Nine years earlier

 

 

“I want to write a song called ‘Fall Days’ but with ‘en’ in parentheses after Fall. What do you think?”

As they walked through the quad, Violet glanced up at him, then back down at their laced fingers, marveling at the way their friendship had turned into something more serious over the past three days. But she was also conflicted. Emotionally, she was ecstatic. Realistically, she was worried. She’d been in love with Zach for weeks, but her feelings since Thursday night had basically hitched a ride on a runaway train. Holding onto the words “I love you” was harder every day. She wanted to tell him. She wanted him to know. And mostly, she wanted to hear him say the words back to her. She wanted it to be official, to be real.

Joni Mitchell’s lyrics floated through her head:

Picked up a pencil and wrote “I love you” in my finest hand
Wanted to send it, but I don’t know where I stand

And that was the thing. For all that Zach kissed her and held her hand, for all that she’d slept beside him, making out with him for three glorious nights, he’d said precious little in the way of sharing his feelings or telling her what she meant to him.

She tried to get her head around what felt solid: she felt sure that he admired her writing and viewed her as a creative equal, which flattered and amazed her since he was the most talented musician she’d ever met. She knew that she mattered to him, that he cared about her as a friend. But this weekend, with the advent of a physical relationship, the waters were getting murky between them. She couldn’t get a bead on whether he regarded them as friends with benefits or something more. Friends with benefits simply wouldn’t work for her. She was deeply, irrevocably in love with him. Did he feel that sort of romantic passion for her, or was fooling around just an extension of their friendship?

She cast her eyes down at the gravel path under their feet, remembering his eyes as he’d stared at her this morning—unfathomable gray, as intense as ever, but they betrayed very little about his feelings. She squeezed his fingers, trying to convince herself that he was real, that he was really hers, that they were in love, not just acting on propinquity.

“So basically you want to write a song called ‘Fallen Days’?”

“No. ‘Fall(en) Days.’” He pantomimed the parentheses. “You know, so it has a double meaning.”

“What’s the double meaning?”

Her heart sped up a little, hoping he would say that he had fallen for her, that he—

“Fall like the season. Fallen like days that are over. Fallin’ like soldiers on a battlefield. And the red leaves could be blood. It could work. I have the sound in my head.”

Her shoulders slumped, but she kept her voice light. “You writing the lyrics, Z? Because what you’ve got so far sucks. Not to mention, you just outlined a triple meaning, none of which blew my skirt up.”

“You’re not wearing a skirt.” He grinned at her and it tugged at her heart. “I’m no poet, Vile. I was thinking you could help me out.”

He pulled her down beside him on a bench under a flaming Japanese maple. She shifted closer to him, resting her wild hair on his shoulder. Two students passed, giggling over a shared joke, pulling rolling suitcases toward their dorm. The sun had already started to set. Their magical weekend was almost over, and she was flooded with melancholy.

“They’re all coming back,” she murmured, hating that the Columbus Weekend break was coming to a close.

The campus had been so quiet over the last four days. Many times she and Zach had walked from their dorm, through the quad, all the way out the gates and onto the sidewalks of New Haven without passing another soul. It was as though they were the only two people on campus, in the world, and she’d loved every intimate minute.

“Yeah. All the rich, preppy assholes.” His fingers tapped rhythmically on his thigh. He was playing something. She couldn’t tell if it was guitar or piano. Either. Both. “Look at that one.”

A tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy dropped his duffel bag near a tree trunk and pulled his lacrosse stick out of the bag handles, joining a game already in progress.

“I’m open! I’m open!”

He caught an incoming ball, cradling the basket with ease before tossing it back. She knew the boy. Shepherd Smalley. He was in her English lit class, but scholarship student Violet Smith and Shepherd Smalley, as in Smalley Hall, didn’t exactly move in the same circles.

“I know him. We take lit together.”

“My condolences.”

She grinned at Zach’s dry, condescending tone. Looking down at the rips in the knees of his jeans, she could see the dark, wiry leg hairs. She thought about reaching out to touch his skin, to rest her hand on the warmth of his thigh, but she didn’t know the rules yet. She sensed he was cautious of whatever was between them, and despite her impatience for answers, she didn’t want to do anything that might pressure him or push him away.

Because it felt so right to sit beside him, to be with him, as his girlfriend, not just his friend—not that he’d ever used the word girlfriend. They were two artists, two rebels, two regular, middle-class kids marrying words and music into something beautiful. They understood each other. In her heart she was sure they were meant to be together. She just wasn’t sure if Zach was on board with her heart.

He put his arm around her, and it surprised her and made her tummy flip-flop. It made her feel hopeful.

“Zach?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look at her, but his index finger slipped under the edge of her peasant blouse, caressing the skin of her shoulder lightly, and she shivered.

I had a great weekend.

I want you to call me your girlfriend.

I need to tell you how much I love you.

“I, um, I . . . I thought I’d do some writing tonight.” She sighed, her lost nerve expelled with her breath. Coward.

“‘Fall(en) Days’?” He grinned down at her, and her breath hitched as she took in the cool beauty of his steel-gray eyes.

Without any warning, he dropped his lips to hers, and although he’d kissed her countless times over the last three days, she still wasn’t used to it, and it jolted her like a shock of something wonderful. It still felt like a miracle. Her blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy and pliant. She turned to lean into him as his hands trailed down her spine, over her bra, to rest in the concave small of her back. She felt his tongue touch hers, setting off fireworks in her head and between her hips. She was still a virgin (although barely, after last night), and she wondered if sleeping with Zach would seal the deal between them.

If sleeping with him would coax the words “I love you, too” from his mouth, she’d sleep with him every day and every night for the rest of her life.

He pulled back, leaning his forehead against hers.

“Violet-like-the-flower,” he murmured.

Her eyes popped open, her heart racing at the sound of the new endearment. His were still closed.

“Something beautiful. Write me something beautiful,” she whispered.

“I will, I . . . I . . .Violet, I think . . .,” He panted lightly against her lips before opening his eyes. “I think we should go write that song.”

***

Coward. You’re a fucking coward, Zach.

He watched Violet force a weak smile and nod at him, pulling away. He took a quick second to adjust his hard-on into his underwear waistband before standing up and pulling his T-shirt down over his jeans. She stood up beside him, and it pissed him off that she looked back over at the blond, lacrosse-playing frat boy.

You should have tried to tell her how you feel. You should have just said it, for chrissake.

He told his heart to shut the fuck up and pushed the powerful words away. His hands sweated as her shoulder brushed his arm, and he shoved his hands in his back pockets. Zach didn’t have any personal experience with love, but everything that he’d read, everything he’d ever seen or listened to or understood, pointed to the fact that he was falling in lo— No. He wouldn’t let himself even think it. He clenched his jaw, fiercely wishing away the seriousness of the words, the pressure of them, the finality.

I don’t know what I feel. I’ve barely been allowed to feel anything in my life. I just know it feels good. It feels so fucking good, it’s scaring me to death. It was a lot safer to be numb. Can’t we just be friends who fool around too?

The reality was that Zach simply didn’t have much experience with personal relationships. From an early age his parents had filled every unclaimed moment with musical instruction, practicing, and summer camps devoted to nurturing his talent. He wasn’t permitted to play team sports or attend social events. He was expected to be practicing, composing, or performing when he was not in school. He spent every summer, from age twelve onward, at Juilliard, and while he’d met some very kind and devoted instructors, the other students were competitive, driven, and unsocial. By the time he reached adolescence, he was a veritable virtuoso on piano and guitar, but socially awkward, especially around girls, with whom (except for his twin, Cora) he’d never spent much time.

His freshman year at Yale, he hadn’t been able to break the conditioning of his upbringing and spent all his time in class or in practice. He’d notice girls—smart, artistic girls, especially—but he wouldn’t have known the first thing to say to them. Not to mention, he didn’t exactly come from some rich family or drive an expensive car or have much else to recommend himself. He was utterly clueless about how to strike up a conversation with them. Besides, there wasn’t any one particular girl who had captured his imagination—until he’d read a poem by fellow freshman, Violet Smith, in The Yale Literary Magazine, and it had ripped his heart out. It was as though she’d written it about him.

It was a poem about an old man about to play a guitar. She described his gnarled fingers, his yellow teeth, his hairy nose, and Einstein hair. She rhapsodized about his ugliness, about how painful it was to behold him. And then his fingers moved over the strings, and she wrote that her heart had shattered, and suddenly everything, everything, about the man was beautiful, and in an instant, he wasn’t her bane but her muse. He was beautiful and magical, like heaven had opened, deigning to share something utterly perfect with her. The first time Zach read her words, his eyes burned like someone had thrown sand in his face. Because music had made the old man worthy of love somehow, and in a weird, pathetic way, it was almost as though she’d written the poem about him.

Soon after, he’d caught a poorly-attended poetry reading at the University Commons, sitting in the back row, bored as hell, until she’d gotten up to read “Mr. Guitar Man.” As his lips soundlessly recited her words in unison with her reading, he could feel something shifting inside of him. She was the first person he’d ever longed for, yearned for, and her Maine accent had figured prominently in his fantasies after that night.

For the rest of freshman year, he’d watched her surreptitiously, interested in who she was, where she came from, and how a girl like that saw the rest of the world. She didn’t cluster with a big group of other girls but seemed to get along with everyone, light and cheerful, offering smiles and waves like they didn’t cost her anything. Her wild, wavy hair framed her pale face, and she dressed like an escapee from 1967. But Zach didn’t give a shit what she looked like or how she dressed—her words had thrown a net over his heart. He was in love with her soul from afar. And now, by fluke or fate, here she was, with him, with him. And he was so terrified of the growing feelings he had for her, feelings he barely recognized, let alone could name, he didn’t know what to do about it.

He opened the outside door for her and followed her into the imposing Gothic dorm to his room, where she had lived with him, for all intents and purposes, like a sister—until last Thursday night.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her when she returned from the bus depot. He’d done such a good job of keeping any deep feelings for her at bay. Violet was his friend. Her lively presence in his life had made Yale a whole new world. She’d dragged him to parties and made him eat pizza on the floor with her. She’d show up after his classes and tease him into a good mood, her ridiculously wild hair trailing down her back in soft waves that he longed to touch. He’d blow off practicing and composing just to spend time with her, and he reveled in his new freedom. At night, in the intimacy of his single room, she wrote poetry on his bed, let him school her in various genres of music, made him live life, took his breath away. For the first time that Zach could remember, he felt normal. He felt like a regular college kid, and it was all because of Violet, because he finally had a friend.

The first morning he woke up to find her curled up on his floor, he’d felt a flood of confusion. He barely knew her, and she hadn’t asked to sleep in his room, but there she was in a sleeping bag, her cheek resting on her elbow, fast asleep. His mind had raced with questions: Should he wake her up and tell her to leave? Should he be extra quiet so he didn’t wake her up? Should he say something? Leave the room quietly to give her privacy? In the end, he stared at her for over an hour, looking down at her from his bed until her eyes had fluttered opened. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned, smiling up at him in a dazed, dreamy way.

“The dorm feels so empty, it’s spooky. I got scared in my room all by myself. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Then she asked with a grin, “You don’t mind, do you?”

He shook his head, watching her.

“That’s good.” She sat up, and the white tank top she was wearing pulled over her breasts. “I’m hungry, are you?”

His eyes flicked down to see her nipples, hard against the flimsy fabric, and the morning wood in his boxers turned to stone.

“No breakfast in there,” she said, looking down at her breasts, then winking at him. She stood up and dragged her sleeping bag behind her to the door. “Let’s go get bagels. I’ll be back in a few.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway.

He had rolled back over, staring at the ceiling, realizing he hadn’t actually uttered a word. He rested his hands on his chest, resisting the urge to move them lower. He closed his eyes, picturing her face asleep on his floor, the way her crazy-colored hair had covered one cheek. His hands slid lower, over the nonexistent muscles in his abdomen to his stomach. Fleetingly he wondered if Violet liked a guy who worked out and thought that maybe he should start going to the gym. He swallowed as his hand grasped his erection and moved his hand up and down slowly, thinking about her nipples, wondering what it would feel like to touch them, to roll them between his callused fingers. He groaned softly, coming quickly onto his stomach.

“Zach! Earth to Zach!”

Violet stood at his door with her hand out for his key. The erection he’d gotten on the bench outside, under the Japanese maple, was harder and almost painful now, after his little daydream-flashback.

“Key?” she said, smiling at him, eyes dipping to his crotch then slowly back up again.

Shit. She knew him too well.

He took the key out of his back pocket and handed it her. She held his eyes for a second and said, before looking down at his pants and then back up again. “Be honest. Want to write or make out?”

***

His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, capturing and holding her eyes. She held her breath, the muscles deep inside her body quivering.

“Make out,” he whispered.

It felt bold to ask him such a forward question, but her body was tingling from the way he was looking at her, and all she wanted was to feel the weight of his body on top of hers as he ran his fingers over her, kissed her lips, maybe found the courage to tell her how he felt about her, so she could finally, finally tell him how she felt about him.

And if sex was the only way, then sex was the only way. In her mind she put it on the table for him to claim. It wasn’t wrong if you loved someone. It wasn’t a mistake if you were pretty sure they loved you back.

“Then let’s make out,” she said, opening the door and slipping into his room.

***

He closed the door by leaning against it, surprised by how dark his room was. It was an east-facing room and tended to lose the light quickly as evening settled in.

She stood before him with her hands on her hips, her lips quirked up in a tentative smile. Was she offering him sex? He was fairly sure that she was. They’d done just about everything else they could do, and he was sensing a shift in her mood as the weekend came to a close—a need to solidify things, to literally and figuratively go all the way.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked in a breathy voice, dispatching her blouse and pulling her tank top out of her waistband, her hands hovering by the button of her jeans.

The truth was that he didn’t have an answer for her. Aside from the obvious—I’m thinking I want to have sex with you all night long—his mind was a jumble. His body said yes. His heart said yes. His mind cautioned no.

He was undeniably attracted to her. His body reacted every time he looked at her. His heart gasped and twisted with something that approximated love, but he didn’t know for sure. He’d never felt anything like it before, and it frightened him—the intensity of it, the way her eyes softened so completely when she looked at him, as if he had answers he didn’t have, as if he’d promised her something he’d never promised. His mind had been besotted with her from the beginning, but he worried about losing the best friend and most treasured collaborator he’d ever known.

His forehead broke out in a sweat, and his hands felt suddenly clammy. His body was sending a clear message: Don’t you fucking push this away, Zach. We want this. We need this. His mind fought back: You can’t go back once you do it. You’ll lose the friendship. She’ll want more from you than you can give her. These feelings are so new, you can barely get your head around them, let alone promise her anything. He wanted to run away from her and bury his head against her breasts at once. He wanted to back up and move forward at the same time. Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?

He wasn’t.

“I’m thinking of how much I want you,” he responded, pulling his shirt over his head and reaching for her.

***

“Zach,” she whispered.

“Yeah?” he panted, lying naked beside her on his back, his body still trembling with aftershocks.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” Then, “That was my first time.”

Silence. Then, “Mine too.”

She propped herself on her elbow. “That was your first time?”

He nodded.

“Oh, my gosh. It was? Zach, I need to tell you something,” she said with happy tears in her eyes.

“No. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s good. This was our first time. I want to say it.”

“Don’t. You don’t have to say it—”

“I love you.”

Silence. Silence. Silence. Awkward silence.

“Violet, we’re . . . friends.”

“We just—”

“I know. But we’re friends first. We don’t have to say things like—”

“I’m not saying it because I have to. I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re my best friend, Zach, but I don’t just feel friendship for you anymore. I love you.”

“Okay.”

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. It’s fine. You told me. Okay.”

She rolled onto her back, covering her eyes with her arm.

“Do you love me?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t say anything.

“Zach, don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” Her voice broke.

“Don’t do what?”
“Please don’t ruin this. I just . . . I mean, we just—”

“I’m not trying to ruin anyth—I mean, I . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Do you love me?” she asked again in a direct, trembling whisper.

He covered his face with his hands. “You’re my best friend.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Do you love me?” she asked a third time.

He sat up, drawing the sheet up to his waist. “I don’t . . . I don’t know how I feel. I just—”

“You don’t know how you feel about me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Vile.”

“Don’t call me that.” She rolled onto her side, away from him, facing the wall.

“Violet, you’re my—”

“I can’t be your friend, Zach. I can’t just be your friend now. Not after this. Not now.”

“Why? We can just—”

“Because I love you. Because I want you to love me. Because friends won’t be enough now. Friends will break my heart.”

“This is just moving really fast. It’s just not what I . . . I mean, I’m not ready to . . . We’re just—”

Tears streamed down her face. He ran the back of his hand over his eyes. They both looked at the back of his glistening hand when he lowered it to his lap.

“Friends,” she finished in a dull whisper. “No, we’re not. We were never just friends.”

“Fuck, Violet. Please.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes, biting her lip.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on. She lay on her back, her face wet with tears.

He stood looking down at her, and she looked up at him, pain and confusion mirrored in each other’s eyes. “I love you whether you love me b-back or not,” she finally said. “And there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll go on loving you until I don’t anymore.”

He didn’t look away, but he flinched. He ground his jaw as his hand reached up to his bare chest where it stayed, flattened, for several seconds before he turned and reached for his T-shirt on the floor. She turned back to the wall, her shoulders shuddering with sobs as he left the room without another word.