Page 73 of Exchanged

TWENTY-TWO

As February fades into March, Garrett and I pretend that our relationship doesn’t have an expiration date, that we will live like this forever.

We go on dates, feeding each other forkfuls of way-too-expensive pasta at the Italian restaurant in Blue Harbor. He introduces me to his friends from home on a video call, and they are just like he described: Lisbeth effortlessly cool, Corey dramatic and hilarious. They work hard to help me feel included in their inside jokes, and by the time we hang up, we’re making plans to meet in person someday. Garrett and I play board games with my family—always competitive, always tense—while the endless winter presses against the panes of the dining room windows.

He tells me he loves me one night, under the endless formation of winter stars. We are walking home from a party at Tyler’s place, talking about something ordinary and stupid, and then he turns to me and the words tumble from his mouth. His voice is music, and these three words are an unexpected key change, the kind that transforms the notes you thought you knew into something different, lifting the melody onto another plane.

His eyes search my face, our breath clouding the air between us. I tell him that I love him, too, and it feels like exhaling for the first time after being underwater, and we pull each other into a tight hug, gloved hands pressed against puffy coats, my cheek against his jaw.

When we reach my bedroom, I close the door behind us and he kisses me, and it feels different from our other kisses. I am filled with the scent of him: warm paper and winter woods. He pulls my shirt over my head, then removes his own, and we look at each other in the warm lamplight. He traces his fingers across my shoulder blade and down my arm, his breath heavy, his eyebrows question marks.

I look at him, at this person I know so well but who suddenly seems foreign. I think back to the game of Never Have I Ever at Dana’s party, aware that Garrett has done this before and I haven’t, but I trust him. I trust him with all of myself.

I nod, and he crashes into me like a Lake Superior wave against a rock face. I find myself propped against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his lips on my throat. I kiss the freckles cascading across his shoulders and arms. Blood rushes to my ears, and I’ve never felt so aware of my skin, of its heat and smoothness and the way it stretches over my bones. He’s tugging me away from the wall and we’re falling onto my bed, him on top of me, exploring my body with one hand, unbuttoning my pants with the other.

His hand pauses. “You’re sure?”

“So damn sure.”

He kisses the small of my neck, then the corner of my mouth, then my lips, pressing all of himself onto me, and I devour the heat of his bare chest radiating into my own.

That is what I will remember of this night. Not the awkwardness of all the firsts or the pain or the wondering if I was doing it right or going too fast or too slow. It will be the unstoppable force pulling us together, telling us to leave no distance between ourselves. It will be the sheen of sweat that is both mine and his clinging to my chest. It will be the warmth of our bodies meeting in the space that no longer exists between us.

In mid-March, the college acceptance letters arrive.

Garrett and I get home from school one afternoon to find two envelopes in the mailbox, one from Los Angeles, the other from Atlanta. We bring them inside, taking our time removing jackets, putting shoes in the shoe rack, hanging backpacks on the peg by the door. Then we stand at the kitchen island, examining our respective envelopes. They are heavy and thick. I haven’t checked the online application portal in a few days, and I wonder how long the decision has been available.

“Together?” Garrett asks.

I nod.

I slide my finger under the flap and tug. A shower of purple and gold confetti falls onto the counter. It’s quiet for a second as we both read. We look up at the same time.

My mouth is dry, but I manage, “You?”

He nods. “You?”

I nod.

He rushes around the island and pulls me into a hug. “God, Enzo,” he says into my hair, “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“No,” he says, “yours is the way bigger deal here. You got in!” Then, his joy becoming physical, he grabs my shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face a miniature sun. “You got in, Enzo!”

The news begins to sink in. Burton-Clark accepted me. That panel of discerning professors decided I was talented enough to study at one of the most prestigious composition programs in the country. The years of theory classes, the hours at my keyboard, the oboe lessons: They all mattered in the end. I could become a film composer.

“We have to tell everyone!” Garrett says, a golden retriever in his enthusiasm. “Aunt Liz and Emma and your dad. They’ll be so pumped for you!”

“No,” I say. “I think … I think I want this to stay between us. Just for now.”

His face falls at me dampening his desire to share the news. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. But, Enzo … you’re going, right?”

Before I think, I’m nodding. “Definitely. I just need some time to process, you know?”

He smiles, reassured, and I gesture at his letter. “Maybe we make today about you. My family will be so proud.”

They are. Dad and Emma and Aunt Liz insist on celebrating, so the five of us cram into Dad’s truck, head to Blue Harbor, and eat a long meal at the Dockside, sharing plates of fresh-caught fish and watching the sky over the lake shift between deepening shades of pastels as the evening light fades.