THE MILLARD FILLMORE IS just the way I remember when Ethan and I meet there the following evening for the design consultation we scheduled with Clint. We’re a little over a month out from the reunion. There’s been no unexpected remodel, no visit from one of the renovation shows on HGTV, not even the pleasant uplift of realizing we’d only had a negative first impression. It’s fine with me, of course. I only hope Williams overlooks the chipped paint and the exposed wiring where a power outlet once fit.
Ethan and I are walking up and down the room with Clint, pointing out the placements for tables and decorations, the awkwardness between us practically palpable as we don’t compete with each other. This morning we even had a downright respectful discussion of Crime and Punishment in English.
It’s undeniable where this nonconfrontational confrontation is going. We’re headed for a conversation I don’t know how to have. While Ethan points out where we want the bar, I watch him, the things he told me in my office in the Chronicle echoing in my ears. He wanted to kiss me again. He thinks about me often enough it distracts him from classwork. The memories fill my cheeks with fire.
Of course, right then Ethan catches my eye. I turn quickly to hide my blush, pretending I’m considering his bar positioning proposal.
What’s frustrating is I’ve never felt confused by my own feelings before. Not the way I do now. I know what I want and why I want it. In my previous relationships, I could rationalize why I dated the guys I did. They were nice, easygoing, not overwhelming commitments. Ethan and I, we’re nuclear fission. The explosive energy of pushing apart. We’re messy, disruptive, uncontrollable. I don’t understand why this infatuation with him hasn’t run its course.
Yet here I am, enjoying lingering glances at his lips, his hands, wondering when we’ll next find ourselves alone.
“You want the Millard Fillmore signature lemonade, right?” Clint asks. His words snap me from my reverie. I glance over and find Ethan grimacing.
“You have a signature lemonade?” Ethan’s voice is weighted with skepticism.
“Best in the city,” Clint replies. I’m ready to end this discussion and confirm we’ll have whatever constitutes the Millard Fillmore lemonade when Clint continues. “Give me a moment,” he says. “I’ll fetch you a couple cups from the kitchen.”
I realize seconds late what this will mean. Ethan and me alone, without classmates and Chronicle writers and Clint to keep us from the conversations I’m desperate not to have. “Oh, we don’t need—” I start to say. Unfortunately, Clint’s already on his way to the kitchen. I’m left with my nemesis-with-benefits, who leans on the dark brown wooden archway near him, watching me curiously.
“Well, Sanger”—he’s obviously enjoying this—“what should we talk about while we wait?”
“Nothing?” I offer weakly. “I’ve been meaning to incorporate more silence into my life.” There’s discomfort I don’t hide in the way I finger the hem of my cardigan.
“What other schools did you get into?”
I startle. His question is competition, and competition, I know how to do. It’s a respite, a removal from biting flames into the pleasant pain of an overheated bath. “Princeton, Columbia, Amherst, Northwestern,” I reply haughtily. “You?”
Ethan’s expressionless, evidently unimpressed. “Yale, Stanford, Brown, NYU.”
“Any chance you’re committing to Yale?” I ask, glancing into the hallway where Clint left, hoping to find him returning. I’m dismayed to find only the Millard Fillmore’s mottled-flesh-gray carpet and incongruous collection of framed photos.
The harsh laugh I hear from Ethan in answer is one I’ve heard often. He stands a couple feet from me, one leg hooked lankily over the other. “No,” he says. “I’m guessing you’re committing to Harvard as well?”
“Obviously.”
His lips twitch at the word. He cocks his head and crosses his arms. “So,” he says.
I wait for him to continue. In a combination of horror and delight, I wonder if he’s come up with a contest for who’ll claim his or her Harvard place and who’ll commit elsewhere, giving up our dream college to the other. It would kind of be the ultimate loser’s task.
Ethan doesn’t elaborate, however. “So what?’” I prompt him.
“Four more years of this.” His shoulders seem more squared, his posture more posed instead of comfortable. I can’t read his expression and decipher whether he’s unhappy at the prospect or weirdly excited to mar our college experiences with immature fighting and needless one-upping.
“You know,” I venture, “we could leave the competition at Fairview. Find new rivals at Harvard.” Part of me feels like the proposal is conceding defeat. The other part feels like it’s worth fighting for a well-rounded, freer college experience.
“I wasn’t referring to our competition,” he replies, eyes on me, emerald with whatever intrigue or anticipation lights them.
I steel my nerves. We’re edging toward the subject I’ve been dreading. There’s no use putting it off, pretending we can compare and compete with no other context. “What, then?”
Wry self-satisfaction infects Ethan’s smile. “Four more years of you pretending you aren’t into me.”
“Four years of you pretending you had a shot,” I say too quickly. Realizing I don’t sound confident, I continue. “How could I possibly be into you? I’ve hated you for years.” It’s a question for myself, and unfortunately not rhetorical. I’m desperate for the answer.
Ethan’s eyes narrow, his smile disappearing. I know immediately I’ve pissed him off. “You know what I think? I think you are into me.” He pushes himself off the archway and steps closer to me. “Right now, this very minute, you’re wondering about us and you’re afraid to admit it.”
“Why would I be afraid? I don’t care one iota what you think.” I hear venom in my voice exceeding even what I usually reserve for Ethan.
He flashes me an uncommon grin. It’s not a game move—it’s an emotion. “You’re right,” he muses, like he’s realizing. “It’s not my judgment you’re worried about. It’s your own. You’re afraid, after all this time, this whole rivalry, of your feelings changing. You’re afraid of who you’ll be if they do.” He’s close enough now he could reach out and touch me. I know he won’t.
I have no response. I hate that I don’t have a response.
“Admit it,” Ethan says.
The demand pushes me too far. Hot resentment rushing into me, I decide this entire discussion was a mistake. “I don’t have to admit anything to you,” I bite out. “We’re not friends, remember?”
I don’t owe Ethan any explanations. What we have isn’t real. It’s not worth interrogating or diagramming or reconstructing. It’s not worth a minute more. I grab my bag off the floor and walk directly out of the room.