Chapter 9 - The First Snowfall
By mid-November, the first real snow of the season had settled over Columbus, turning the streets into slushy white ribbons and frosting the high dormer windows of my attic flat like spun sugar.
I was sitting at my small wooden desk by the window, a steaming mug of peppermint tea at my elbow, finishing a ten-page essay on structural motifs in 19th-century American literature. My laptop hummed softly, and downstairs, the muffled sound of Mr. Henderson playing old jazz records on his ancient stereo drifted up through the floorboards.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
It was a text from Grace: Are we still on for diner pancakes tonight? The diner by campus has maple syrup that tastes like actual gold.
Obviously, I typed back. Pick me up at six. I’m just finishing my conclusion.
I locked my laptop, stretched my arms above my head until my shoulders popped, and walked over to the corner where my blue suitcase still sat. I hadn't unpacked everything from it yet; some things—like the old winter scarf Grandma had knitted me—stayed right there inside the zippered pocket, a reminder of where I came from, but more importantly, of where I was going.
For a long time after that night in August, I thought love was something you had to earn by being quiet, by being useful, by fitting neatly into someone else’s financial spreadsheet so they wouldn't have to look at the ugly parts of their own lives.
May you like
I looked around the room—at the fairy lights glowing along the rafters, the stack of college textbooks on my desk, the heavy iron deadbolt on the door that only I had the key to.
I wasn't a guest here. I wasn't a tenant on a three-month trial lease. I was home.
