After our night together, Simon and I start spending a lot of time together. He didn’t care that I snuck out of his bed without saying goodbye; he just asked me to never do it again.

“It doesn’t matter what time it is, I want to kiss you good-bye,” he explained. “Promise that you will.”

I promised and haven’t broken it since.

Over the last couple of weeks, I discovered many interesting things about my new boyfriend. First being that he doesn’t mind being called my boyfriend and me being his girlfriend. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the label, girlfriend, but he assured me that it was going to be okay.

“We’re dating right? Sleeping together?” he said. “Why wouldn’t you want to call me your boyfriend?”

“It seems like it comes with a lot of responsibilities,” I said after thinking about it for a moment.

“Well, it doesn’t,” he shrugged. “It’s just a word.”

He’s right, but only sort of. This is college. Hardly anyone’s dating anyone at all and even fewer people are committing to each other with heavy words like boyfriend and girlfriend. I mean, Juliet and Dylan have been sleeping with each other way longer and I don’t think they’d approach the subject of labels for at least another six months.

Besides his acceptance of labels, I learn other things about Simon, as well. I discover that he loves Indian food and sushi, but hates burgers and French fries. French fries! I mean, who hates French fries? He sometimes has one or two when we go out for drinks, but always cringes. I don’t get it, but I’ve given up on trying to convince him that French fries are the food of the gods. I don’t want to waste them. More for me, right?

Juliet has taken it upon herself to keep me in the loop about Tristan, just like she does with the rest of the people on our floor. Except of course, Tristan isn’t like the rest of the people. I actually have no interest in hearing about what’s going on in his life. But Juliet doesn’t believe me and informs me of things anyway. Apparently, he’s still seeing Tea. And they’re getting more serious. I don’t know what that means exactly. I can only speculate that it means that he has actually taken the step and referred to her as his girlfriend. Or maybe not. Maybe they just slept together.

Though Tea and I have been moderately successful in avoiding each other in American Lit, we are again assigned to be peer review partners in today’s class. I know it’s bound to go badly as I gather my stuff and move chairs to be closer to her. But as we go over each other’s papers, we are both generous and courteous. It’s strange, but I don’t even feel a bad vibe coming from her. And as for Tristan? It’s as if we have both silently agreed to avoid a particular topic and are both adhering to our promise.

During our peer review session, I suddenly remember why I liked Tea so much when I first met her in the beginning of the year. We have a lot in common. For instance, we both love Virginia Woolf and Colleen Hoover. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before Tea. But Tea talks about it as if it’s nothing.

“But what about what all those people say?” I ask. “That you can’t like both high culture stuff like Virginia Woolf and so-called low culture stuff. You know, Colleen Hoover and other romance authors.”

“I don’t talk to those people often,” Tea shrugs. She’s exuding confidence. It’s practically pouring out of her veins. I just hope that some of it spills over onto me.

“Okay, but if you did? If someone had said that to you?” I press. I actually really want to know the answer. I’ve read many blogs and articles on the subject and never agreed with any of them.

“I’ll tell them that they can go fuck themselves. People like what they like. And they read things for a variety of reasons. I don’t go to the bookstore and say, okay, I’m in the mood for only high art today. I mean, who the hell does that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

“Do you?” she asks.

“Of course not. I just pick up a book that I like. Often based on its cover, read the blurb, and then decided if I’m in the mood for the story,” I say.

“Exactly! And you and I just happen to both love Virginia Woolf and Colleen Hoover. So what?”

I smile. She’s right, of course.

“It’s nice to have someone say what I’m thinking,” I say. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with this particular world view. I mean, isn’t it really open-minded and exhilarating? Doesn’t it mean that we’re open to all possibilities? That all we’re looking for is entertainment, but in the best sense of that word? That we’re not bound by some conventions and other people’s opinions?

“I think so,” she says, cocking her head. “And it doesn’t just apply to books. But other works of art too. For me, anything goes. Eminem and Schubert. Taylor Swift and Edith Piaf.”

I look at her closely. The way she tapped her finger on the table, not out of exasperation or annoyance, but simply to pass the time. There is something endearing and pure about Tea that I can’t seem to put my finger on. She’s cautious and quiet, but strong and confident in ways that I can’t even imagine being quite yet. And that’s why when she invites me over to her place the following evening, I say yes without hesitation.