“Poppy brought three essential oil diffusers with her, if you ever find yourself really hard up. I don’t even think she would notice if one was missing.” Landon laughed and Rose thought it was one of the more wonderful sounds she’d heard, mostly because she’d caused it. “Who is Jess?”
“My sister.”
Rose took another sip of punch. “I look like your sister?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Not really.”
“But you—”
“Your dress,” he said. “I’m stupid. It was a clumsy way to meet someone who would wear a dress like that to a place like”—he waved his hand around—“this.”
Rose’s heart fluttered. “It’s better to be overdressed than underdressed,” she said, parroting the line Poppy had hurled her way to get her out the door, trying on a little bit of Poppy’s bravado. “I take it your sister is a freshman, too?”
“She is,” he said. “Not here, though. In Chicago. It’s the very first time the twins have ever been separated. My parents are running a betting pool on how long it takes one of us to cave and get on a plane to the other.”
Rose couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have a sibling, letalone one you were so fused with your parents took bets on how long you could stand to be apart. “So are you—”
Landon cut her off, easily anticipating the question. “Fraternal. Lucky for her.”
“What’s so bad about you?”
“I’m nothing special is all.” Landon leaned against the wall, and Rose stared at him, trying to decide for herself whether that was true. “So is that punch worth drinking?” But before Rose could answer, Poppy laced her fingers around her waist.
“You’re making me look desperate,” Poppy said, tone light enough Rose knew she was mostly teasing.
“I was making my way over there,” Rose said.
“Are you cold?” Poppy asked, eyeing Landon.
“Toasty,” he said, pulling on the collar of his sweater vest.
Poppy winced. “Cool. Well, I’m gonna go ahead and steal her. It’s a whole thing with some people in our dorm. I mean, unless you’re also in Allen?”
“I’m in Battell.”
“I hear that place is gross.” Poppy ran a hand through her perfect hair.
“See you around?” Landon asked, and even over the music Rose thought she heard a glimmer of doubt in his voice, a shyness that endeared her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.” Poppy wheeled her away before she’d decided whether to be more specific. Rose leaned into Poppy, who smelled like she’d had even more of the punch than she had. “He was cute, right?”
Poppy raised her eyebrows. “Him?”
Not Poppy’s type, then. Rose smiled. At once the music felt just loud enough, the people perfectly vibrant. Rose was not sureLandon was her type, either, but she could not deny that thinking about him was like running her hands across a carpet, the promise of sparks at the tips of her fingers. And even if this meeting was all they ever had, she had a strange and formidable feeling that she would never forget the lanky man in the sweater vest who had stopped in his tracks at the sight of her.
Chapter Three
The bar was exactly as old as Landon was—a fact Landon usually found comforting and today felt like a punch in the stomach. The thirty-three-year-old leather on the hard barstools looked as faded and worn as he felt, the oak bar top dated and unappealing, the signed photographs on the walls framing faces that mocked and taunted him. Even so, he was glad to be there. He was glad to be anywhere that wasn’t at home, alone with his thoughts.
That morning, he’d gone to check the mail. He allowed himself to check the mail three times a day, no more and no less. The letter he’d been waiting for was there, her name bold and clear on the left-hand side in the event it needed to be returned to sender. Landon fought the impulse to rip into it like a hound at the mailbox and instead brought it into the kitchen to use the antique letter opener only Rose knew he had, a gift from his grandfather just before he passed. He wanted the cut clean so he could save the letter in its original packaging. Landon pulled the single sheet out of the envelope with reverence and read.
Dear Landon,
Thank you for your letter. I don’t know if this will come as a surprise to you, but I’ve taken the forgetting pill. My diarysays that I took the first dose on August 20th at 4:30 p.m. if that date or time means anything to you, or once meant something to us. It is a marvelous thing, the forgetting pill. I feel the possibilities for me are endless. My slate is clean. You might consider one yourself.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I did not open your letter. Rose’s intention for me was to start fresh, so our story—long or short as it may have been—is now archived. I’m sorry not to be writing with better news, but I do hope this at least provides a sense of closure. If we were friends, please remember the old me fondly. If we caused each other pain, you have my permission to live unburdened from the hurt. I do not remember it, anyway.
Sincerely,