Page 50 of Under the Weatherman
Elizabeth scoffed. “Chelsea doesn’t date.”
“Then what is that?”
“It’s a pretext. We’re a loophole. You see that, right?”
“She’s using us to get to Bas?” I pulled free of her grasp and stopped. “That makes no sense. Bas has been trying to ask her out for weeks.”
She held out a finger. “First of all, Chelsea never says yes to dates. This right here is precarious. I’ve never seen Chelsea give any guy this much attention, and however Bas is doing it, I don’t intend to break the spell he’s casting. If you want your friend to have his romantic picnic, I’m afraid you’re going to have to play wingman. And second, why are you such a stick in the mud? Don’t you like fun?”
“I like fun.” Everything else she’d said percolated in the back of my mind. I’d been so caught up in my own world, I hadn’t thought about the mating dance Bas was performing. For reasons beyond my understanding, he seemed smitten with the devil incarnate, and I didn’t want to cock block him. “What do you propose we do?”
“Stay. Hang out with our friends on a gorgeous fall day, eat what I assume will be delicious food, and pretend we’re getting along. I know you’re capable of pretense, Clark Kent.”
My hackles rose. I hated deceit, but she was right that I was being hypocritical with my fake glasses. Besides, she was only asking for civility. “I can play nice.”
“Good. Then can we try to be friends?”
“You”—I stared into her crystal blue eyes—“want to be friends with me?”
She gave me a long, appraising look. “Maybe. I don’t know. You were a real jerk to me.”
“Me?” I breathed in. From her perspective, maybe I was. I moderated my tone, hoping I sounded reasonable, not angry. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
She gave a half-hearted little shrug. “Whatever. We only have to do this for an hour.”
Right. Everything was some kind of theater, including her friendship. “I can do that.”
“Then come on. We need to catch up.”
As we stepped through the arched doorway under the Rotunda, I breathed in the smell of something specific to this location, earthy and a little sharp, like petrichor, but tangy. Juniper? Whatever it was caused my eyes to close as a million memories rushed in, and I was hit in the chest with nostalgia and pride for my alma mater. Small white columns flanked the rolling Lawn stretching to Old Cabell Hall, creating one of the most iconic and picturesque views in America. Little moments like this reminded me why I’d taken the job here. This was home.
Elizabeth said, “It’s like Proust’s madeleine,” dreamily.
I glanced over at her, taking in the wisps of golden hair blowing into her face and resisting the urge to tame them. “Proust?”
She adjusted the strap on her messenger bag. “Sorry. I step onto grounds and forget myself.”
“Grounds” was the UVA word for campus, and I grinned as another little piece of my history slid into place. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
“Proust was a French novelist. Early twentieth century. He famously wrote about biting into a cookie, called a madeleine, and being transported to his childhood. Tastes and smells can work like a time machine.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She beamed. “I didn’t mean to nerd out on you. I just finished editing a book on Proust so he’s super on my mind right now.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Oh, don’t be. I didn’twriteit. I just cleaned it up.”
“Still. The fact you know all that.” I had this weird thought that I liked her better. Butbetterthan what? Better than I liked her before now, or better than I liked the person I’d thought she’d been?
She absently caught one of the loose strands of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I did go to school to study literature. I hope I retained something. But yeah, you’d think this would all get old, but every time I set foot on the Lawn, I’m nineteen again, with no real worries except whether or not I’ve convincingly analyzed Faulkner’s ‘A Rose for Emily.’”
I winced. That sounded awful. “I was just trying to survive statistics.”
Bas waved us over to a flannel blanket, and I knelt beside Elizabeth, still pondering our conversation. Memory could be so powerful, but I was beginning to discover just how unreliable mine was. How much of my view of the past were just stories I told myself?
Bas took out his phone. “This needs to be documented.”
