Page 26 of Something Like Fate

A beat of silence. “In the beginning. And at the end. But not in between,” he admits. “Things were really stable in the thick of our relationship, but they were never over the top, you know? But I’m also not that kind of person, and neither is she.”

“Do you think it can be? Over the top the whole time?” I ask hopefully.

His gaze lifts to mine. “Yeah, I do.”

“I want that kind of love.”

“That’s the kind of love you deserve.”

Thank you,I say with my eyes. He has the uncanny ability to know exactly what I need to hear.

We may be in the shittiest of motels, eating food abomination after abomination, and watching ridiculous infomercials, when we should be in Venice eating pasta and meeting my soulmate. But I feel just as happy.

“I missed this,” I say over the mechanical hum of the ice machine in the hallway.

He swings his gaze back to me. “Missed what?”

“You. Spending time with you. We haven’t seen each other since you ditched me at Christmas,” I tease, rolling to face him.

We had plans one night to watchNational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation—me, him, and Sophie—but Teller canceled last minute because Sophie was feeling sick.

It was hard going from seeing each other almost every day and texting all the time, exchanging adorable animal videos—like a sloth crossing a road—to the odd text every few months. Teller’s texts were really all or nothing. Either I’d receive a whole day of full-paragraph answers or radio silence.

“Sorry about that, by the way.” He really means it. I can tell by the edge in his voice. The way he tilts his gaze downward, guiltily. A subdued blue glow from the television dances over his face, illuminating the soft arch of his brows, almost creating a halo effect. “I really wanted to see you at Christmas, but things were so busy and—”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I just really missed you this year.” I consider telling him about all the times I started to text him. All the times I actually typed the message, only to change my mind and delete it once I realized my last one had gone unanswered. But I don’t want to sound pathetic.

He looks hurt. “You never visited me either, Lo.”

“You never invited me,” I counter.

“You’ve never struck me as the kind of person who needs to be invited. I assumed if you wanted to come, you’d come.”

He’s not wrong. There were many times I wanted to pack up my car and drive to him. Times where I felt lonely, lost, overwhelmed by the demands of my classes. But between the months of silence, unanswered texts, and, well, Sophie, I never got the sense that there was an open-door invite.

“Let’s promise we’ll see each other at least twice next year. Definitely once at Christmas,” he says.

“I’ll hold you to it.” The prospect of not seeing Teller again until Christmas is depressing. I’ve already mourned not being together every single day, but it’s still crushing, knowing it’s simply not a reality of adult life, unless we buy houses side by side. I’ve joking-but-not-so-jokingly brought it up one too many times, and Teller has never responded with more than a teasing snort. Yet another reminder to treasure the next month.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you find classes last semester?” he asks, dropping a metaphorical brick on my chest.

“Oof” is all I can summon. I’d hoped to avoid this discussion as long as possible. “Honestly, no better than fall semester.”

He prods me in the thigh with his toes. “Hey, the good news is, you made it through the first year. Everyone always says all those intro courses are boring, no matter what your major is. You’ll take more specialized classes and electives next year.”

“I don’t know if I like it enough to stick it out.” I truly thought I’d like forensics, like my parents. I was decent at bio and chem and enjoywatching true-crime documentaries with Dad. But that passive interest hasn’t translated to my coursework. Unlike Dad or my peers, I’m not passionate enough about it to make it my life.

“You could always switch majors if you really hate it,” he suggests.

“That’s my problem. I took all types of intro electives, like English and social sciences, and I still don’t love anything. I’ve never hada thing, you know?”

“Sure you have. You’re passionate about life,” he says, like it’s as useful a field as medicine or education.

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Tel. Life?”

“I’ve never met someone who goes through life with the kind of optimism that you have. You just let yourself enjoy things. Crappy situations don’t faze you. I mean, you could be”—he gestures around vaguely—“sleeping in a murder motel and still have a smile on your face.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve aways tried to live optimistically, talk to as many people as I can, as much as I can. I’ve always understood life is fragile, even at a young age. I guess Mom dying made me that way.

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