“I love you,” he whispers through the kiss.
“I love you, too.”
Dear Alice,
Thank you.
Thank you for opening up yourself to love again. You don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but you have taken a leap of faith. You were afraid, but you didn’t let that stop you from doing what you felt was right. I’ve always thought that to show courage was to run into a burning building to save a life. Well, by opening myself up to love again, I’ve run into a burning building and saved a life. My own.
Love,
Alice
7
When I arrive at JFK Airport for my second semester at Columbia University that spring, I breathe in the crisp January air and realize that this city has become something of an old friend. Familiar. Not so friendly. A little too grumpy. Almost always too loud. Despite all the shortcomings—or maybe because of them—New York is the kind of old friend you start to miss if you’re not around her for a bit.
People come here to leave their mark, but I’m not so sure that it’s the people who leave their mark on this city or if it is the other way around. It shaped me, defined me, forced me to confront my true self. Examine who I am and what I want to be.
This city came into my life and changed me. It morphed me into an adult. I complained and kicked and screamed, but the city didn’t give up on me. It taught me to live on my own and do all the little tasks that come with growing: laundry, grocery shopping, getting your own medicine from the pharmacy when you’re sick.
New York is full of ghosts—ghosts you feel when you wander the streets at twilight. You can feel them in the morning, too, when the city’s just waking up. The ghosts are not just of the dead, for this city keeps souls, souls of those who come for a week and those who stay for years.
Walking out of the airport, I suddenly realize that there’s a clear line between home and school. It should be obvious, of course. Calabasas is a place an hour north of Los Angeles where oranges dot the landscape in the winter and the sky is so wide and blue that it’s easy to forget what day, month, and year it is. It’s a place that the sun isn’t fearful of. It’s a place that rain rarely visits. School, on the other hand, is an entirely different world. Here, the streets explode in a cacophony of sounds I never knew existed. It’s a place where bakeries open at 5 a.m. and bars and clubs don’t close until 4 a.m. It’s a place where people seem to live more fully at night than they do during the day. Unlike back home, where even a few drops of rain usually cancel all plans for the day, here the streets can be wet, full of slush, and covered in snow, but that doesn’t stop anyone from going wherever they were going.
As I get into the cab, I’m excited at the prospect of coming back to my new home here in the city. For one thing, my roommates are no longer strangers, but friends. Old friends. Like that old Dolly Parton song goes, “you can’t make old friends.” Unlike my first semester here, this time around, no introductions are needed. We’re going to start off right where we had left off. Laughing. Talking. Reminiscing. I can’t wait.
From what I heard, Dylan Waterhouse, my roommate who grew up in Connecticut and whose father owns a posh apartment overlooking Central Park, is back with Peyton, his high school girlfriend. Dylan and Peyton, who goes to Yale, had broken up and got back together numerous times last semester. According to Juliet, my roommate from Staten Island whose father owns a string of dry cleaners, they had gotten back together and broken up twice over Christmas break. I guess they’re going through an on period. All this drama gives Juliet an insane amount of delight, despite the fact that she and Dylan had a thing for close to a month last semester and I was expecting her to be a little bitter over the whole thing.
The thing that’s even better than old friends is an old love. My old love, to be precise. I haven’t seen Hudson since we had gone skiing on New Year’s.
“Alice!” Hudson yells as I get out of the cab in front of our building. He wraps his arms around me as I try to fish out a $10 bill to tip the cab driver.
He has recently shaved. His skin feels smooth and smells of coconut oil, his DIY aftershave. I wrap my arms around him and hug him as tightly as I can. Then…my heart jumps into my throat. I take a breath. My chest hurts and no air comes in. My heart starts to beat faster and faster. One more second and it’ll pop out of my chest.
“What’s wrong? You okay?” Hudson asks.
He pulls away from me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just…” I mumble. “I can’t breathe.”
“Oh my God, Alice. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just need a minute.”
I double over and put my head in between my knees. I’ve never had a panic attack, but that’s what I heard Dr. Drew say to do in situations like these. Hudson patiently pats my back and waits.
I take one deep breath. Then another. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal. It hits me. It’s love. I’m actually overwhelmed by love.
“Okay, I’m good.” I stand up straight. I’m no longer sweating, but I’m suddenly keenly aware of how sweaty I am. My shirt is soaked and I’m getting colder with every second. Hudson stares at me with his brows furrowed and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. He’s concerned.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I just got a little too excited about seeing you, I guess.”
He
