I came to Lancaster with a clear plan. I landed, showered, primped, and drove straight here. I left my program in Milan a week early, submitting all my final papers ahead of deadline and skipping out on the final outing to Lake Como because I was so impatient to be here.
And now that I am? The plan is disintegrating. It’s like a bad first date, one where I’m insecure and awkward and self-conscious.
This is Sawyer, I try to remind myself. He’s seen me naked. Seen me cry, unfortunately. Seen me vomit, even more unfortunately.
He knows me. Most of the time, I’m more comfortable around him than I am around anyone else.
Except now. Because itisSawyer, and so the stakes could not be higher. At least, in this state of limbo, I’ve had some of him. The lasttime I thought I was about to have all of him, I wound up with none of him. And no matter how many times I tell myself it’s different, that he’s different and I’m different and we’re different, I’m back on that slate floor, chugging champagne, reclined against a washing machine. I’ve never told Sawyer how much that, “Why?” wrecked me. I attempted the opposite, lying to him outside of clubs and going upstairs with guys who weren’t him, in elaborate attempts to ensure he never knew how much he’d hurt me. I’m embarrassed I resorted to that and even more mortified to admit that I did it to him.
So, at almost eleven p.m., I’ve said none of what I showed up this afternoon to tell him.
“It’s Wren, right?”
I glance at the guy who’s approached me. He’s one of Sawyer’s friends who was outside Faber Hall with him earlier. I recognized all their names because Sawyer had mentioned them in his letters, but I haven’t connected names with faces yet.
“Right,” I reply.
“I’m Jeff,” the guy says helpfully.
“Right,” I repeat. “Sawyer said you’re from Brooklyn? I grew up in New York City too.”
Jeff nods. “Yeah, Bennett mentioned that. He talks about you a lot, you know.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Kinda vague about your relationship status, and he’s never shown us any photos. I get why now.” Jeff winks.
“Here’s your drink.” Sawyer reappears beside me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the cup he offers.
“Was just getting to know your girl, Bennett,” Jeff says, taking a sip of his beer.
Sawyer doesn’t correct him, and a bolt of electricity sizzles through me.
“Where in New York are you from, Wren?” Jeff asks me.
“The Upper East Side.”
He whistles. “Fancy. Whereabouts?”
“Fifth Avenue.”
“Fuck. Your folks must be loaded. Can I visit?” Jeff glances at Sawyer. “Relax, dude. Totally platonic.”
More guys join our group. More of Sawyer’s friends. He’s popular, which I’m unsurprised by. I noticed the second he stepped into that clearing—he has that rare magnetism that is impossible to learn or imitate. That you naturally gravitate toward.
A few of his friends ask me more questions, but most of the conversation is centered around other Lancaster students I don’t know. Mainly, I get curious looks, as everyone silently wonders why I’m here. What my connection to Sawyer is.
I finish my drink and excuse myself to use the bathroom. Predictably, the line is long, snaking around the side of the staircase. I join the end and lean against the paneled wall with a heavy sigh.
I had plenty of opportunities to talk to Sawyer earlier, when it was just the two of us, and I let every one slip by. Wishing we were alone now is ridiculous.
“Is this the bathroom line?” a brunette asks me, craning her neck to see ahead.
“Yep,” I reply.
She sighs, mimicking my position against the wall and then glancing over. “I’ve never seen you before.”
