Dr. Kwan and I have different definitions offun, but I am curious to see the results too.
“What do you think has been the biggest impact of the effort you have put into yourself? Because I give so many of my patients advice on how to improve their personal wellness, and they toss away all my suggestions by the time they reach their car.”
“Really?” I respond, letting out a breath in feigned disbelief. “It’s not so muchwhathas had the biggest impact butwho,” I admit.
“A special someone?” Dr. Kwan digs for intel like we’re friends having coffee and it’s not weird that one of us is wearing a paper dress.
“Actually, specialsomeones.”
My doctor’s eyes go wide.
“New friends I’ve made through my running club,” I divulge.
Dr. Kwan rolls her lips together in a smile, I imagine doing her best not to say,I told you so.
Chapter Twenty-Six
May 1993
Where is he?I repeated in my head until I tired of my own inner voice. Instead of enjoying myself at the pregraduation mimosa brunch at Cottage, I wandered aimlessly around my eating club, wondering where Porter could be. This was where we agreed to meet, and I was always the late one, not Porter.
In our three years together, Porter had been impressively punctual, whereas I spent many of our college days apologizing for my tardiness with a coyBetter last than neverand a pout. Not once did Porter become angry at my lack of time management, but instead chose to overlook my lame excuses because,Yep, better last than never.
“Tiger, we really need to get going to the ceremony,” my father encouraged, tucking his orange-and-black-striped tie smoothly into his navy double-breasted blazer, one of several purchased over my childhood as my father’s size expanded.
“We’ll leave in two minutes,” I promised, giving his forearm a squeeze, positive I could stretch the wait into five since my mother was busy chatting with other parents about their children’s future plans in the acceptable graduate schools and rigorous two-year management track programs. I could just make out a handful of mothers frettingover their graduates’ decisions to head across the country to some abstract-sounding place called Silicon Valley to work for a company that barely paid enough to cover rent and was seemingly run by teenagers. Apparently, what those companies lacked in salary and benefits packages they made up for in presumed long-term stock-option payouts. To me, the adventure sounded more exotic than the typical backpacking graduation trip through Europe that most of us were leaving for over the next few days.
Why the gamble in California was preferable to a lucrative spot in one of the top investment banks’ analyst programs in New York City was beyond the hand-wringing moms’ wildest ideas, including my own mother’s. I could clearly hear Helen’s less-than-modest boast. With an undertone of relief, my mother announced that I would be moving back home to begin a master’s program at Columbia School of Journalism and then have a career at one of Condé Nast’s flagship magazines, likeVanity FairorArchitectural Digest. I had yet to inform my parents that I’d found an apartment with Quinn on the Upper West Side near Columbia, where she would be attending too. And that I planned to become a war correspondent focused on the Middle East.
I left the clique of mothers to chatter on about how their daughters could and would have it all—education, careers, corner offices, a perfect family, and enviable houses to call home. Successes that had not been available to them. It was quickly swelling into a hot and humid end-of-May day. I had chosen an airy, pale-pink linen sundress that tied at the shoulders for underneath my black nylon robe to combat the spring heat, and also because it was Porter’s favorite. My feet were adorned with my beloved Doc Martens lace-up combat boots—the ones my mom detested because I wore them with everything, and I was not about to stop now as my one and only act of rebellion.
I kept my graduation gown folded over my arm so that in the gathered sea of students wearing identical robes, standing out front of their eating clubs, Porter could easily spot me in his favorite dress. Wistful about the past four years, I was also thankful that just as quicklyas Porter had received and accepted the NFL offer, he had swiftly come to his senses that what was best for him and best for us was to continue his academic journey at Princeton by putting football behind him. Even with the security that we would be taking our next life steps into adulthood together, I was still looking forward to Porter and me making one last trek across campus to Nassau Hall as undergrads, hand in hand.
Amid the throng of graduates and their guests meandering down Prospect Avenue toward the impending ceremony, I spied Charles and a few of Porter’s teammates back-slapping one another, doubled over in laughter. Their robes were also folded over their arms, for—what was my best guess—a last chance to showcase the square chests and bulging thighs they earned playing Ivy League football. I knew these man-children all too well.
“Yo, Callie, you seen Porter?” Charles called out, his hands cupped around his mouth so the question could float above the din of building excitement for the pomp and circumstance awaiting thirteen hundred Princeton students.
I put my hands up and shrugged, indicatingNo idea, since I knew my voice wouldn’t carry over the collection of mortarboards all the way to Porter’s crew.
“Not surprised. Porter hates applause. But I love it!” Charles howled, arms outstretched, spinning in a slow circle, indicating that the entire crowd was there to see him. Laughing, I gave Charles a double thumbs-up. Knowing his draw to the spotlight and adulation, Quinn had decided to let Charles have one last day of college foolishness with his football family, something Porter didn’t seem particularly pressed to be a part of.
“Throw a party at one end of campus and Porter will be at the other. You’ll find him, though, Callie; you always do!” Charles continued to yell.
Porter had disappeared before because he hated a crowd, but this time I didn’t even know where to begin looking. All campus housing had been cleared out, and Porter had stored the few belongings heneeded for fall semester. Some of them were in Coach Mercer’s office, and the rest in a closet at Cap and Gown. The gym was closed during graduation week for repairs, and there was no reason to be in one of the libraries anymore, even though hunkering down in the stacks, devouring a classic, was Porter’s favorite place to be. None of the local bars were open this early, and the people who meant the most to Porter were on campus.
When Porter told me that his family was not attending graduation, thick silence had hung in the air between the two of us. This time, it was not because he was hiding his family, but from my shock that they didn’t want to see Porter walk across the stage summa cum laude. As I understood it, he was to be the first in the family to earn a college degree.
After Porter’s announcement, what came tumbling out of my mouth about his parents was not flattering. I was hot and angry that my parents had shown more support for Porter’s education and his accomplishments than his own mother and father had. I had seen every home game of Porter’s football career since sophomore year and even traveled to a few, and as far as I knew, his parents had not so much as called him on Saturday afternoons to hear how he played. I recounted how Mrs. Beaumont had been dismissive of me in the hospital. I went off about how parental care and concern is not only for playing nursemaid when a child is struggling but also to celebrate the times when they are sitting on top of the world, being there for the big wins.
After allowing me a few minutes for the start of my tirade, Porter jumped in to shut down the criticism of his family I had been holding on to the past couple of years. Once again, he was quick to advise me, as he had often over the course of our relationship, that I just didn’t understand, it was different down there in South Carolina. This year in particular, he had argued, things had been rough on the farm due to a late cold snap that ruined the spring crops and unexpectedly hurt their pockets. In retrospect, I think only to shut me up, Porter promised that after I returned from Europe, he would take me to Manning to meet all the people I had, so far, grown to question.
In the absence of the Beaumont family, Porter and I made a plan to meet my family right here, right now, on graduation day. And as it had been for the majority of our college life, my parents would be the ones celebrating both of us. Maybe it was for the best. Graduation was about commemorating the bonds we had built at Princeton that would carry us through adulthood, thanks to or in spite of our families. Today was dedicated to honoring both the end of our undergraduate journey and the beginning of our next chapter together.
Only thing was, I had no idea where Porter Beaumont could be.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Present
