She laughs, and the high, bubbly sound squeezes my heart. I turn to watch her rotate the skewers over the fire, then re-wrap the blanket around her. Her blonde hair is mussed and her eyes still look sleepy, but she looks happy.
Even when she doesn’t know I’m looking, which is the best kind of happy look.
We spend the rest of our time at the campsite hiking to the top of Mt. Mitchell, taking pictures of birds, butterflies, and strange plants to look up later. In the evening, we play cards, and I strum my guitar by the fire while she knits a scarf. We talk about our future plans and agree that we can’t control the reactions of her family. And if the dynamic changes, that’s on Herc. I’m still going to be there for her, and for the family, no matter what.
At night we count the stars, identify constellations and make love again, this time slower, with equal passion as the night before even if it’s less feverish.
Tomorrow is Sunday, and I’m not ready to go back to campus.
I’m not ready to let the world into our bubble. Not because I want to keep it a secret, but simply because of that heady, high feeling that nothing else matters in the world but us.
I never understood what the poets and songwriters meant by the idea of living on love, but now I get it.
SEVENTEEN
Cass
When I come hometo Beta Beta Psi on Sunday evening, I can smell Leela’s cooking as soon as I walk through the door.
“Who’s making garlic knots?” I call out in a sing-song voice.
“Leela,” I hear Mila sing back from the kitchen. “We’re drowning our football sorrows in butter.”
“Where were you? We missed you at the tailgate!” calls Leela from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Meghan says, passing through the great room on her way to the dining room. “There’s a letter for you from the admission office. Someone delivered it by hand, and I put it in your cubby.”
She gives me a pleasant smile and leaves without saying anything more.
The Dean’s letter can wait. I’m starving and even more anxious to talk to my friends.
I go to the dining room and take my spot at the table, set with a plate ready for me. This small gesture is nothing—we take turns cooking Sunday dinner and setting the table. Of course, there would be a place for me. But it’s also not nothing. It means my friends expect me to show up for dinner. I’m welcome, even after giving them an ultimatum. They wouldn’t kick me out for that. Of course, they wouldn’t.
Leela smiles and passes the bowl of pasta to her right. “How’s Herc holding up?”
I forget for a second what we’re talking about. “Oh. I haven’t talked to him since Friday night. He’s upset with me, and I wanted to give him space.”
A few of the women exchange glances, then Leela speaks up.
“Meg, do you have the guest list for the refugee fundraiser we’re doing with Kappa Zeta next week?”
Meghan smiles blandly and whips out a manila folder from under her chair. “Why, it just so happens that I do. Pass it around, girls, and write down your plus ones, won’t you?”
When the sheet comes to me, I look down the list to my name and see that Titus has already been filled in next to my name. “What?”
I look up at my friends, who are all minding their business and politely passing food around the table.
“What-what?” Leela asks.
My eyes go back down the list, and I see that Dale’s name is not on there.
“I did not expect it to go this way,” I say, clutching the manila folder.
Leela is preoccupied with feeding Crosby. Meghan is ignoring me and digging into her plate of pasta and meatballs. I look around the table, and the other women are smiling knowingly.
Next to me, Mila whispers, “We had a meeting after you left.”
“Thank you, everyone,” I say, feeling vindicated and seen.