“So, senior year?”
“Senior year,” I echo. “It’s chill.”
Adam laughs. “That’s my Jill. Totally unfazed.”
I flush at the notion that I’m his. “It’s probably all so boring to you now.”
Adam laughs. “Nothing you say is ever boring, Newman.”
The hair on the back of my neck tingles and I turn to him and take in his profile. His arms bulge just slightly out of his heathered T-shirt, and the muscles in his forearm stiffen when he reaches one hand to push his clear plastic glasses up the bridge of his nose.
I lean back in the seat and try to relax. I take note of my limbs and my posture, how I sit and how my arm fits just so on the window ledge. Is this right? I wonder as we pass the vacant Mussel Bay tollbooth, the skinny one-lane road that’s bordered by water on both sides, the tiny fisherman’s dock that sells the best stuffed clams in the summer. I can almost make out Ocean Cliff through the fog. It’s all so familiar.
Adam pulls into the tiny parking lot, only six spots deep. The bell chimes when we push through the door and a waft of cinnamon and sausage grease smacks me in the face.
“Well, look at you two! My favorite babies!” Diane tucks a pen into her firetruck red bouffant and skips over, wrapping both of us in a giant, sugary hug. As usual, she’s wearing bright red lipstick and an old-school white waitress uniform that’s been neatly pressed. She looks like one of the servers, even though she owns the place. “Any seat in the house!” She winks, already knowing our booth is free. Adam makes a beeline toward the one with the thick crack down one side.
“Good to be home,” Adam says when we sink into the red leather.
“Nothing like this in Providence?” I ask, pulling open the laminated plastic menu. It’s as thick as a book.
“No way.”
Thank God, I think.
“What’ll it be, dawling?” Diane asks in her heavy Long Island accent. “The usual?”
“You know it,” he says. “And a coffee. Black.”
“For you, dear?” She turns to me.
“I’ll have the same.”
“Coming right up. You two enjoy yo’selves.” She winks and heads to the kitchen.
“I fucking love this place,” Adam says. His eyes settle on a point on the wall right above my head. “It feels like home.” I turn my head to follow his gaze, though I already know what’s there. Tucked into a blue Gold Coast Prep frame, our faces smile back at us. The photo was taken freshman year, the last time I came here with Shaila. Adam had driven us, Rachel, and Graham here after our last final of the year, the week before initiation. I had been grossed out by my own singleness, horrified to fifth wheel their double date. But Adam assured me I belonged. He wanted me there.
We had all expected Diane to chuck the photo after everything. But the Arnolds never came here. And neither did the Calloways, obviously. “So what’s it matter?” she said when Adam asked her about it last year during his winter break. “It was a moment in time. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“So,” I say. “What’s this playwright thing?”
Adam sighs. “I promised Big Keith I’d come back this semester to teach a workshop to the kids. All fourth and fifth graders from the city. Low income. They come out for a full weekend of script-writing seminars.”
“That’s so cool,” I say, not even trying to hide my awe. Big Keith was Adam’s mentor. He ran the theater department at Gold Coast Prep and had put Adam up for all the awards. He was legendary in the tristate area. The fact that he invited Adam back to teach was sick.
“Let’s not talk about it, though. It’s probably so boring to you.”
“You know it’s not.” I roll my eyes at him.
Adam tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t believe me. “Fill me in on Player drama.”
I laugh. “There’s no drama.”
Adam smirks. “There’s always drama.”
“Nikki and Robert are on and off, you know that.”
“Eh, boring. Next. Have you come up with any good pops yet?”
My heart tightens. The pops are my absolute least favorite thing about being a Player. Everyone else thinks that they’re necessary, that they set us apart and make us tough. A way to break you and then put you back together, to prove you can follow the Players’ rules, that you’re worthy, you deserve everything the Players can offer you. I think they’re a means to an end. “Not yet,” I say slowly. “We gotta personalize them, you know, so I think we’re waiting to see who gets in.”
Diane comes over and pours long, dark streams of coffee into our mugs, then disappears again. Adam takes a sip and nods. “Sure,” he says before pivoting. “How’s Henry?” Adam cocks an eyebrow and I instantly blush.
“The same,” I say. “He’s gonna apply early to Wharton. His dad is making him. He really wanted to go to Northwestern for journalism, but . . . you know.” The decision had been plaguing Henry all summer but after an epic showdown with his dad over Labor Day, Henry told me he decided. Wharton it is. Business school or bust. He could always parlay it into business of media or something. Run a network, he said half-heartedly. Save the industry, maybe. But I could tell he was devastated by the idea of sitting in a cubicle in some skyscraper instead of reporting live from South America or sub-Saharan Africa.
Adam shakes his head. “That kid needs to learn how to make a decision for himself. Just because his last name is Barnes, doesn’t mean he needs to become hedge fund royalty or whatever. I mean, look at me. My dad was obsessed with the idea of me being a neurosurgeon like him, but I said fuck that. I’d be miserable as a doctor. You know that. I bet he’ll regret it.”
Adam’s right. But agreeing with him feels like a betrayal to Henry. I try to stay neutral.
“You still applying early to Brown?” He raises an eyebrow.
I nod. “Sent in the app last week.”
“Phew,” Adam says, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Gonna need you up there with me senior year.”
I bite my lip to hide a smile.
Ever since Adam got into Brown, all I could think about was applying there, too. At first, I wanted to be there because he was there. I pictured us away from Gold Coast, with the rest of our lives stretched out before us in parallel lines. Brown would be just the beginning. We would sit together in the corners of dark parties wearing fishermen’s sweaters and downing cups of shitty jungle juice, our foreheads almost touching as we got lost in conversation. We would walk through the grassy quad, leaves crunching underfoot, as we made our way to a tailgate.