Page 159 of You + Me – Against the World

“Yes… Did you see him again?” I ask in a small voice.

“Keith? Oh sure, we had a candlelit dinner, and then caught a movie… buried the hatchet…”

“Vadim!” His name bursts out of me. It’s the first time in a month I’ve allowed myself to say it out loud.

“Just briefly, when he was released. It was impossible to talk to him though. Alonso was all over him, yelling and being his usual goofy self. But I gave him your letter.”

“Thanks. Do you know if he read it?”

“No, sorry… But he didn’t tear it up right in front of me! That’s a really good sign, right?”

The rest of the updates from college leave me indifferent. Timothy’s new girlfriend. The basketball team’s triumphant end to the season. Basile’s boyfriend, Isaac Sanders, hooking up with his ex, Assistant Coach Zach Powell, the day before Basile left. Phoebe McPherson’s new pair of boobs, a graduation gift from her parents. The unlikely new romance between two painfully shy students: Jude Lee, my former project partner, and Hannah Goldberg, the class’s top student. The Sunset Café slowly emptying as the holidays drew nearer. Mr. Abrams continuing to wander around the campus, a long time after classes officially ended.

When the professor finally found out about my permanent departure, he asked my best friend to send me his regards, adding that he had been “a little hard” on me. Clémentine tells me it’s his way of apologizing. She smiles at me, seeming overcome by nostalgia.

And I am left reeling as I realize just how much life goes on.

Without me.

Without him.

I have absolutely no desire to resume mine.

The days go by, and I still have no news. If Vadim has read my letter, he clearly doesn’t feel like answering me. I’ll write him more; I know I will. Maybe he’ll never forgive me. Maybe he has already erased me from his life. Maybe he even went and scratched out what he once carved into wood and stone, back when he loved me.

It feels like an eternity ago.

Not a day goes by without me digging into my memory box. I open it up and look at the three Polaroids Vadim gave me for my birthday: the wooden bench, the little steps in the square, and the wall of the café. I run my fingers over them, trying as hard as I can to feel the relief of the carved letters.

To prove to myself that You + Me really did exist.

To be continued

BONUS

FIRST MEETING, VADIM’S PERSPECTIVE

Nine months earlier

“Alma Lancaster and Vadim Arcadi.” Abrams’s spiteful yet weary voice practically spits out our names.

He looks very proud of himself. He must think that coming up with incendiary pairings makes him a revolutionary professor. All the other students hang on his every word, as if he were some kind of messiah, the mentor they’ve always dreamed of having. I think he enjoys messing with us because it helps him forget how tragic his life really is. As tragic as his weathered, aging-playboy face. As miserable as his shitty, drab jacket, which he insists on wearing, even though he could clearly afford to buy a better one with his university salary.

It was obvious he was going to pair me with the girl in the front row. The Franco-British girl newly arrived in the U.S.—with her wealthy family, polished upbringing, and dreams of becoming a filmmaker—teamed up with the son of immigrants, a wild, ill-mannered scholarship kid. Abrams must think it’s a stroke of genius. But he couldn’t be more wrong: she can’t even bring herself to look at me.

Alma Lancaster turns her anxious gaze toward the back of the classroom, but quickly looks away when they meet mine. Wanting to make her uncomfortable, I look her straight in the eye. For a long time. On purpose.

She must think I’m some kind of troublemaker, or even a dangerous criminal, judging by the rumors that are going around campus. Either that, or a ladies’ man who is after her money as well as her body.

Screw them all.

All the people who think they know me. The ones who judge me without ever having spoken to me. The ones who think they know all about life because their parents tell them they are amazing and that they are capable of anything. They don’t dare speak to me so they can make up their own minds. It’s so much easier to put me in a pigeonhole. A cramped, little box where they can lock me up to better protect themselves.

Fine by me if I scare them off.

“Arcadi, Lancaster, do I have to hold your hands? Are you both going to wait for the other one to make the first move? Come on, Romeo and Juliet, get moving. One hour! Time is money!”

Abrams is convinced he’s insulting me by comparing me to one of Shakespeare’s heroes. He probably thinks I’m illiterate. He would never believe that I know that play by heart.