Page 127 of When Ben Loved Tim
“The town that Allison and I are moving to for college, if you apply there and get in—”
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” he interrupts. “I’ve already been accepted by three other schools.”
I clench my jaw, which he must notice, because he raises his palms in surrender.
“I’ll look into it,” Tim says.
That doesn’t sound like much of a commitment.
“Let’s go on a road trip,” I say. “As soon as we can. I want to show you what our future could be.”
“Okay,” Tim says, studying me with unease. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“But you’re still my boyfriend?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
As if I have a choice in the matter. His face still has two wet trails left by his tears. I’ve never felt so weak in my life.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m still yours.”
* * * * *
When I step out of Tim’s car, I’m conscious of the moment my shoe touches the pavement, because I’m literally setting foot in my new home. Not for the first time, but on the previous visits, I didn’t know for sure that I’d be going to school here. We’re in the downtown area, which is full of cool shops and quirky restaurants. That’s not what I want to show Tim. It’s part of the whole package, but there are three specific things I need him to see while we’re here that are much more important.
For now, I go easy on him. We stretch our legs while exploring the area, which feels good after the three-hour drive. When we get hungry, we stop at a café that has outdoor seating near the street. We’re exposed while we eat. Countless witnesses see us together. I’m not sure if Tim realizes the implications of that just yet. He has a funny look in his eyes, the one he gets when he locks on to something that he’d like to draw or paint. And it doesn’t go away during the meal, because we aresurroundedby life. In the town we left, people get in their car from doorstop to destination. Here there are throngs of pedestrians, rushing around or stopping to talk to each other. We see people jogging, biking, panhandling, and so much more. I can tell that he’s inspired. But just to be sure…
“I don’t know about you,” I say with a theatrical yawn, “but I’m already bored.”
“What?” Tim looks at me in disbelief. “This place is awesome!”
I crack a smile. “Yeah, it is pretty cool. Are you ready to keep going?”
“Sure. Want me to run for the car?”
“Nope. Let’s leave it and walk.”
The day is sunny, the temperature mild. Spring is here again, which means my boyfriend is back to wearing T-shirts and shorts. But even the allure of his bare skin can’t hold my full attention as we wind our way through tree-lined streets, stopping frequently when Tim notices murals or unusual architecture. When we finally reach the campus of my university, I feel like I’ve been granted redemption for surviving the soul-crushing insanity of high school. We traverse paved paths that wind through green lawns and between imposing buildings, seeing people our age with wild hair colors, prominent piercings, or extravagant tattoos. None of whom are being hounded by bullies for standing out. In fact, judging from some of the unorthodox fashion choices, people here seem to take pride in their individualism.
“This is cool,” Tim says, stopping to look at where a webbed line has been tied between two trees so a group of shirtless guys can practice walking along it.
“Sure is!” I say, staring at all the glistening muscles on display.
Tim tries to cover my eyes. “All right, that’s enough!”
I duck and dodge so I can keep staring. He gets his revenge when a pair of girls in tight-fitting T-shirts jog by.
“I can see why you chose this school,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
“Hilarious!” I reply. “If it’s big boobs you’re after, I’ll start binge-eating. Just wait until I have great big man-tits.”
“I’d fuck ‘em,” Tim says shamelessly.
Our humor is low-brow but our spirits are high as we continue exploring the campus. I lead him to the building dedicated to the arts. As soon as we walk in the doors, he gets quiet. The walls are covered in charcoal etchings, custom-made textiles, mixed-media concepts, and plenty more that is outside my scope of expertise. Which is fine, because Tim soon begins raving about each piece before he notices something else and goes rushing off, like a dog who has been set loose at a convention for squirrels.
This is the first thing that I wanted him to see. “In high school, art is an elective,” I tell him. “Here it can be your major.”
“I want this,” Tim says, slowly panning to take it all in. Then he swallows. “Really bad. But I can’t imagine getting accepted into an art program. I haven’t taken a single class. What do I have to show?”
