We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (2 page)

“Didn’t you have a mullet, too?” Selah runs her hand over his dark shoulder-length hair. He’s the poster boy for grunge music in his thrift store cardigan and faded Levis. Today’s shirt is one of those old golf shirts with the little penguin over his heart. I remember my dad wearing them.

He leans away to escape her petting. “It was an awkward period all around. You try growing out your hair and not have a mullet at some point.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re all going. We’re almost done with college. The time for nostalgia and reminiscing is upon us. These are the days . . .” Quinn sings the last sentence, and we all groan.

“I’ll go.” Ben finally joins the conversation. “We all should go. Quinn’s right. It’s the end of an era. We’ll never be this young and stupid again. We might as well enjoy it while we can.”

“Ben speaks.” Quinn pats him on the back. “Okay, we’ll meet outside the theater at seven-thirty sharp.”

“The documentary doesn’t start until eight.” Selah pulls the invitation out of her satchel and points at the time.

“I know, dear, but some of us are always late.” He nods toward Maggie.

Maggie glares at him. “I’m not always late.”

“Okay, Caterpillar.”

“You mean the White Rabbit. Quit mixing your metaphors.” Selah corrects him.

I smile at the use of her nickname from our first year.

It’s highly probable I might be the only one looking forward to seeing our friendships and lives as they evolved over the past four years. The same good-hearted bickering that’s seen us through countless dramas, failed love affairs, growing pains, and endless nights talking continues around the table.

With graduation a few weeks away, I’m trying to capture every moment and save them away for later. Who knows where our lives will take us or what fate has in store for us in the future. I want to stay in the present for as long as possible.

“I say we go to Lucky’s before the screening for reinforcements.” My suggestion is met with semi-enthusiastic agreement around the table. Jo volunteers Ben to buy a round to make up for always being boring lately. This earns her a high five from Quinn, and a grumble from Ben.

Lucky’s is really a bar in Olympia called The Four Leaf Clover. Quinn renamed it freshman year when they stopped carding on a regular basis.

After wrapping the remainder of my giant chocolate chip cookie in my napkin, I stuff it in my bag. “Lucky’s at seven. Nostalgia at eight.”

Most of the senior class mills around outside the theater. After grabbing snacks, we find a row of seats in the center. Quinn sits in the middle, hogging his huge bucket of popcorn with extra butter.

Owen stands at the front of the theater in a green corduroy jacket and Buddy Holly style glasses. “Four years ago, we began our journey of self-discovery at college.”

“Is this going to be the feel good version of the Gettysburg Address? Four score and—”

Jo cuts off Quinn by placing her hand over his mouth. “Shh.”

“Every quarter, I interviewed a handful of my fellow students. I asked them the same set of questions. These are our stories. Yours. Ours. Our collective history. These are our lives.”

“Like sands through—” This time Selah stuffs a handful of popcorn in Quinn’s mouth to silence him.

“Of course I had to edit this film down from its original six hours . . .” Owen drones on.

“Six hours?” Ben moves to stand, but Jo holds him back with her hand on his arm.

“ . . . I think you’ll find the final ninety-minute version captures the universal human coming of age journey into adulthood.”

“Is he for real?” Maggie asks.

“Shh,” we all shush her.

“Enjoy!” Owen finally finishes his speech to a smattering of applause.

“Why didn’t we bring a flask?” Jo mumbles and eats some of Quinn’s popcorn.

“Who said we didn’t?” Quinn holds out his large soda. “Careful. It’s a little strong.”

We pass the spiked soda down the row and back as the lights dim and our lives flash before us on the big screen.

Maggie Marrion, 18

French Literature

Freshman (Freshwoman? Freshperson? First year?)

What’s your first memory of college?

Feeling anything was possible.

Freedom.

Oh, you mean literally?

Meeting the people who would become my closest friends. I can’t imagine college or life without them.

“We Belong” ~Pat Benatar

MY FIRST WEEK
of college at Evergreen was a blur. Parental drop-off. Meeting my new roommate Jennifer. Getting used to co-ed dorms. Adjusting to having classes at random times and not a straight schedule through from morning to afternoon. Since I had three hours between classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I decided I should find a job to fill the time.

Which was how I found myself spending an afternoon at the library, interviewing with the circulation desk manager. He wore a tie with a cardigan. Most of my professors so far hadn’t even worn ties.

After being quizzed about the Dewey Decimal system, and failing, I returned to my room in shame. At this rate, if I wanted to work on campus, I’d be washing dishes in the dining hall. Nothing could be grosser than the used food and unclean dishes of thousands of college students. I gagged at the thought as I opened our door.

Inside, Jennifer—my perfectly nice and perfectly normal roommate—was straddling a guy on my desk chair, making out.

She might have been trying to eat his face. I couldn’t really tell in the two seconds I stared at them before clamping my eyes shut. I know I spied her tongue. Outside of her mouth. All I could see of him were his dark hair, long legs, and brown Wallabee boots.

Panicked about interrupting something, and simultaneously feeling like a prude, I backed my way through the open door. After it quietly clicked close, I pressed my head against the cool metal.

I could go back to the library, except I left there ten minutes ago. The dorm lounge was an option, but this time of day meant it would be filled with some random club. I couldn’t remember if Thursday’s meeting was German Lovers or Save the Geoducks—our school mascot. Neither appealed to me.

I stared harder at the painted metal, wishing the make-out session on the other side would end sooner rather than later.

“Are you locked out?” The blond guy from down the hall rested his head on the bulletin board next to my room. “Or are you praying?”

Pressing my cheek on the door, I twisted to see him more clearly.

“It’s okay if you are. Pray if you’ve got to.”

“I’m not. Just thinking.”

A loud moan sounded from inside the room. “Oh, oh, oh God.”

“Sounds like someone in there is praying.” His lips curled into a smile. “You might want to step away, lest someone think you’re a pervert for eavesdropping.”

I jumped away from the door. “I wasn’t listening!”

Chuckling, he held up his hands in defense. “Not judging you. Praying and voyeurism both have their places, usually in Madonna videos.”

Another not so soft groan carried from my room. I took a step farther away. My favorite black on black Swatch showed the time as four o’clock. Too early to go to dinner.
Looks like I’ll be going to the lounge after all.

“You want to come hang out in my room until they finish whatever they’re doing in there?” His offer sounded genuine and his smile was more than friendly. He gestured over his shoulder to the open door across the hall and down a few rooms. “I can promise you my roommate isn’t in there making out with anyone. We should be safe.”

“Okay.” I followed him into his room. Weird, abstract, colorful art prints decorated one wall above a messy bed with black and white graphic sheets. The other side had a big poster of skiing in Colorado; Star Wars sheets covered the bed. Both sides were cluttered, but not biohazard boy gross.

“Guess which side is mine.” My new friend leaned against one of the matching desks.

I studied him. He wore faded Levis and a Depeche Mode concert T-shirt. His blond hair was shaggy and wild. Paint splatters covered his well-worn Vans and his jeans. And his arms. Paint dotted everything.

“You’re the colorful side.” I pointed to his bed. “Not the nerd.”

“The girl wins a prize. I’m Quinn Dayton, by the way.”

I realized we skipped introductions and went right to discussing his bed. “I’m Maggie Marrion, the praying pervert.”

“Hi, Maggie. Have a seat.” He gestured around the room with a sweeping motion. “Probably best not to sit on that bed.”

I sat in the same desk chair being occupied in my room. Unlike Quinn’s desk, this one had neatly stacked books, a new Macintosh computer, a pile of floppy discs, and pens lined up in a row.

“Don’t let the nerdy sheets and computer fool you, Gil’s a cool guy.”

“Your roommate’s name is Will?” I must have misheard him.

“No, Gil like the fish.”

I furrowed my brows. “He’s named after a fish gill?”

“No, it’s Gilliam.”

“Gilliam.” I nodded as if in agreement. Okay. He seemed like a nice, normal enough guy who probably liked to ski, loved Star Wars, had his own computer, and was neat about his pens.

“So, Maggie, tell me your life story.”