We reach the admissions building five minutes early. A couple of teenagers and their parents are waiting under the purple NYU flags adorning every building, demarcating the university’s territory in the indistinguishable expanse of buildings. I notice one boy sitting on the ground, his back against the building’s stone. He’s reading a worn science-fiction paperback, its cover the rocky surface of some faraway planet. His dad stands over him, wearing an NYU sweatshirt and darting frustrated glances at his son’s novel. I recognize the expression on the boy’s face. He doesn’t want to be here.

“NYU has over two hundred programs,” Juniper says, pulling my attention from the reading boy and continuing her college trivia.

“I don’t know why we’re even going to the information session.” I tug Juniper’s ponytail playfully. It happens too fast for me to overthink the gesture. Days of admiring that ponytail, and I release it almost as soon as I touch it. “You know everything already.”

She swats me away, but her lips curve upward. “I don’t know everything. Besides, haven’t you ever finished a book only to flip back to the first page and start over again? Knowing everything doesn’t take away the fun.”

“Only you would compare a lecture about college statistics to reading an amazing book.” Her passion is irresistible, though. She’s kind of right. I’ve been listening to her rattle off facts all morning about a college that yesterday I wasn’t even planning to apply to, and now I’m genuinely looking forward to this information session. It’s an unfamiliar excitement. If I’d come here without her, I’d have my nose in my dictionary, counting down the minutes until I could resume my day—resume my life. “Do they have an architecture program?” I ask.

Her eyes light up. I make a mental note to prompt her about architecture more often just to see that soft warmth settling her features. “Yeah,” she answers immediately. “It’s called the Urban Design and Architecture Studies program, and it looks amazing. Wait—” She stops suddenly and blinks, her focus returning. “What about you? I never asked what you want to study.”

“Oh.” I don’t know why the question surprises me. Even when I was set on SNHU, I would have needed to pick a major eventually. I guess I never peered that far into the future. “I haven’t really thought about it. Undeclared, I guess.”

Juniper looks scandalized. She grabs my arm, and I feel the contact everywhere. My toes, my stomach, the tips of my ears. She drops her hand almost immediately, but it doesn’t matter. Her touch reverberates through me. “After the tour let’s go to the campus bookstore. You can browse the course books for different classes. Maybe something will stand out to you. Literature, like your mom?” she suggests.

It’s a great idea. A perfectly Juniper idea. But the thought of literature and my mom stokes the worry never far from my mind. I decided to tour these schools, to entertain a future I never envisioned, but making that choice didn’t erase my every concern. Everything I’ve worried about is still there, behind every thought, making me feel guilty for even thinking about leaving my mom.

“I don’t know. I might,” I say.

I’m spared having to continue the conversation when the door opens in front of us. We’re ushered inside by a woman wearing a crisp blue blazer, who looks unreasonably cheery for eight thirty in the morning. She directs us into the kind of large conference room with which I’ve become familiar over the past week. While we file in, I notice the boy with his sci-fi novel following his dad, who’s already deep in conversation with the admissions officer. Overhearing the guy’s father obnoxiously questioning the woman on Greek life—despite the fact that his son looks like he’d never in a million years pledge a fraternity—I catch the kid’s eye. I offer him a weak smile, which he doesn’t return.

I sit down next to Juniper, recalling how just days ago I was envying Matt for being by her side in the BU presentation.

I’m happy. I really am. Happier than I remember being in a while, in fact.

It’s just not what I’d define as pure, untainted joy. What interrupts the feeling is the sneaking suspicion I’m deserting what’s really important with every step I take into a future that’s distinctly mine.

I wonder if I’m right to imagine more, or if I should bury my nose in a book of my own.

   Juniper

IF THERE’S ONE thing you have to do in New York City, it’s find yourself some pizza.

When we finished touring NYU late in the morning, Fitz and I grabbed unfulfilling café sandwiches, then took the subway uptown to Columbia. We’d scheduled two schools for one day, not wanting to miss either even though we knew it’d be exhausting. Finally, finished with Columbia and desperately hungry for dinner, we ducked into the hole-in-the-wall pizzeria we found near the campus. It didn’t disappoint, the way New York pizza never does. Dripping with delicious grease, scald-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot, with crunchy crust—the two, or it might’ve been three, slices Fitz and I each devoured were perfection.

Lewis didn’t have dinner with us. He volunteered to drive ahead to Philadelphia and “make sure everything’s okay with the hotel.” It was a flimsy excuse if I ever heard one to leave Fitz and me alone and force us to carpool, considering we’d chosen the new hotel and called them this morning. While we finished off the pizza, Fitz explained he’s overheard Lewis have increasingly frequent phone calls with his girlfriend, Prisha, and Fitz suspects relationship stress combined with worries over his job interview have put his brother on edge. Lewis could probably use the time on his own, Fitz says.

We check out of my hotel and hit the road. I can’t help the awkward disjointedness I feel every time I notice Fitz in the passenger seat, where Matt would sit. It’s like I’ve tumbled into a parallel universe. I keep glancing in Fitz’s direction because I feel like if I don’t, I’ll forget and say something to Matt. Which would be a level of uncomfortable with which I completely could not deal.

“Do you want to listen to music?” I blurt while we head toward the interstate. I’m conscious of how direct and desperate the question comes out. It’s just, Matt would have reached for the radio while we were pulling out of the hotel. The newness of having Fitz in the passenger seat draws the differences from driving with my ex into unbearably crisp focus.

“Up to you,” Fitz replies. “What do you usually listen to?”

Matt would’ve started pressing for his eighties playlist he knows I can’t stand. This is too weird. “Podcasts?” I suggest.

“Cool. Let’s do that.” He’s holding his dictionary in his lap, lightly tapping his thumb on the spine in a steady pulse. The sound is booming, my brothers jumping in the upstairs hallway while I try to study. He picks up the tempo, the beat audibly anxious in the silence.