Because You're the Love of My Life Page 6

  “Can’t you . . . ,” Dad started, but I shook my head.

  “It’s too late to try anywhere else. The application deadlines are over.”

  He frowned and then gave me a pitying look.

  “Then try again next year,” he suggested. “You can help with the bookkeeping at the shop until then. I can’t pay a lot, but at least there won’t be a gap in your résumé.”

  I nodded.

  “Chin up, it’ll turn out alright.”

  “You think?”

  “You’ll find your path, I’m sure of that.”

  I smiled sadly. “Well, at least one of us is.”

  Dad put his arms around me, hugging me tightly.

  “I love you,” I said quietly.

  “I love you, too, dear.”

  The next weeks were an utter horror. The hole I hadn’t yet crawled out of since breaking up with Seth became wider and deeper. I fell and fell and fell and fell.

  I lost all motivation at school and let my courses go. But one Saturday morning, when I entered the kitchen, Dad smiled at me over his coffee cup as he held up a thin envelope.

  “There’s a letter for you,” Dad said.

  “Why are you grinning?” I asked skeptically.

  He turned the envelope around so I could see the imprinted logo. Three books forming the word Veritas.

  “It’s . . . it’s from Harvard!” I stammered.

  Dad nodded, his grin widening.

  “You applied to Harvard?” my mother asked with a whiff of outrage. She raised her eyebrows. “Do you have any idea what that costs?”

  “Sort of, yeah,” I answered absentmindedly while reaching for the envelope. I ripped it open and scanned the lines.

  “Well, do tell, what are they saying?” Dad asked.

  “They want to get to know me,” I said in a subdued tone. But as I continued reading, I said, in a much louder voice, “They’re inviting me to an admission interview.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic!” he cheered.

  My mother snorted dismissively.

  “Ruby!” Dad cast her a strict look.

  “Yes, of course, that’s great,” she conceded. “But you know we can’t afford to support you any longer. Let alone pay tuition fees for Harvard.”

  “Yes, you’ve made that very clear,” I replied.

  “When is the interview?” Dad wanted to know.

  “You’re not encouraging her to go there, are you?” My mother asked.

  “She’s been invited by Harvard,” he said in a calm voice. “I don’t know anyone who’s had a Harvard interview. Do you?”

  “But it’s unaffordable. Get it out of your head right away.”

  “I applied for a full scholarship there. They know I can’t pay their tuition and fees.” I said.

  “And they still asked you? You’re going!” It seemed my father was on my side.

  My mother snorted again. I did my best to ignore her and reread the letter.

  “It’s this week.” I was shocked. “In Seattle. Dr. Joanne Brugler, a Harvard alumna, will do the interview.”

  Chapter 6

  “Annie, we’re out of toilet paper!” Grace called from the bathroom. “Can you get me some Kleenex?”

  I numbly rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat up. It took a moment to wake up, and I regretted it right away. The dull pain throbbing inside my head announced a severe hangover. I should have listened to Grace and passed on the last two rounds. Serves me right. I glanced sideways at the alarm. It was only eight thirty. When did we get home? Four? Four thirty? It was definitely too early for me. I figured I was owed a little recovery time after a party like that. In any case, it was Saturday. And, more importantly, finals were done. Even though I was tired as a dog and was probably facing the hangover of my life, I accepted the feeling with deep gratitude.

  College was my world. Sophomore year was coming to an end, and I felt at home in Boston in a way I never had in Lakewood. This was right for me. I belonged here, and being here had all hinged on a single talk. I had been well aware of the seriousness of the situation. The Harvard interview would determine my life forever. To be on the safe side, I even stole a Xanax from my mother’s medicine cabinet. I couldn’t afford to freeze again. I don’t know if it was the anti-anxiety drug or if it just was my day to shine. It went splendidly. The exact opposite of the UW interview. I drove back with a good feeling and was already imagining myself as a Harvard student. Four weeks, three days, and sixteen hours later I fished a heavy envelope out of our mailbox. My heart stood still as I tore it open with trembling hands. I hastily scanned the lines for words like “sorry” or “we regret”—but I found none of those expressions. I began to read, mumbling to myself: “Dear Ms. Blazon, we are delighted to inform you that Harvard University is accepting your application to the biology program for the fall semester.” I had to sit down. “Furthermore, it is our particular pleasure to inform you that you will be awarded a full scholarship.”

  “Kleenex!” Grace repeated impatiently.

  I couldn’t help grinning. “Coming!” I got up and struggled to keep my balance.

  Like me, Grace was a sophomore, but she was majoring in economics. She was by far my best friend at college and even beyond. We met during our first semester of freshman year at a dorm party and moved into an apartment at the beginning of spring semester. We’d lived together for the past year and a half. The chemistry between us was good even though we were really different in personality and looks. I had long, smooth, dark-brown hair and a rather delicate figure. Grace had blonde curls, was on the curvy side, and absolutely gorgeous. Her chocolate-brown eyes somehow always had a seductive look, even if she was mad or sad. Grace was a guy magnet and, as with food, she sampled the rich offerings widely. Though her sexual partners changed often, she wasn’t a slut. She just enjoyed life to the fullest.

  I opened the bathroom door and tossed a box of Kleenex to my roommate as she was sitting on the toilet.

  “Thanks. You’re a national treasure.”

  “I know.”

  I headed for the kitchen because sleep was out of the question with my murderous headache. I swallowed a couple of aspirin and put on a pot of ultra-strong coffee.

  “Coooffeeee,” Grace moaned when she came slinking into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe.

  I held out a cup to her.

  “Thank you.” She slurped contentedly. “Aaah, just right.” Then she halted, looking me over skeptically. “I’m surprised you’re able to stand after all you drank last night.”

  “Normally I’d still be in bed,” I answered with raised eyebrows, took a big sip from the brown elixir of life, and found, to my relief, that the aspirin was kicking in.

  Grace sat on the counter.

  “Did you notice that guy . . . what’s his name? You know, the hot guy from my computer science class.”

  “Who? Holden Crane?” I asked innocently.

  “Yeah, him. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

  Of course, I’d noticed. Nor had I missed him looking at me once or twice. I’d been watching him, too. And not for the first time. Our paths had crossed a few times and, I have to admit, I wasn’t disinterested. I liked Holden. A lot. To be honest, he occasionally played the lead in a masturbation fantasy.

  Grace’s eyebrows twitched and her lips puckered. “He’s into you.”

  “You think?” I asked innocently.

  “Yup. I’ve got a sixth sense for that kind of thing.” She winked. “He wants your cherry.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What a witty metaphor.”

  “Call it whatever you want. He’s into you. And you’ve been without a guy way too long.”

  “Tom and I only broke up two months ago.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes widened as if I were missing the obvious. “Two months.”

  “You’re acting as if it were two years. In any case, it’s not as if my cherry”—I made quotation marks with my fingers—“hasn’t already been taken.”
>
  I lost my virginity at the very beginning of spring semester of freshman year to Rick, a guy in my Spanish class. He was kicked out later because he was caught with some weed. He’s divorced today, has two kids he almost never sees, and works in the external sales division of a tire wholesaler. Back then, I thought I was in love—today I’m embarrassed. Like the saying goes, mistakes are there to be made.

  Anyway . . .

  There was no one for a while. Then Tom came along at the beginning of sophomore year—a polo shirt-wearing law student who, according to Grace, had “a stick up his ass.” Perhaps a little exaggerated, but I must admit, humor wasn’t his strong suit. I was with him for about six months. I ended it because I realized I wasn’t in love. He didn’t take it very hard and was with someone else a week later. Strangely, I didn’t mind in the least. I’d been single since then. The science nerds in my program were simply undatable. Plus, I had so much schoolwork that I hadn’t been to a party for a long time, so I didn’t get to know anyone new. I frowned. That probably explained why I let loose last night after I finished finals—I had some catching up to do. Like a cheat day after a long fast. But with booze.

  “It’s sort of like bicycling,” Grace returned to the subject of my sex life, “if you don’t ride it regularly, it gets rusty.”

  I laughed. “I think the comparison with bicycling goes a bit differently. You never forget once you’ve learned it.”

  “Freely interpreted.” She waved her hand diva-like. “You know what I mean.” Suddenly, she took my wrist as if she had an epiphany. “I can get you Holden’s number if you want.”

  “I don’t need it that badly.”

  Grace squinted her eyes and looked me over from head to toe. “Well, you look a bit underfucked.”

  I fake smacked her, which made her laugh out loud.

  “Um. Not so loud,” I moaned, holding my head.

  She clasped her hands over her mouth. “Oops.”

  A hot shower and two and a half hours of deep sleep later, I was awakened by the irresistible smell of Grace’s famous blueberry pancakes.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked sticking my head into the kitchen.

  Grace grinned. “Sit down, booze hound.”

  She carefully stacked four pancakes on top of each other, dusted them with confectioners’ sugar, scattered a few blueberries on top, and set the little work of art on the table in front of me.

  “How’s your skull?”

  “Better.”

  Grace had done her hair in the meantime, lined her eyelids perfectly, and put on her red Chanel lipstick.

  “Got a date?” I asked. “You look fabulous.”

  “We have a date,” she corrected me. “Eat up. Put something decent on. We’re going to the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Baseball,” Grace said, grinning. “Holden will be there.”

  I rolled my eyes. “For real? I haven’t even slept off my hangover and you want to couple us?”

  “Who’s talking about coupling. We’re . . . scouting out the lay of the land, OK? I just want to find out if this Holden is even worthy of my roommate-slash-best-friend.”

  I glowered at her.

  “Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “It’s only a baseball game.” She leaned toward me, pushing the amazing plate under my nose as an unnecessary reminder. “I made you pancakes.” When I didn’t react at once, she deployed her secret weapon: her puppy-dog-you-can’t-say-no-to-me look.

  “Well, fine,” I consented, sinking my fork into the soft heap of deliciousness.

  It was a warm May night, so I wore tight jean leggings, my favorite light-gray sweatshirt, and Chuck Taylors. I wore my hair down and only applied as much mascara and foundation as necessary to brighten my face, which was suffering a bit from the alcohol.

  “I didn’t know he plays varsity,” I said when we looked for a seat in the stadium. “But, honestly, I haven’t paid much attention to baseball.”

  “He’s a shortstop as far as I know—at least, that’s what I read about him in the Crimson.”

  At that moment, the teams walked on the field, then shook hands. Shortly after, the first pitch was thrown.

  “Where is he? I can’t see him.” Grace shielded her eyes against the sun, scanning the field.

  “Number seven.” I had spotted Holden immediately and watched him from the moment he stepped on the field. It wasn’t far into the game when I realized he was really good. He was fast and agile. He dove to make tough catches, then popped up and whipped the ball—fast—to make plays at the bases. I would have long ago tripped over my own feet and broken all my bones.

  While the umpire settled a dispute between two players at home plate, the others took a quick respite. Holden went to the dugout, where he was given a water bottle. He drank greedily and sprinkled a few drops on his face to cool down. Then his gaze wandered over to the bleachers. Grace immediately reacted when he looked in our direction, wildly waving her arms in the air so he couldn’t miss us.

  Holden looked amused.

  “Stop it!” I hissed, ducking down.

  “Too late. He’s already seen you.” Grace sounded smug.

  A curse on my lips, I straightened up. He looked straight at me. Then he smiled. He knew I was there because of him.

  “Hi.” He mouthed the word.

  “Hi.” A silly smile spread across my face.

  Only when a teammate shouted his name did Holden notice the game was about to start up again. He turned and ran to take his position. Was he running faster now?

  “He’s looking at you the whole time,” Grace said with satisfaction in her voice.

  She was right. Even while the game was going, his gaze slipped over to the me again and again. Did I read too much into it or was he really . . . trying to impress me? I couldn’t shake the impression that Holden’s play was somehow becoming more aggressive and daring since he saw me. Then it happened. Holden was fielding the ball and about to throw to third base for the out when the player running from second to third charged at him and hit him hard. Holden cried out before going down. His left leg dangled limp below the knee. The angle seemed off, too.

  “That’s awful!” Grace grimaced.

  “Malicious intent! Malicious intent!” The outraged spectators around us shouted. As the umpire ejected the baserunner, Holden disappeared among his teammates who were bent over him trying to help. A few seconds later they lifted him up. He hopped from the field with the help of two teammates, his face distorted by pain.

  “Yup, his leg’s gone,” a beer-bellied guy next to me commented.

  “Great. We’re good-luck charms.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Poor Holden. I hoped it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

  Grace was totally disappointed. She told me she’d pictured how Holden and I would fall into each other’s arms during the victory celebration. He’d pull me into the locker room, and we’d go wild among the lockers and stinky uniforms.

  “Could it be you’re the sex-starved one?” I asked Grace when she shared her fantasy.

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me,” she said, and winked.

  Though we’d been winning at first, Harvard ended up losing the game. Nothing more was seen of Holden. I wondered if his leg was broken or if he’d need surgery. I briefly toyed with the idea of going to the hospital to visit him, but we didn’t really know each other. It would have been weird if I just showed up. Maybe his family would be there, so I’d have trouble explaining myself. I didn’t even know if he had a girlfriend.

  Later that evening, Grace talked me into going to a dorm party. The mere thought of alcohol made me gag, and, because I wasn’t in the mood for a party, I stood stupidly in a corner sipping water while Grace amused herself. When she started making out madly on the dance floor with a somewhat undersize Tom Hardy double, I decided to leave.

  “Stay a little longer,” she pleaded.

  “Um, no, I had enough last night. See you back home.”

&n
bsp; That is, I heard her back home. At three in the morning, she stumbled in the door giggling with Mini Hardy. I’ll spare you what followed.

  I took it easy on Sunday, did a face mask and a manicure, phoned my grandma, and texted Dad—he finally got a cell phone after resisting for ages. Monday was a regular day. Even though the semester was officially done, I had to finish the summary for a scientific article I was working on with my favorite prof. We were going to submit it to a biochemistry journal. I’d done well so far but couldn’t afford to rest on my laurels. I needed to keep that scholarship. Plus, coauthoring a journal article would be great for my career. So, the week passed without much happening. Well, not quite. Something happened, something embarrassing.

  I was digging through our bathroom drawer when Grace stepped up behind me.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, smacking her lips and taking another bite from her apple without having swallowed the previous bite.

  “I haven’t gone to the bathroom for three days,” I whimpered and wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Do we have any laxatives?”

  Grace had a huge collection of medicine. At the slightest sign of a headache or any other ache or pain, she immediately reached for a pill.

  “What’s this?” I held up a little white box with a plant pictured on it. The tagline read: “Fast and gentle relief from constipation.”

  “Forget it,” Grace said. “I took four of them last time I was constipated and didn’t even fart. This herbal crap isn’t worth anything. If you’re plugged up, go to the drugstore and get a real laxative.”

  I wrinkled my nose and rubbed my aching belly. I had to do something. I was starting to look as if I were four months pregnant.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Grace pulled her phone from her back pocket and took another bite from the apple while squirting juice on the display.

  “Ten thirty,” she answered as she pulled her sleeve over the palm of her hand and wiped the touchscreen with it. “CVS Pharmacy on Cambridge Street is open until eleven. If you get going now, you’ll still make it.”

  “OK.” I went into the hallway to put on my jacket.