Windfall

  I wait for him to snap out of it, to pull back again, but he doesn’t. Somehow, our faces are closer now, the distance between us smaller by half, and for a few long seconds, we’re frozen there like that, stuck somewhere between a conversation and a kiss, a stalled overture that seems to last forever. Then Teddy’s eyes widen, just slightly, and he gives his head the tiniest shake before leaning back again, taking all the air, all the hope, all the many pieces of my heart with him.

  “Anyway,” he mumbles, suddenly focused on his shoes.

  I bob my head, not able to speak yet. But finally, I manage it too. “Anyway,” I repeat, shifting away from him, my heart still ticking like an engine that’s not quite cool. We sit there for another minute, staring out at the green grass and the orange buildings, and then I let out a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”

  Teddy nods. “Anything.”

  “Can we go see my old house?”

  “Of course,” he says, looking relieved for the change of topic. “But are you sure?”

  “Not really,” I say with a small smile, but I stand up anyhow.

  As we start to walk back to the parking lot, I glance over at him. He’s wearing his old corduroy jacket instead of the new one he bought when he first won all the money. It’s worn at the elbows and patchy in places, but I’ve always thought he looked handsome in it, and today is no different.

  I don’t know what that was, what just happened between us, the magnetic pull of it. But I know how he feels about me. And I don’t want things to be complicated between us. Not after all he’s done for me. Not after dreaming up this whole trip. Not when we’re finally us again.

  “Hey,” I say softly, slipping an arm through his. I feel him tense up, but I ignore it, determined to get back on solid ground, eager to show him that I’m not holding out hope, that I’m fine with things the way they are. “Thank you.”

  He gives me a wary look. “What for?”

  “Just everything,” I say, because honestly, there’s too much to list.

  His face relaxes into a smile. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, but he seems pleased, and we walk the rest of the way to the car linked together like that.

  When we’re ready to go, he asks for the address to put into his phone, and I give it to him without hesitating, amazed that it could still be so close to the surface after nine whole years. But I suppose things like that get imprinted on you; they’re not so easy to shake.

  We take the more direct route this time, shooting up the ribbon of highway toward San Francisco, past the airport and through the city and straight to my old neighborhood, which sits high on a hill overlooking the bay.

  Teddy parks a few blocks away, and then we walk up the steep incline together, past the playground where my parents used to take me, and the house with the beagle that always howled when I rode past on my bike, and the square of sidewalk where someone etched a heart with an arrow through it a million years ago.

  The street looks exactly the same and entirely different all at once. I pause near the top, breathing hard, no longer used to the hills. After nine years in Chicago, it seems I’ve officially become a midwesterner.

  “It’s just over there,” I say, pointing farther up the block.

  “Do you want me to wait here?” Teddy asks, but I shake my head.

  “No,” I say. “Come with me.”

  When we reach the house, I steel myself, not sure what to expect. But it looks more or less the same: a tall, narrow Victorian with a gabled roof and a white porch. When we lived there, it was pale blue, but it’s now painted a bright, cheerful yellow. Our apartment was on the top floor, and I can see my bedroom window from where I’m standing. Someone has hung a small piece of stained glass there, and it glints in the sun.

  For a few seconds, I stare up at it, feeling numb all over. I’ve spent so much time thinking about it and not thinking about it over the years, trying desperately to remember it and even more desperately to forget it.

  And now I’m here, and Teddy was right. It’s just a museum. An exhibit from my past. A piece of my history.

  All these years, I thought maybe this was where I belonged. I thought it was still my home. But it turns out it’s just a house.

  A feeling of emptiness crashes over me, followed by a sadness so big it fills every inch of my body, every corner of my heart. Because they’re gone, really and truly gone, and because I miss them, and because if they’re not here in this place where we all lived together—where we sat on these front steps on summer nights and ate dinner behind that window and planted flowers right there by the porch—then where are they?

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until Teddy wraps his arms around me. For once, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if I’m okay or try to cheer me up. He just holds me as I bury my face in his shirt, and for a long, long time after that, he doesn’t let go.

  The envelope from the Art Institute arrives on the same day I have to let Stanford know whether I’ll be accepting its offer.

  It’s there in the mailbox when we get home from school, and Leo doesn’t even make it into the house before ripping it open. I stand below him on the front steps, watching nervously as he scans the letter. Then his face breaks into a grin and he lifts his hands in the air and goes tearing back down the steps and around our small patch of lawn, running in gleeful circles and whooping noisily, the letter held aloft.

  I can’t help laughing. “I take it the news is good?”

  As an answer he stretches out a hand for a high five as he goes wheeling past me.

  Inside he drops his messenger bag on the floor, peels off his jacket, and pulls out his phone to call Aunt Sofia at work. I walk over to the refrigerator and grab an apple, then sit down at the table, a front-row seat to watch him share the good news.

  Once he’s told her, he hops up onto the counter. “I know,” he says into the phone, giving me a wink. “I know. I’m a genius. I really am.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Yup, I can’t wait,” he says, and his smile dips just slightly, probably thinking about Max. There are a few beats of silence, then he looks over at me. “No, she hasn’t let them know yet. I think she’s holding out till the last minute for dramatic effect.”

  I take a bite of my apple, considering this. I actually have until midnight on the West Coast, which is two a.m. here. So there’s still plenty of time. And it should be a no-brainer, the easiest decision in the world. But for some reason I haven’t been able to do it yet: accept my place at Stanford.

  Leo is still on the phone, and I know when he’s done he’ll want to call Uncle Jake too, so I give him a wave, then a thumbs-up, and head upstairs to my room.

  My laptop is on my bed and I open it up to the Stanford website, staring at the sun-drenched pictures of those reddish buildings, thinking about the way Teddy and I sat on the edge of that fountain.

  It’s only been a couple of weeks since that afternoon, but it feels like much longer. We didn’t talk about it again, what happened there on the street: the way I fell apart so completely, the way we stood pressed together for so long. Something about the sight of my old house had split me clean apart, and there on the uneven sidewalk, on a peaceful hill in the middle of San Francisco, Teddy tried to put me back together again.

  Once it was over, though, he didn’t stop trying.

  For the rest of the trip, he stuck close by my side. At another time, and in another city, this might have turned my eager heart to mush. But there was a watchfulness to him that made me uneasy, like he was scared I might go to pieces again at any minute.

  When I tripped on a walk through the Presidio, he came jogging over with a look of grave concern. At the beach he worried my feet would get cold when I waded into the freezing bay. And at a bookstore he plucked a copy of The Bell Jar out of my hands. “I heard that one’s really sad,” he said, handing me Little Women instead.

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you think this one’s happy?”

/>   “Why?” he asked, alarmed. “It’s not?”

  “You do know that Beth—”

  “No spoilers,” he said, taking the book back and shoving Oliver Twist at me.

  “Dickens,” I said. “Sure. He’s always upbeat.”

  I knew he was just trying to cheer me up. He’d seen me crumble, had stood there and let me weep in his arms, and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again. But there was something almost feverish about his efforts, a desperation that solidified the worry that had lodged itself in the pit of my stomach.

  That maybe it had been too much for him.

  Since we got back he’s been strangely distant. When I see him in physics, he always seems distracted. When I text him, he doesn’t respond. And when I call it goes straight to voicemail. There’s a reason I don’t talk about my past very often. I hate the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me—especially Teddy. And now it feels like nine whole years of self-preservation has been drained away in a single weekend.

  I turn back to the Stanford website with a sigh. It’s especially hard right now, when all I want to do is talk over this decision with him. For so long California was the plan. But something shifted during our trip and now suddenly I’m not so sure.

  I rest my fingers on the keyboard, and this time I find myself typing the word Northwestern. When the site comes up I stare at the homepage, remembering what Aunt Sofia said that day on campus: I want to make sure that’s what you want too.

  More than anything, I wish my mom was here. I wish it so fiercely I can feel the pain of it straight down to my toes. I wish I could ask her what to do. I wish I could know what my parents would think of me now, whether they’d be proud or worried, whether they’d see a girl trying to honor their memory or just a girl who is hopelessly lost.

  I shut the computer and rub my eyes, feeling torn. I grab a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. Then, before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I write Stanford on one side and Northwestern on the other.

  I blink at the words, knowing what I really mean is California versus Chicago.

  What I really mean is past versus present.

  There’s a knock at my door and Leo pokes his head in.

  “Mom wanted me to tell you we’re eating out back tonight, so come down soon. I think she wants to have a little celebration.” He raises his eyebrows at the list in front of me. “Any hints what we’ll be celebrating on your end?”

  “Not yet,” I tell him, and he leans against the wall, his arms folded.

  “One day on campus with Teddy,” he says with a grin. “That’s all it took to make you doubt Stanford?”

  I laugh. “It’s not his fault.”

  “Listen,” Leo says, his face growing serious. “I’m gonna give you the same advice you gave me: You have to do what’s right for you. Not for me. Not for Teddy. Not for my parents. And not for yours. For you.”

  I glance down at the piece of paper in front of me, my eyes bouncing between the two sides, two possible futures.

  “We’ll see you out there soon?” he asks, and I nod. When he closes the door behind him, I find myself turning back to the column on the left.

  Before I can overthink it, I begin to write.

  By the time I’m finished I can hear the sound of voices outside, and I stand up and walk to the window. Down below, the three of them are sitting around the wrought-iron table on the back patio, and as I watch, Aunt Sofia raises a glass in a toast to Leo, who does his best to look embarrassed even though he’s beaming.

  Once upon a time I might have seen this and crawled back into bed, keeping a safe distance, sticking close to the edges. But not anymore.

  When I got back from San Francisco and the limo pulled up to this house, with its glowing lights and cheerful flowerpots, my shoulders went slack with relief. Whatever had been roiling and churning inside me throughout those days on the West Coast quietly settled like the wind falling flat after a storm, like the finish line of some race, like familiarity, like peace, like home.

  And for the first time in a long time, maybe even the first time ever, that’s what it felt like, returning to Chicago: it felt like coming home.

  Now, seeing the three of them gathered outside, all I want to do is go down and tell them I’ve made a decision. That I know where I want to be next year. But instead I wait for a moment, just watching them: Uncle Jake with his head thrown back in a laugh that carries up to my window, and Aunt Sofia looking so lovingly at Leo, who is telling a story with his arms outstretched, his face animated, his eyes dancing.

  My family.

  Beyond the rows of buildings behind us, the sun is sinking lower, washing everything in a soft yellow light; a few birds are perched on the telephone wires that stretch across the yard, looking down on the scene below, same as me.

  There’s a cake on the table, and from above I can see that it says Congratulations, Leo and Alice! Beside it there are three piles of napkins. One stack has cartoon lions on them, in honor of the larger stone ones that stand guard at the entrance to the Art Institute. The other two are solid colors: red and purple.

  One for Stanford. And the other for Northwestern.

  I can’t help smiling at the idea that Aunt Sofia managed to recognize this possibility even before I did. That she somehow knows me this well, in spite of all the roadblocks I’ve put up between us. It’s a nice feeling, like finding solid ground, like finally being discovered after the world’s longest game of hide-and-seek.

  I walk back over to my bed and sit down in front of the computer, staring at the website again, remembering my parents that day at the bell tower, the longing in my mother’s voice when she talked about going to Stanford.

  Then I think of Aunt Sofia and Uncle Jake, of Leo and Teddy, of what my parents would’ve really wanted for me after everything that’s happened—to do what makes me happy and to be close to the people I love, the people who love me back—and I take a deep breath and make my decision.

  When I get downstairs, I slide open the glass door that leads to the patio, and all three of them turn to look up at me, their faces asking the exact same question.

  “So?” Leo says, and I smile.

  “So,” I say, sitting down to join them.

  A few days later I’m dragging myself down the stairs, still not quite awake, when I hear a muffled yelp. I stand on the steps with my head cocked, listening. Then I hear it again, and I hurry the rest of the way down to see what it is.

  In the kitchen Uncle Jake, Aunt Sofia, and Leo are standing around a cardboard box, which has been set in the middle of the table.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, and they step back to reveal the small brown face of a boxer peeking over the edge. He has floppy ears and a twitching nose, and his whole body is wiggling, the box swishing this way and that on the table.

  “We’ve been puppy-bombed,” Uncle Jake says darkly.

  “What?”

  “He just showed up,” he says, waving a hand at the box. “Completely out of nowhere. Puppy-bombed.”

  I look from him to Leo, who is fishing the squirming pup out of the box, laughing as it covers his face in kisses. “I don’t get how—”

  “And I’m allergic,” Uncle Jake says indignantly. He gives Leo a pointed look. “Allergic! So don’t get attached, because this little monster isn’t staying long.”

  “Oh, come on,” Leo says. “You haven’t sneezed once.”

  Uncle Jake folds his arms across his chest. “But I will.”

  “He’s fine,” Aunt Sofia says. “He’s not really allergic.”

  “You’re not?” Leo and I say at the exact same time. We stare at him in astonishment. When Leo was a kid, this was all he wanted: a big-pawed, loose-limbed maniac of a puppy. But it was always a nonstarter because of his dad’s allergies.

  Uncle Jake shifts uncomfortably, casting a desperate glance in Aunt Sofia’s direction. “Why are you blowing my cover now?”

  “Because,” my aunt says, taking the
wriggling puppy from Leo and holding it close to her, “there’s no way we’re giving this guy back. He’s way too cute.”

  “You weren’t allergic?” Leo asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ever?”

  Uncle Jake grins at this. “What can I say? You were always kind of gullible. I mean…you believed in the tooth fairy until you were ten.”

  “Eleven,” I say, chiming in. Aunt Sofia sets the puppy on the floor and I scoop him up, resting my chin against his velvety head, feeling his little heart beating against mine. “I still don’t get where he came from.”

  “Some guy just delivered the box,” Uncle Jake says, jabbing a thumb toward the front door. “He wouldn’t say who it was from.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Aunt Sofia is gazing fondly at the puppy. “He’s ours now. The bigger question is what are we gonna do with him all day?”

  “Well, you’re the one who wants to keep him,” Uncle Jake says, “so obviously you should bring him to your office.”

  “I’m in court today. You just sit behind a computer.”

  “My office is full of paper clips and staples,” he says, sounding slightly hysterical. “It’s a death trap!”

  “It’s fine,” Leo says, holding up a hand. “I’ll take a sick day.”

  Aunt Sofia shakes her head. “You’re not taking a day off because of a dog.”

  “There are only a few weeks left of school, and I already got into college,” Leo says. “I’m pretty sure it won’t send my life skidding off the rails. And this way I can go to the pet store and figure out a dog walker and pick a name for him.”

  “I don’t know if I trust you to pick out a name by yourself,” I say. “You’ll probably want to call him something nerdy like JPEG or Pixel.”

  “Actually, Pixel isn’t bad.”

  I give him a look. “No naming him till we all agree, okay?”

  “Okay, you poor nameless little dog,” he says, looking down at the puppy, still in my arms. “It’s just you and me today, pal.”

  Once I’ve transferred him back into the box we all head out, leaving Leo to fend for himself. He lifts a coffee mug in farewell, looking pretty happy to be staying home, and I don’t blame him. I was about to volunteer for puppy duty myself, but now that I’ve settled on Northwestern I’m desperate to tell Teddy. It feels strange to have made such a huge decision without him, and I’m eager to share the news.