At least I haven’t said good-bye to Sam yet. And as long as I don’t, we’ll stay connected, right? Isn’t that what he promised me? I’m not ready to let him go yet. I hate imagining my life without him. I wish I could hold on to him, keep him with me for as long as I can. I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone.
This is all I think about now as I stare at my phone. I do this all day long when I’m not talking to him—on the off chance he calls me and I need to answer right away. So that our connection never breaks again …
“Are you expecting a call?”
I look up from the table as the room comes back into focus. Oliver is sitting across from me, waiting for a response. We are at a small table in the back of the café, Sun and Moon. The Moroccan lamps are on, flickering like real flames, even though it’s daylight out. At least it isn’t crowded this Saturday morning. The two of us have been coming here a lot lately. He always orders the chai latte with extra foam. I tried an Americano for the first time today instead of my usual coffee. I’m not quite sure what the difference is.
“You look like you’re waiting for a call or something,” Oliver says. “Earth to Julie. You there?”
I blink a few times and come back to myself. “Sorry. I was lost in thought for a second. What were we talking about again?”
Oliver lets out a breath. “Graduation.”
“Right. What about it?”
“You really weren’t listening…” he says with a sigh. “It’s a few weeks away, remember? Cap and gowns? That one Vitamin C song? Tell me this is happening too soon.”
“I guess so. I’m trying not to stress about it.”
“Seriously,” he says, groaning. “I wish we had another month to figure stuff out, you know? Do you even know what you’re doing after, yet?”
I thought I did. I thought I had everything planned out. From the apartment I wanted to live in to the different writing classes I would take. But it’s been hard to focus on school since I messed up our connection, so my final grades remain question marks. For some reason, Reed still hasn’t sent me my admissions letter. On top of that, I still haven’t finished my writing sample, so maybe a writing career isn’t even in the cards for me. It seems no matter how much effort I put in, and how much I try to plan things out, nothing ever comes together.
I stare into my cup, which is still steaming. “Not yet.”
“I thought you were going to that one school,” Oliver says. “Reed, right? You must have heard back from them by now.”
He’s right, I should have. I don’t know why they left me in the dark. What if I submitted my application wrong or something? Or maybe some technical error happened, and it never went through. But Reed would notify me about something like that, wouldn’t they? Should I call someone in admissions? I’ve been checking the mailbox and refreshing my email every morning. But nothing from them. I’m too embarrassed to tell Oliver this. I should have kept these plans private. So I wouldn’t need to explain myself when I’m forced to change them.
Why is everyone so caught up on going to college? It’s not like an English degree is practical in today’s economy, anyway. Why bury myself in loans to write when I can do it on my own? I mean, some of the greatest writers never went to college. Hemingway, Twain, Angelou—I could go on. Admittedly, their circumstances were different from mine, and it was a long time ago. But there is still a point to be made. Of course, my thoughts will probably change once I get accepted. But as I’m learning, you should always plan for the worst. “Actually, I’m thinking about sticking around here,” I say casually, and take a sip of coffee.
“Here, as in, Central Washington?” Oliver asks, arching his brow. “But you hate this place. More than anyone I know. You always said you’d be the first one to go. I mean, Central isn’t a bad school, but it isn’t anyone’s first choice, I can tell you that. You go because it’s next to home.” Oliver looks around us, leans into the table a little, and whispers, “Is it because you got,” he gulps, “waitlisted?”
“What—absolutely not.”
His eyes widen. “Rejected?”
“No. And it’s rude of you to ask,” I say defensively. “Maybe I changed my mind. I’m allowed. I mean, you’re going to Central, too, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I’m from here. So it’s different. It’s what we all do.”