Who Do You Love(41)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“Your skin is so soft,” he whispered. I thought about whispering back, something about my moisturizer, but instead I just made another noise, a pleased little coo, and reached across his body, and he tucked my small hand in his big one.

•••

That night, after dinner, he came to my table and stood there quietly until Marissa and I looked up. “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked. Wordlessly, I got to my feet, and he took my hand and led me out the door. There were trees on campus, dotting the grassy lawns, places I imagined the college students probably sat to do their homework, and that was where he took me. We sat side by side, leaning against a tree trunk, looking up at the sky.

“In Philadelphia, you can’t see the stars like this,” he said.

“I went to Cape Cod once, and it was so dark there that you could see everything, hundreds of stars.” I didn’t want to talk about the stars, or the city versus the country. I turned toward him, seeing the shape of his face in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his hand around mine, thinking If he doesn’t kiss me, I’ll die.

“Will you save me a seat at breakfast tomorrow?” he asked, as the campanile rang ten o’clock and kids started streaming back to their dorms.

“Unless I meet someone I like better,” I said. A hurt look flickered across his face. For the second it took him to realize I was teasing, he looked like he was eight years old again, his lips pressed together and his brown eyes sad. I remembered how alone he’d been that night in the hospital, how his mom seemed more interested in embarrassing the nurses than in making sure Andy was okay. A boy who’d grown up the way he had probably had less tolerance for teasing than someone like me.

Then he slipped one hand behind my neck, the other around my waist, pulling me so close that I could see the long lashes I remembered, curling up at the tips. His hand was so big and warm at the base of my skull, cradling me with ease. “Good night, Rachel,” he said. I shut my eyes and tilted my face toward his and then I felt his lips on mine, warm and gentle and unhurried, sweeter than any kiss I’d ever had before.

•••

I drifted into the dorm room, barely seeing the bunk beds, the desks, the closet made of honey-colored wood, with a handful of empty metal hangers dangling from the rods. I pulled my nightgown out of my monogrammed pink-and-­orange duffel bag. Lyrics from a dozen love songs were running through my head, and every single one of them, every word about longing and desire and not being able to live if living was without you, felt like it had been written specifically for me. Don’t stop believin’, I hummed. Hold on to that feeling.

I was still humming Journey when Marissa came charging through the door, with Bethie galumphing along behind her.

“What’s going on?” Marissa demanded.

Bethie pulled out a book from one of the two plastic Piggly Wiggly bags in which she’d packed her stuff.

“He kissed me,” I said.

“Oh my God! Finally!” I grabbed her hands, and we bounced on the bed, squealing, barely noticing when Bethie, carrying a tiny tube of Crest, a toothbrush, and a threadbare white towel, went waddling out of the room, then came waddling back, with her damp hair staining the back of her nightshirt. We talked—“tell me everything,” Marissa kept saying, and I was happy to oblige—while Bethie read a library copy of A Wrinkle in Time, which I remembered fondly from sixth grade, lying on her side underneath the skimpy brown blanket that she’d brought from home. Her evening finery was an oversized baseball-style shirt with a glittery unicorn cavorting across the rolls of her belly and chest, and a pair of pale-blue sweatpants so tight that it looked like they’d been spray-painted on her thighs.

I thought that I would never fall asleep, especially because Bethie insisted on leaving her desk light on. I didn’t care. I wanted to stay awake all night, remembering everything about Andy—his warm hand on my waist, his long legs in his jeans, what he’d said, what I’d said, the low rumble of his voice, the way he’d smelled. The way his lips had felt against mine.

I woke up the next morning on the bottom bunk bed, dust motes dancing in the bright morning light, already feeling the humidity through the brick walls. It’s a dream, I thought. Then Bethie Botts pushed her way through the door.

“Something for you!” she said in her high, toneless voice. She dropped a plain white envelope on my sleeping bag. I saw my name, written in the tiny, crabbed black letters that I remembered from all those years ago. I slit the flap open with my thumb and found a single sheet of paper. “Rachel,” said the note. It was folded around a red paper clip that had been bent into the shape of a heart.