Four and a Half Years Ago: Senior Year
Declan and I had transitioned from being friends to dating with the ease of switching trains. They were quite close and perfectly adjacent, but the destinations were very different. We’d fast-tracked our senior year in a daze. College applications and football practice took up most of our energy. And every time the stress of where we’d go after high school came up, he kissed me until my shoulders dropped, and thoughts became unviable.
My head is bent over Declan’s dining room table, where we spend our evenings doing homework. A crick in my neck forces me to look up from my notebook. It’s been two hours,and despite Declan’s relentless patience, I still have a baffling inability to understand the mean value theorem and how to apply it to the calculus equations before me.
“How about we take a break with an episode ofUpper Leagues?” Declan suggests to my crooked frame.
Upper Leaguesis a reality show that follows college football athletes training to be scouted by the NFL. It’s good insight into what Declan might experience soon.
“Yeah. How ’bout we do that,” I mumble, embarrassed by my lack of calculus comprehension.
I typically read a book while he watches the show, falling into companionable silence like a well-rehearsed dance. We shuffle our sock-clad feet up the carpeted stairs and enter his bedroom.
“What’s this?” I ask, motioning toward the letter with a huge college emblem stamped on it sitting on his desk.
“Oh,” Declan says, seeming just as surprised as I am. “Must be some mail my mom brought in.”
He walks over to the unopened letter and rips into it. Boys, I think, shaking my head. Clawing their mail open like a bear instead of neatly tearing open the top. I watch in anticipation as I see the landscape of his face change. The crease between his eyebrows deepens, his eyes scanning the letter faster and faster.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s—” he starts and stops, continuing to read.
“You’re killing me here. What is it!” I say in an attempt to lighten the dread gathering in my stomach.
“No, it’s just…” He trails off again, eyes moving down the paper. “Notre Dame University.”
His dream school.
Oh gosh. Did he not get in?
The look on his face isn’t a good one.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, Declan.” I breathe, reaching for his forearm.
“No, no, it’s not that.” He shakes off my touch. “I got accepted.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Oh! That’s…”
… 2,217 miles away from my dream school, I think to my-self.
“That’s awesome!” I try to smile up at him.
He shakes his head. “Blair, it’s not awesome. It’s a million miles away from where you’ll be.”
My final college letters had come in last week. I’d made it into three of the five I applied to, but only received a full ride to Pepperdine. Meaning I couldn’t go anywhere other than Pepperdine. Which would’ve been the happiest day of my life, had it not been the only school without a football team.
“Yes, but… but we both got into our dream schools. That’s amazing!” I force out.
He scoffs. I’ve never heard him make such a cold sound. “There’s nothing amazing about killing our relationship.”
I rear back in shock.
“It wouldn’t kill our relationship,” I say in a weak voice. “People do long distance all the time. We can make it work, we can—”
“But what about our plan? How are we going to have time for long distance when I’m training? If you thought high school football took up a lot of my time, you have no idea what’s in store. Multiply it all by a thousand and then add the time change, homework, and FaceTime or texting to the equation. It seems plausible at first but then try to keep it up for four whole years. It’s insanity.”
