The Memory Book(33)

The sidewalk in front of it is mine forever.

The turn we took to Stuart’s house is mine.

His driveway is mine.

I’ll start from the beginning.

When I walked in, Stuart was wiping down the lacquered wooden bar with a white rag in front of rows and rows of bottles that stood in the interior of a giant, hollow canoe hung on the wall. He was wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. When he noticed me, he came around the bar and gave me a hug. I remember how long he held me, and the way my fingertips felt on the muscles near his spine. I had never been this close to another human, in that way, at least. Never contemplated someone else’s bones.

I set my backpack on the leather seat next to me, one seat over from a middle-aged woman who was reading a book, drinking a pint of dark beer under the green-shaded hanging lights, the only other customer at the bar.

“How was your day?” Stuart asked.

“Fine,” I said, trying not to let my teeth chatter with nerves, or maybe it was just cold—why did every place have to keep the AC set to freezing? I watched his hands, twisting a glass under a streaming tap of water, and shaking it dry, adding it to a stack. “How was yours?”

“Just doing this,” he said, glancing at me, shaking dry another glass. “And trying to write.”

“Are you on a deadline?” I asked, catching his eyes again as he began to slice up one of a long row of limes and toss the wedges into plastic bins.

“Always,” he said, giving me a little smile, which filled me with relief for some reason. “What are you working on? Finals?”

“Almost,” I said. “Preparing.”

“Must be hard when the weather’s this nice,” he said.

“It doesn’t make much difference to me,” I said, pretending to play with my coaster.

“No more parties?”

“Ha! No. Ross’s was my first and last.” Remember, I told myself. You don’t have to be a robot. “Probably.”

Stuart finished, wiping his hands on his apron. “What about graduation? I went so crazy the night before mine, I almost overslept. I had to run to the stadium with nothing on under my robe but my boxers because I didn’t have time to get dressed!”

“Well.” I swallowed. “That’s definitely not an option—I have to wear more than underwear under my robe—”

We both blushed. Stuart looked at my sweatshirt.

“—because I’m giving a speech,” I finished.

“That’s right,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

“What?” I asked, looking at him.

“Nothing,” he said, and kept his black eyes on mine. “That’s so cool.”

Those words coming out of his mouth, out of his body under his clothes, he might as well have written them on my skin again.

The middle-aged woman cleared her throat. “Could I bother you for another, Stu?”

“Oh! Yes. Of course.” As he refilled the woman’s glass, Stuart said, “What a day for you to come in, Sammie, because this is also—well, this is Mariana Oliva.”

“Hello,” I said, and we shook hands across the seats. The woman had gray streaks in her long brown hair, and laugh lines on her copper-colored skin.

Stuart gestured toward her as she took a sip. “She’s one of my idols.”

“Oh, do you teach at Dartmouth?”

“No, I live in Mexico City,” Mariana said. “I’m just here to do a little reading later this week.”

Stuart kept looking back and forth between me and the writer. “Her book Under the Bridge is probably one of my favorites of all time.”

“Thank you,” Mariana said, lifting her glass to Stuart. “You’re kind.”

Stuart and Mariana got deep into a conversation about first-person narration versus third person, and I felt like what I guess sports fans must feel like when they watch their favorite team play, but the sport they played would change every few minutes, and the ball would change, and the arena.

Mariana and Stuart had something to say about everything under the sun.

On Shakespeare: “He was not one man. A group of sexually confused friends, trying to one up one another.”

On small dogs: “Little rats. Little neurotic rats.”

On the moon landing: “I believe it happened. Then again, I also believe in astrology, so take that with a grain of salt.”

On novels as a dying art: “Novels reflect a country’s consciousness. If we say they are dying, then we admit failure. It depends on if you’re ready to do that.”

“I’m not,” Stuart said.

“Me neither,” she said, and they shook hands.

They included me, and I spoke up when I could, but mostly I listened. “What do you think, Sammie?” Stuart would ask.

And eventually I just had to tell them that most of the time, I didn’t know. “I’m sort of a sponge,” I said, and could feel my mouth get dry. “I have a few strong opinions, but they might change. I just want to find out everything I can.”

Mariana reached over and took my hand. “That’s wise,” she said, and squeezed. “Very wise for a girl your age.”

I could sense Stuart smiling at me, and we looked at each other, his eyes running up and down my face.