Page 2 of Past Present Future
Yes, and no.
Theoretically, I’m ready, but I’m also not sure how fearlessly I can let go.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, and when I close the door, it somehow feels like I’m shutting away so much more.
* * *
My parents insisted on a send-off before I leave, a picnic at Green Lake with black-bean burgers and roasted corn. Kirby Taing and Mara Pompetti are already there, no doubt ready to gloat about their extra weeks of summer because the University of Washington doesn’t start until the end of September.
Eager to have a job, my dad lights the grill while my mom passes out compostable plates. Neil’s mom, Joelle, arrives with a Tupperware of cubed watermelon and a wide-brimmed sun hat. A family of redheads means a lot of SPF.
It’s only mildly embarrassing for your parents to meet your boyfriend’s mom, something I discovered last month when all five of us went out to dinner. It hadn’t happened with my past boyfriends, felt too serious for those relationships. A strange kind of So, how about our kids’ raging hormones? But they clicked instantly, bonding over their opinions about the new Seattle waterfront (mixed) and whether the Seahawks have a chance at the playoffs this year (no).
We take a few minutes to settle in, exchanging hugs and hellos. All around us, people are playing croquet and walking their dogs and Rollerblading, the latter two occasionally done at the same time, Seattleites soaking up what might be the last nice day of the season. Because in this city, you just never know.
“If someone doesn’t promise me this isn’t the end, I might cry,” Mara says. Her wavy blond hair is in a loose bun, and a minidress emphasizes her calves, toned from years of dance.
With one eye, I watch Neil and my dad standing semi-awkwardly at the grill, as though they’ve decided that this is how they Bond as Men, though Joelle is the one to inform them that the burgers are starting to burn.
Next to Mara on the park bench, Kirby gives her shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be okay. Just think, only one hundred and twenty-two more days until we’re all reunited.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? That’s an eternity.”
I reach for a passionfruit LaCroix and pop the tab. “Just think about all the times I’ve annoyed you over the years,” I say. “You’ll be too busy to miss me. How many credits are you taking again, Mara?”
“Only twenty-two,” she says innocently. “I just want to get all my prereqs done as soon as I can.” Kirby, long known for trying to get as much done with as little effort as possible, is taking the recommended fifteen credits for freshmen, unsure what she’ll major in.
“And I still think you should have decided to take Anthropology of Ice Cream with me,” Kirby says. “Although if we don’t actually get to eat ice cream, I may riot.”
Burgers and corn are passed around while we talk more about our fall schedules. My creative writing class is the one I can’t wait for, taught by a darling of the literary fiction world whose books I devoured earlier this summer. In college, I will be entirely unashamed of my dream career, and Miranda Everett’s class—undeniably full of other aspiring novelists—will be where I take the first step.
Mara bites into her burger. “If your roommate is cooler than we are, please don’t tell us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kirby says, miming putting on boxing gloves. “Personally, I think it’s more advantageous to know your enemies.”
“I’m not replacing either of you!”
Neil slides in next to me with his plate of food, our parents immersed in a conversation about the rising cost of textbooks. His knee nudges mine. “Neither am I. Who else could mercilessly torment us about our relationship like you, Kirby?”
It’s true: Even though my friends knew how I felt about him before I did, they rarely hesitate to joke about our four-year rivalry and the game that made us realize what idiots we’d been. Lovingly, of course.
Kirby beams. “I try my best.”
“Seattle’s definitely going to feel smaller without both of you,” Mara says as Kirby sinks her teeth into her ear of corn, the kernels blackened and buttered, and it’s then that I realize something else: I’ve been so caught up in the logistics of packing, I’ve barely processed the fact that in twenty-four hours, I will no longer live here.
The place I’ve spent my whole life, the city that’s just as much a part of me as my troublesome bangs or my affinity for vintage clothes. Case in point: the lavender floral shirtdress I’m wearing now, plucked from a rack at Red Light last month.
I wonder if thrift shopping will be as fun in Boston without my best friends.
Just as the black-bean burger starts to turn uncomfortably in my stomach, my mom calls out to get everyone’s attention, lifting her can of seltzer in a toast. “Hear, hear,” she says. “To Rowan and Neil, and all the adventures you’re going to have next year on the other side of the country. We’re all going to miss you, but we know you’re going to do great things.”
Joelle holds her own can high. “That’s lovely, Ilana. To having new experiences and meeting new people, and then coming home and telling us all about it.”
“To trying a slice of real New York pizza,” Neil says.
“To exploring Boston’s independent bookstores,” I add, even as a lump forms in my throat. “And never being embarrassed to be caught in the romance section.”
Everyone toasts. Sips. The fizz settles my stomach, and I try my best to banish my nerves for the rest of the evening. Because in a matter of hours, this—my life in Seattle—is really, truly ending. I thought I’d made peace with it, allowed myself to mourn while leaving space for all the excitement I’m taking with me to the East Coast. But now I’m just not sure.