Robin Talley - What We Left Behind

Gretchen is definitely one of the good parts. Gretchen’s the good part.

I can’t keep pretending.

“I’m going to miss you.” I don’t mean to say it. The truth just sort of spills out of me. “So much.”

Gretchen turns around, face falling. Right away I feel bad. I hate making Gretchen look like that.

It’s been happening more and more lately. All summer we’ve been making plans, looking up our roommates online and studying the Boston T map and talking about what it’s going to be like to be on our own, but over the past week or so, Gretchen’s gotten a lot quieter. I think it’s only just started hitting home for both of us how big a change this is going to be.

“I mean,” I go on, trying to act nonchalant, “I know we aren’t going to be that far apart in the geographical sense, but it just feels like I need to see you every day, you know? This is going to be so hard. I actually kind of can’t deal when I think about how hard it’s going to be.”

“I know.” Gretchen puts down the socks and draws me into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” I squeeze tighter. I love the way Gretchen feels in my arms.

I can’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” I say, still trying to make my voice sound breezy. “You know how I snuck off at Target while you were in the toothpaste aisle?”

“Yeah.” Gretchen pulls back. “I figured you were buying something embarrassing. I saw you checking out that box set of Pretty Little Liars.”

“Well, yeah. You know I always had that thing for Emily. That wasn’t why I snuck off, though.”

“So why did you?”

Gretchen’s leaning against the hand-me-down dresser, the sad expression from before replaced by the smile we both get whenever we play this game. The I-have-a-secret-and-I-can’t-wait-to-tell-you game.

“Close your eyes,” I order.

Gretchen obeys.

“Now promise not to laugh,” I say.

“T! You know I can’t promise that. I always laugh, even when it’s not funny. I’m already laughing now just standing here!”

“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh with malicious intent.”

“I swear I won’t laugh with malicious intent! Can I please open my eyes?”

I stand up and pull the tiny bag out of my pocket. “Okay.”

Eyes open, Gretchen looks inside the bag, then claps and laughs. “This is perfect! You really got this while I was picking out my Aquafresh?”

“Yep.” I grin and pull out another bag. When Gretchen gets happy like this, especially when it’s because of something I did, I always turn into a giant, embarrassing, grinning goof. “I got one for me, too.”

“Aww. You are such a sap! I love it!” Gretchen hugs me again. “That was such a fantastic night, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

The Target has a kiosk where you can get jewelry engraved. I got us each a silver disk on a leather cord. Gretchen’s disk has a top hat in the center. Mine has a bare footprint.

When we leave tomorrow, Gretchen and I will be apart for the first time. We’ll be in the same city, but at different schools—Gretchen at Boston University, me at Harvard. We’ll only be able to see each other on weekends. Maybe the occasional weekday if we’re up for trekking across the city.

I wanted us to have something solid we could look at. Something to hold in our hands when we couldn’t hold each other. Something to remind us both of where we started out. Not that there’s any way we could forget.

“This is so insanely sweet,” Gretchen says. “I should’ve gotten you a present, too.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Don’t be crazy. It only occurred to me when I saw the kiosk.”

“Toni. Tell the truth.”

“Okay, I’ve been thinking about it for months.” We both laugh. “If you want, you can always pay my mom back for the twelve ninety-five I put on the credit card.”

“Your mom can afford it.” We laugh again, and Gretchen’s arms link behind my neck. I’m still freaked about tomorrow, but touching Gretchen helps. Touching Gretchen always helps.

“Thank you,” Gretchen says. “Really.”

“You’re welcome, really.”

We kiss.

Have you ever wanted to breathe someone in until they become part of you and never let them go? That’s what kissing Gretchen is like.

Maybe that’s how it is for everyone when they kiss someone they really love. I don’t know.

We break away and Gretchen goes over to the closet, where most of the clothes are still hanging.

“Hey, so, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” Gretchen says, grabbing a bunch of pants still on their hangers and tossing them into an open suitcase. I wince at the thought of the wrinkles. “It’s kind of, um, a thing.”

“What’s up?” I sit on the edge of the bed to watch Gretchen pack.

“Well, it’s just that—”

Gretchen’s phone buzzes. That’s the third time in the past five minutes.

“Who keeps texting you?” I ask.

“Uh.” Gretchen glances down at the screen. “Well. If I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad?”

I laugh. “You know that’s never a good way to start, babe.”

Gretchen puts on a mock-innocent expression I’ve seen many times before. There’s no way not to smile at it.

“It’s possible,” Gretchen says, “that I told Chris and Audrey they could come over and help us pack tonight.”

“Why?” I can hear the whine in my voice. It’s our last night together.

“They were asking when they could say goodbye,” Gretchen tells me. “This was the last chance. I said they can’t stay long. Chris tried to make a stink about it, but I told him he’d just have to deal.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t really complain. Chris is my best friend, and Audrey is my little sister. I’ll see Gretchen every week once we leave for school, but I’m not going to see Chris or Audrey until Thanksgiving. If I come home for Thanksgiving.

“It’ll be fun,” Gretchen says. “We can hang out on our own after. Don’t worry.”

I cross the room, loop my arms around Gretchen’s waist and kiss the back of Gretchen’s neck, provoking a round of giggles.

“I never worry about anything when you’re around,” I say. “How long until they get here?”

“Half an hour, maybe?”

We both smile. Then we start making out.

It’ll be a while before we get another chance, after all. At least a week. The last time I went a week without seeing Gretchen was when my family went to a resort in the Dominican Republic. I was so lonely. Plus I kept feeling guilty about the exploited workers who handed me fresh towels every morning. For the first two days I texted Gretchen every other minute. Then my sister told me to put the phone down already because I was embarrassingly whipped.

I guess we lose track of time, because we’re still kissing when the front door slams.

“Crap.” Gretchen scampers off the bed. I go over to the mirror to check my hair. It’s all mussed. I try to smooth it back, but it’s a lost cause.

Gretchen’s mom opens the bedroom door without knocking, coming in with a bright smile and a long glance around the room. The rule in Gretchen’s house, which we tend to break a lot, is that we can hang out as much as we want but we’re supposed to leave the door open. Gretchen’s parents are keeping up the pretense that all we do is hold hands. It’s kind of cute, actually. My parents prefer to believe Gretchen and I don’t even do that much.

“How’s the packing going, girls?” Gretchen’s mom asks. I bristle at the “girls” thing, but I try not to let them see.

“It’s going great!” Gretchen smiles.

My annoyance slides away. Gretchen’s smile beams out so much happiness, so much warmth, that sometimes I can barely stand it. I gaze at Gretchen’s bright, open face and wonder for the trillionth time how I ever got this lucky.