared bucket, her shoulder eventually resting against mine as the movie progresses.
When it ends, we walk slowly back toward campus, not quite ready for the evening to be over.
“Can I ask you something?” Cassie says.
“Always.”
“Are you writing?”
“Writing writing? Or journaling?”
“Writing writing. Actually working on something beyond the poetry you submitted to the magazine.”
“How did you know I wanted to do that?”
“Because you’re thoughtful. Because you think about the world carefully. Because someone who’s learned what you’ve learned through change usually has something to say about it.”
“I’m working on a short story. About a guy who makes terrible choices and has to figure out how to live with the consequences while actually trying to be better.”
“Is it good?”
“It could be. With the right reader giving me feedback.”
She smiles. “I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want to read your work. I want to know what you’re thinking about. I want…” She trails off, seeming to gather courage. “I want this. Us. I want to see where this goes.”
I pull her into an alcove between buildings, away from the main campus paths.
“Say that again,” I say.
“I want this. I want us.”
I kiss her, and this time it’s different than the coffee shop. This time it’s not desperate or relieved. This time it’s tender and exploratory, like we’re figuring out who we are together.
When we break apart, she’s smiling.
“Your place or mine?” I ask.
“What?”
“To hang out. To talk more. To figure out what comes next.”
“Oh. Um. Mine’s a mess, but my roommate’s at her parents’ this weekend, so we’d have privacy.”
“Then yours.”