Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (34 page)

“Yeah.”

We reached my stop, and Milo insisted on accompanying me back from the subway station.

“I don't live too far,” he said. “I think I wanna walk the rest of the way, anyway.”

I nodded, and we walked all the way to Jane's apartment in silence, the sounds of the city filling the spaces between our footsteps.

“Here we are,” Milo said, stopping in front of the steps to Jane's building.

“Here we are.”

“I'm very glad I met you, Lydia,” he said. “Both times.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.

“And all that stuff Kat said, stay in touch, et cetera, y'know—if you want to.”

“I do,” I said. “I will.”

“Okay, well, good night,” he said.

“Good night,” I said.

I walked up the steps and typed the door code into the keypad,
wrenching the heavy door open as the buzzer sounded. I turned around, and Milo was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching me.

He waved.

I waved.

I wondered if I should say anything else, but I wasn't sure what else to add. It felt like an unsatisfying ending to a great adventure, but, to my constant dismay, life wasn't actually an epic musical, and maybe mutual waving was just how things ended sometimes in real life. The story a little bit bumpy, the people a little bit changed, but no orchestral finale to play us off after our last exchange of meaningful words.

I let the door shut behind me.

Unfortunately, Jane had to go back to work the next day. She apologized like fifty times, but I told her I still had some sightseeing I wanted to do, and it was fine.

And that was true. What's also true is that I want to see if I could at least kind of get around the city by myself after spending a week here.

I walked down Jane's street and got breakfast at a cute little mom-and-pop coffee shop I'd seen in passing a few times, but we'd never gone into. I sat by the window, watching kids walk by on their way to school, thirtysomethings walking their dogs, a musician I'd seen playing in the subway station lugging his guitar out in that direction.

I took the subway to Grand Central. I took pictures for my dad, knowing he'd probably blow one up to frame for his train room. When I'd gotten enough, I walked around for a while, keeping my pace up enough to avoid getting trampled by busy commuters, but still slow enough to take in everything around me.

I walked from there to the south end of Central Park, and then along the east side of it, watching the people, watching the birds and the cars, and looking up at all the buildings. I wondered who had designed them, when they had been completed, and what kind of memories people had made there.

My earbuds were in my purse, like they always were, a safeguard against any potential silence I might encounter on my journeys, but I didn't take them out.

I got as far as the Met, though I was surprised to find that I didn't recognize the surroundings as the place Jane and I had visited on my first real day here. If not for the giant banners out front, I wasn't sure I'd have known it was the Met at all. It looked different, somehow, though I couldn't recall what I'd thought it'd looked like before.

After that, I got back on the train. There was one more thing I wanted to do today before it got too late.

I wanted to go back to NAU.

*  *  *

I got back into the psych building as easily as Milo and I had the other day (once we'd figured out where it was, of course), slipping in the door as the real students were traveling in and out.

I meandered through the building fairly aimlessly, checking things out but being careful not to wind up anywhere I shouldn't be. Fly under the radar; don't be noticed. I'd done a lot more of that this summer than I'd ever been used to, so it wasn't too difficult.

Eventually, I passed by a group of students sitting at a table in the center of an open room that seemed to be a study lounge of some sort, and overheard something that piqued my interest:

“I'm going to be late for Developmental Psych. Catch you later?”

I watched the girl walk down the hallway toward a lecture room and followed a few steps behind. Peering into the room after her, I saw maybe thirty students clustered in various parts of the room, chatting.

Milo and I would have managed to sneak into the other lecture because there had been so many people, but this . . . it wasn't the time.

I was about to peel myself away from the door and figure out if there was anything left to see when I knocked into someone.

A woman a little younger than my parents who was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a stack of papers in another, which promptly fell out of her arms at our contact.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, bending down to pick them up for her.

“You don't look familiar,” she said. “Are you a new student?”

“I . . .” My first instinct was to lie, to say that I got lost or was looking for my friend. “I don't go here, but I was thinking of trying to transfer next semester. I want to major in psych and I heard someone say this was a Developmental Psychology course, so I . . .” I what, exactly? What was my plan here? “I'm sorry if I made you late.”

“We're mostly doing an overview of the upcoming semester today, but would you like to sit in on my class?”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course! If you're interested in coming to NAU for psychology, then I'm interested in you finding out if this is the right fit for you. Now, what's your name?”

“Lydia,” I said.

“I'm Professor Cutkelvin; it's nice to meet you.” She turned and marched into the classroom and I followed hesitantly. “Everyone,” she said as she walked toward the table at the front. “This is Lydia. She's thinking of transferring next semester, so she'll be sitting in on the class today. Sit anywhere you like, but if you need to leave before the two hours are up, I'd advise you sit near the back.”

A few students turned and nodded at me, and I settled into a spot on the aisle toward the back, just to be safe.

But only a few minutes after the lecture started, I knew there was no way I was going to leave before it was over. Professor Cutkelvin was so engaging, and the students so interested. It was much more give-and-take than my community college class. It was like a
discussion, kind of the way Gothic Lit had been, and it was about things I immediately found I cared about. Problem-solving skills, development of morality, identity formation . . . it was everything I wanted to learn. Two hours flew by, and after thanking the professor for the opportunity to sit in, I knew that, as hard as the essay question might be, I had to find a way to get it done.

This is the place I want to be.

*  *  *

When I met George in Vegas—not the first time I met him, but after Lizzie, when we actually got together—he was a total gentleman. I was upset and alone and purposely reckless and drank way, way more than I should have.

There was some guy I'd been talking to on and off throughout the night, who kept buying me shots and hanging around. He was fun and cute and nice, I guess; I don't really remember. What I do remember, albeit vaguely, is his trying to get me to leave the bar with him and go back to his hotel room.

And George stopping him.

He figured out where my hotel was and took me back to my room, to my bed, and slept on the floor to make sure I didn't go out partying by myself again like I kept trying to.

At the time, I remember thinking that could have gone really bad. Not the George part, but the other. George did the right thing. He looked out for me.

That was the bar I set for him, and for our relationship: that he wasn't the worst person I met in Vegas. That he didn't take advantage of me being really drunk. So that if there was worse, that meant he was at least decent enough.

And sometimes, he was.

Sometimes, he wasn't.

But George and I had always existed in that little bubble, isolated from the outside world. In the moments we were together,
everything became either/or. George, or that guy. Me, or Lizzie. My family, or our relationship. Our happiness, or his money and revenge.

We couldn't survive in a cohesive outside world because we had never been together in any world but our own.

I still didn't know why the bubble popped, not really. But I knew that I didn't want to live in one again.

Milo had looked at the sunset and the bridge the same way George had looked at me during the good times, when it had just been the two of us against the world. The same way Cody had looked at me when he asked about my past, caught up in his own head, thinking about this great hook for his novel.

Where they could only see what was right there in front of them, and no further than that, I thought maybe Milo could see a bigger picture. A bigger world, with more than just selfish ambition or codependence.

I wanted to see that, too.

*  *  *

So I called him.

I mean, no, okay, I didn't call him. I texted him, like a normal person would. I asked if there was any chance he had just a few minutes to meet with me tonight.

I'm on my way to work, but I can swing by your place—you home? —Milo

He showed up at Jane's doorstep at the same time I was getting back from the subway, out of breath and . . . covered in body glitter.

“Sorry,” he panted, motioning to his all-over sparkle. “I usually put this on at the club, but it exploded at my apartment so I just kind of . . . went with it.”

“You really did,” I said, not bothering to hold back my laugh. “Wait—”

I dug through my purse and pulled out the white tiger hat from the other night, glad I hadn't thought to put it in my suitcase yet.

“Now we're even.”

He smiled appreciatively. “So, what's up?”

“Why didn't you kiss me, back there on the bridge?” I asked.

“That's what you wanted to talk about?”

I felt a little silly, now, making him come all the way out here for this. But as much as I love texting, some conversations are better had in person, where you can read what a person's thinking on their face instead of trying to decode emojis. And this may be my last chance.

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Why didn't you? The bridge, the sunset, it all seemed . . .”

“Right? Yeah, I know,” he said. “It would've been. For me, anyway. You said you didn't want to go out, so I assumed that included, y'know, kissing.” He shrugged, kicking at a candy wrapper someone had left on the front steps.

I thought back to George, and to Vegas. Being decent wasn't good enough, but, as a start, it wasn't
not
good enough, either.

“The reason I said no to going out with you isn't because I don't like you. You know that, right?”

“You don't owe me any sort of explanation, Lydia,” he said.

“I know. But, my last boyfriend . . .” I started, and then I remembered Cody and whatever this summer was between us. “My last real boyfriend, I guess . . . he wasn't who I thought he was.”

I looked at Milo, waiting for his face to light up in anticipation the way Cody's had, or for a slight eye roll at the thought of another crazy girl telling a story about a supposedly shitty ex, but he just looked back at me, waiting, but not expecting.

I took a deep breath, not sure why I was telling him this, and realizing somewhere in the back of my mind that this would be the first time someone heard this story from me. The first time I told it and saw that actual initial reaction from anyone.

“We made a sex tape,” I said, not bothering to mince words. “And he tried to sell it on the Internet. My sister's boyfriend stopped him, but . . .” I shrugged. “Everyone knew. And even if that wasn't the case . . . I'd trusted him.”

Milo frowned, and didn't look anywhere but right at me. I felt like I should be holding my breath as I waited for his response, but I wasn't.

“That really sucks,” he finally said, and I laughed in spite of myself, taken aback at how simple his response was.

“ ‘That really sucks,' ” I repeated. “Yeah, it did.”

His forehead stayed creased, his mouth set in a straight line until he spoke again: “I don't get what would make someone do something like that.”

“Me, either.” I blinked and shook my head. “But that's why I . . . or
part
of why I said I don't know if I'm ready for anything right now.”

He nodded. “That makes sense.”

“But . . .” I started, steeling myself. “I also don't want to let it stop me from making new memories, or from living my life. Even if the life I've had here is only for another twelve hours.”

“So what are you saying? I mean, I can't very well take you on a date if you're back in California.”

“No, not really,” I agreed. “But I may not stay there. I don't know what's going to happen, and I don't want you to take any of this to mean that I do, but, in the meantime . . . what I do know is that as shitty as it looks, this apartment building behind us is very memorable. And there are totally at least three different colors of sky happening right now.”

He looked up, the grin on his face growing even wider, and I saw that gap between two of his teeth like I had at the party. It seems so long ago, now. “Huh. I guess there are.”

I stepped forward and lifted myself up onto my toes just as he was tilting his head back down from looking into the sky.

His lips weren't as soft as I'd thought they would be. And his fingers weren't callused on my neck. His hair brushed my forehead, but it didn't tickle hardly at all.

It felt right.

“Well,” he said as we broke apart. “I'm gonna have to write whoever designed this building a thank-you note.”