I pull out a folded piece of paper. Its edge is jagged, like it’s been torn from a book.

Unfolding the page, I realize it’s from a dictionary. Fitz’s dictionary. My eyes jump from word to word, from impecunious to inchoate, before they light on an underlined entry. Indelible (adj.): impossible to erase or forget.

I refold the paper carefully, understanding Fitz completely. Our time together is the definition of unforgettable. If this were one of those dictionaries with illustrations for certain words, I know what picture would come with this entry. A bitterly cold night, a rooftop, a boy and a girl, and a reach of endless stars.

I look up as Fitz and Lewis walk out of the convenience store, and I make a vow. I’m going to enjoy every moment of our final night together.

   Juniper

WE PARK IN a narrow treed alley that runs along one of Princeton’s Eating Clubs. Remembering the clubs from my online research, I explain to Fitz they’re really just coed fraternities that also function as fancy dining halls. Lewis parks nearby, and we follow him to Prospect Avenue.

We wait in front of the Cap and Gown Club house. It’s more of mansion, with three stories of dark brick and elegant detailing. I discern a French château influence in the stonework and structure. In the yard, tall trees stretch their limbs toward the gray sky of the afternoon, their bare branches trimmed with frost.

Two girls walk onto the front steps, one Indian and the other redheaded. Prisha and her friend, I’m guessing. When Lewis sees Prisha, he literally runs to her. He sweeps her into an embrace while she laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet.

“Come on,” I say to Fitz. “Let’s give them their privacy.”

He takes my hand, and we head toward campus. “Do you have a tour prepared for this school?” Fitz asks, steadying me when I slip on the icy sidewalk.

“I thought we could just walk together.” We pass through an archway in a building with an actual turret. I focus on the warmth of Fitz’s hand in mine. Today isn’t about the school, it’s about us. The campus is only the backdrop.

It’s a beautiful backdrop, though. We explore for the better part of the day. I take in the snow-covered spires of the chapel, the stained glass, the intricately sculpted stone. The campus is a fascinating combination of old and new. We pass by Gothic dorms and brittle, modernist buildings of metal and glass. I need a full thirty minutes to examine every facet of the Gehry-designed science library. Fitz willingly obliges.

We grab coffee in the student center, kiss under the campus’s enormous Blair Arch, and wander through empty quads of silent trees decked in snow. I insist Fitz take a photo of himself in front of the eating club of his namesake, F. Scott Fitzgerald. When it’s too cold to be outside, we sit down for dinner in an Italian restaurant off campus.

It’s bittersweet. Our first real date.

When we finish dinner, we head in the direction of my car. Earlier, we decided we’d spend the night in Princeton and drive to Boston in the morning. Prisha’s friend, who is a saint, has graciously invited the four of us to sleep in her room. She’ll spend the night in her girlfriend’s dorm, while Lewis and Prisha will sleep in her bed. Fitz and I will share the futon. By now, I’ve run through the money my parents gave me for this trip, and I’d rather sleep in the eating club for free than book one of the two nearby hotels, both of which look fairly expensive. But I’m not eager to give up our privacy yet, and neither, I imagine, is Fitz. We walk slowly and silently to pick up our suitcases from the car.

Reaching the street where we parked, I pull out my keys.

“So . . .” Fitz begins, “should we take the bags over now?”

We both know it’s what we’re doing here. We both know it’s not what we want to be doing.

“In a minute,” I say.

I lean back onto the car door and pull him to me. The kiss is breathless, consuming. I fumble for the handle and open the door, our mouths never parting. We tumble together into the back seat. I’m stretched out across the seats, Fitz on top of me, drinking me in with every kiss. There’s no mistaking where this is headed. I hold him close to me, loving how he fists his hand in my hair, how his lips are a contradiction of soft and demanding, patient and wanting. I lower my hand to his belt buckle, waiting for him to gently push me aside. He doesn’t.

“You’re sure?” His voice is hushed. “Just because it’s our last night—”

“I’m sure,” I exhale. I’ve never been surer. His lips are an avalanche, burying me in him. I don’t fight the feeling overtaking me.

While he wrestles his shirt off in the tight confines of the car, I pull mine over my head. The alley where we’re parked is dark and deserted, and our car is nestled between a high wall and a hedge, protected from view.

Fitz reaches into his backpack. I feel my eyebrows spring up when he pulls out a box of condoms.

“You didn’t strike me as the type to come prepared,” I say. We’re sitting side by side on the seats now.

Fitz removes the plastic square from the box, looking amused. “I’m aware that was a dig at my manhood,” he replies. I laugh a little, having not intended the slight. “But I’m going to allow it,” he continues, “and say Lewis insisted I buy them today at the gas station.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

Fitz nips my ear playfully. Even the brief brush of contact fires anticipation through me. “Are we here to make jokes at my expense? I thought you had other plans.”

“Just you wait,” I whisper.

We kiss, and then we come together, for real this time. It’s not easy, climbing into his lap, kicking off our shoes, shimmying out of our jeans without hitting our heads on the roof. Fitz laughs when I lose my balance, nearly elbowing him. It’s kind of awkward, and kind of hurried, and completely perfect.

I don’t even remember the cold outside, burning with the heat of our bodies pressed together. Fitz traces his fingers up my thigh, and I run my hands through his hair, past his chest, farther down. His lips nearly never leave mine, like we’re breathing through each other. Sweat beads on his brow. His heart is pounding, passion and anticipation and probably nerves fusing in one rhythm. He interlaces our fingers, and then the world becomes huge and bright and beautiful.

The whole time, I’m here and only here. We’re an hourglass on its side, the sand suspended, hanging in temporary eternity.

After, I rest my head on his chest, our breaths quieting while he strokes my arm. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and for once my mind is wonderfully blank. I’m not thinking of tomorrow or the next day or the next. I’m utterly in the moment.

The moment, which I’m learning to cherish. I remember wanting only a week ago to reach up for the stars, the yawning ceiling of the world. For a few more months, the precious path from moment to moment will be enough. For a few months, the stars will wait.