From What I Remember (55 page)

When I first walked into my dorm room and discovered Gabrielle was my roommate, I was horrified. Gabrielle is scary beautiful with flawless chocolate skin and a five-foot-nine-inch body. I figured she’d either be a vapid girly-girl or a pretentious snob. But she’s neither. She’s wry and sharp and curious about everything.

Walter is a lot like Will, in that he’s gay, he’s brilliant, and he’s my friend, but in other ways he’s nothing like Will. He’s the most serious, intense, motivated person I’ve ever met. His daily movie viewings, on top of all our homework, make me feel like a sloth. And don’t get me wrong, I’m busting my butt here; I just don’t have it in me to keep going and going and going the way Walter does. I can’t imagine life without Gabrielle and Walter, and yet a mere three and a half months ago we didn’t even know one another.

I still miss Will and Max ferociously. I thought it would abate as the months passed, but it’s as painful as the day I left. It helps that Will texts me throughout the day, offering up a running commentary on life at Berkeley.

Remarkably, against all odds, he and Juan are still together. “Deeply in love. Inextricably attached,” Will says. They see each other twice a month, which is a lot more than I’ve seen Max, who I haven’t laid eyes on since the day I left for New York (unless you count Skype, which I don’t), almost four months ago. We text, we talk, we Skype every day, sometimes twice a day when we can manage it with the time difference, but it’s just not the same as being there. But what can we do? It is what it is. If we can survive this, we can survive anything.

Walter looks at his watch. “We should go, Gabs.”

“You gonna be okay? All by your lonesome?” Gabrielle asks me.

“I’m gonna be fine. I’m going to study for Carter’s exam, see a bunch of movies. It’ll be nice to have a mellow weekend.” I’m not looking forward to it at all, but I’d never admit it.

We all walk outside onto Avenue A, where Walter hails a cab. We hug and then they climb into the cab. I feel like crying as I watch the car disappear into the traffic. Mostly, New York feels like home in a way San Diego never did, but on rare occasions, when I miss Max or Jake or my parents, and the city seems full of other people laughing, walking arm in arm, full of purpose, it can feel like the loneliest place in the world.

I decide to walk the eight or so blocks back to my dorm. I love the street life in the East Village. Men in dapper suits and old-school punkers with multiple piercings fight for space on these blocks. As I take in the smells of roasting peanuts and the sounds of ambulances and cars honking, I remind myself how lucky I am. I’m in New York City. So I don’t have plans for Thanksgiving. If that’s the worst fate to befall me, I’m doing pretty well this year.

My conviction doesn’t quite dull the pain in the way I’d hoped.

I buy a slice, a few garlic rolls, and a Diet Coke for my dinner. I can’t help but wonder what Max is doing now. Playing squash? Classes? A tiny part of me always worries that some beautiful, sun-kissed Southern Cal girl will sweep him off his feet one of these days, but I can’t dwell on that.

I reach the big blocky building I now call home, and take the elevator up to the sixth floor. The halls are empty, and my footsteps echo as I clomp toward my room in my Doc Martens, the de rigueur NYU shoe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place this desolate. As I reach my door, I notice a piece of paper tacked to it.

I step closer and pluck it off. It’s a letter addressed to Max.

What?

I start to read, and realize it’s an acceptance letter from the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, for January.…I’m thoroughly confused.

I open my door to find…Max sitting on my bed, waiting for me.

“Oh. My. God. What are you doing here?” I say.

“Happy to see me?”

“Thrilled out of my brain…but how…what—”

“Gabrielle gave me her key. I forgot how articulate you are when you’re thrown off guard.”

Is it possible he looks even better than when I left? I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’ve definitely gained the freshman five. Too many cereal choices at breakfast.

“I didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving, and rumor has it, neither do you.” Max holds up a can of cranberry sauce. “You like cranberry sauce? ’Cause at the moment, that’s kind of all we’ve got.”

I hold up the letter and wave it at Max. “What’s this?”

“I’m transferring to Pratt.”

“Here. In New York?”

“No, I’ve decided on the campus in Dubai. Better weather. Good squash team.”

“Shut up.”

“Turns out, I hate prelaw. Someone I know warned me that might happen. Gonna try my hand at photography. See what happens. You know what they say: hobbies are for wimps.” Max smiles, his cheeks dimpling, his eyes twinkling.

How is it this beautiful boy likes me? Has flown across the country to spend Thanksgiving with me? Is transferring schools to be in New York City? I am the luckiest girl in the world. Maybe there’s no expiration date on my good fortune.

Maybe this is my life from now on.

“What about your dad?”

Since the summer, Max’s dad has only gotten sicker. He’s been in and out of the hospital the past two months.

“I bit the bullet and talked about it with him. He wants me to be happy.”

“Oh my God. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I got in. And then I wanted to tell you in person.”

I can’t believe we’re still at opposite ends of the room. I quickly close the distance between us by taking a flying leap into his arms. Max catches me, laughing. I wrap my legs around him and hang on to him with everything I’ve got. He staggers back but then regains his balance. My head nestles into his neck and I breathe him in. He smells like toothpaste and airplane food. God, I’ve missed him.

And then Max’s lips are on mine, soft and sweet and tasting like latte. I open my mouth and our tongues find each other. There’s no more me. Just us. And there’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now. In a dorm room in New York City. With Max. This is the best Thanksgiving ever. Thank you very much. More, please.

othing would have gone according to plan for us without our agent, Erin Malone, whose astute advice and unwavering support have kept us going through it all; our brilliant editor, Emily Meehan, whose smart and savvy notes made the book better at every turn; our families, whose unflagging enthusiasm and love encouraged us to write in the first place; and our children, whose drunken Mexican adventures inspired this story (kidding—they’re all under the age of thirteen).