Some Things are Meant to Be

Wise men say

Only fools rush in.

My first semester at college, I wasn't exactly what you'd call a wild child. I spent most of my time holed up in my room, facetiming with my high school boyfriend who was at Dartmouth. (My SAT scores didn't take me anywhere near Dartmouth, in fact they couldn't even drag me out of state. Barely phased, Greg packed up his lacrosse gear and headed to the Ivies without me.)

Luckily, my roommate, Cate, was a social butterfly, and rarely wanted alone time, so I was free to sigh and swoon over my phone by myself. I went to class, ate in the cafeteria, studied with a small group of girls who had the same ambitions as I did (med school or bust), and wrote embarrassingly-long messages to Greg about how much I missed the way he touched me.

The first couple of months rolled by and the leaves began to turn to rust and sunset-orange. Greg's messages became increasingly shorter and less loving, and I fell further into absolute denial.

So when I first saw Charlie, I barely registered his existence.

I was walking with Cate to lunch, and we were running across the quad, because the first cold snap had settles across campus and we were way underdressed. When we finally made it into Williams Hall we were freezing cold, desperately trying to rub some feeling back into our numb fingers. I didn't even notice the music until Cate craned her neck to see over the crowd that had gathered.

In the lobby of Williams, just outside the entrance to the cafeteria, there's this great big piano. Left over, I guess, from when people had better things to do than stare at their phones all day. Usually people only used it to plunk out Heart and Soul or show off to their friends by playing some section of a sonata they learned when they were twelve. Once in a while some guy will try to impress a giggling pile of girls by mangling Ben Folds. But mostly, the thing sat untouched (much like me).

Charlie's fingers were dancing across the keys, his back straight, his whole body practically vibrating with the energy of the piece. But his eyes were closed, and there was an almost blissful expression on his face.

"Wow," breathed Cate. "He's good."

I would be lying if I said I didn't notice the way his hair fell across his face, the way he leaned into the music. But I'd also be lying if I said my heart beat faster or I thought about anything other than how much studying I had to do for Bio.

"Yeah, he's okay," I said, shifting the weight of my backpack onto one shoulder. "Come on, I don't want to miss the cheesecake."

I didn't think about Charlie again for two weeks. I wouldn't have thought about him ever again, except for the fact that he ran straight into me while I was coming out of a Chem exam.

Papers flew everywhere, sheet music intermingling with my ten page Communications midterm and my notes from Bio that morning. I wish I could say we'd both bent down to pick up the same piece of paper, and our fingers had brushed, and we'd both looked up and that's when I knew. But that's so not how it happened.

I stood there for a minute, totally stunned, while he scrambled around on the floor trying to grab everything. And then when I finally recovered my senses and tried to walk across the hallway to gather the papers that had fluttered away in the draft from the wall vent, I stepped on his hand.

He sucked in a breath and pulled back his hand, just as I bent down and let out an "Ohmygod I'msosorry Ididn'tmeantodothat" while wringing my own hands like a useless idiot.

"That's okay," he winced, flexing his fingers. "I think I'll live."

"I'm so sorry," I said again.

"It's really okay." He started gathering up the papers again, his hair doing that thing where it fell into his face.

"Will you still be able to play?"

"Huh?" He shot me a slightly suspicious look, as if I might be some kind of stalker.

"The music," I said quickly. "Sheet music, everywhere, not mine so it must be yours."

"Right," he said, handing me a page of my essay.

I handed him a page of his music and happened to glance at the composer printed along the bottom.

"Rachmaninoff," I said, impressed. "Ambitious."

"It's giving me a lot of trouble," he admitted. His face relaxed into an easy grin, clearly mistaking me for a fellow music nerd. "Here, I think this is yours." He was holding a page of my Bio notes, all my little questions and doodles scrawled in the margins.

"Yep, that's mine," I smiled back. "Thanks."

Having successfully sorted my work from his, I stood up to go.

"What's your instrument?" he asked.

"I don't have one," I said, tucking my papers and notebook into my backpack where they should have been in the first place. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Not disappointing at all," he smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Actually, it gives me a lot of hope for my future career to know that someone who doesn't play music actually knows who Rachmaninoff is."

"Fair enough," I said with a wave, and turned to go. I didn't bother telling him that my father had been a violist and my mother had been a dancer, before they'd moved here and opened an antique rug store. For one thing, it wasn't information I shared regularly-too many bullies in elementary school had found it beyond ironic that I was the daughter of such a beautiful, romantic love story. And for another thing, I preferred to let him live with the idea that random people off the street knew Rachmaninoff.

"Hey!" he called after me. I spun around, and he jogged up, offering me a hand. "I'm Charlie."

"Nadya," I said, shaking it. His hand was warm and firm around mine, and a tingle inched its way up my arm.

"See you around," he said, with one last grin.

I didn't see him before Thanksgiving break. I returned home to catch up with high school friends, eat too much mashed potatoes, and try to forget that Greg had chosen to go to Aspen with his new lacrosse friends from Dartmouth rather than spend the long weekend with me, curled around each other in my parents' basement. I watched Tom Hanks movies. I checked my phone for text messages that never came. I went shopping with my mom and bought a new coat. And on Sunday, I packed away all of my summer clothes and loaded woolen tights and fisherman sweaters into my suitcase. Snowflakes had blown around our neighborhood flag football game (traditional, every year it took place post-parade but pre-turkey) and the skies had turned blustery and grey. Winter was whispering its imminent arrival around every corner.

At school, nothing much had changed, but I sometimes saw Charlie in the honors lounge. He was usually staring at his computer, his brow furrowed, his fingertips racing across the keys much like they did on the piano. I didn't want to bother him, but when he saw me he usually waved.

"Rachmaninoff!" he'd call, ignoring the dirty looks from the other students. I'd smile, and wave back. And he'd hustle over to where I was sitting, plop down in the chair next to mine, and get back to work.

We never really talked, other than to exchange a question or two about whatever we were working on and a dumb joke here or there. There was no electricity or spark, but a kind of warmth and comfort wafted over me when I was around him. Friendship, I told myself. Just friendship. Nothing more.

That was about it, until finals week.

It was one of those days when nothing seemed to go right. I had a terrible feeling about my Bio final, I'd spilled tea on my favorite sweater, I wasn't packed at all for my trip home in the morning, and That Girl had shown up in Greg's Insta stories again.

I didn't even know her name. Blonde, curvy, all-American with a giant smile. When I'd asked him about her the month before, he'd replied that she was "just a friend," and I'd been prepared to leave it. But then he'd gone on to say that she was "super smart" and "very ambitious and driven" and even "serious about her future," AKA all of the things I most definitely was not. And I'd gotten suspicious.

Again and again she'd appeared in his stories. Never tagged, never mentioned by name. Just little clips of her, usually with another one of their friends, doing stupid stuff that they evidently thought was funny. Failing at tiktok dances. Today it was a study session with her and a few other people, one of whom was chugging a massive bottle of Coke, apparently in an effort to stay awake for more studying.

But one of his friends was tagged in the story, Josh. And Josh's profile was public. And Josh had some stories about their study session, too. And there, in the background of the ambitious Coke-chugger, was Greg, also filming. With his hand on That Girl's knee.

It could be nothing. It could be NOTHING. But . . .

I called him right away. It went to voicemail. I paced my tiny room and called again. No dice.

"Everything okay?" Cate asked when she got home from dinner. I shot her a look that said don't ask. She shrugged. "I'm going to a thing at Hannah's, if you want to come. Just text me and I'll send you the address."

Cate often invited me along to things, even though I'd proven time and time again that I was a total wet blanket. At least I'd won the roommate lottery, even if my boyfriend proved to be a total ass.

"Thanks," I said, smiling tightly and hitting redial.

On my tenth try, he finally picked up.

"Hey, Nad," he said, even though he knew I hated when he called me that. He was obviously already a little drunk. "Everything okay? You've called me like a hundred times." He sighed. "Kind of annoying, you know?"

"Who is she?" I asked, my voice totally flat. Despite the anger rapidly building in my blood, I've never been very forthright with my emotions. I doubted he could have seen how pissed I was, even if he'd been in the room. Which is probably why he didn't immediately start crying and begging me to forgive him-he thought everything was still okay between us.

"Who's who?"

"You know who," I growled. "The blonde. The smart one."

"Oh, Elana?" he asked.

"No," I said, "who is she to you?" I could barely keep from tearing my skin off. Suddenly my clothes felt itchy and my heart was in my throat.

"Nobody," he said, "just a friend."

"You're such a liar," I spat.

"Hey," he said, his voice rising. "Hey, how dare you? Honestly, Nadya, if you're going to be such a bitch-"

"Don't," I warned. "Don't say something you can't take back."

The line was silent for a moment.

"Fine," he said, "This was getting annoying anyway. Let's call it quits."

"Fine," I said back, and hit end before the tears could roll down my cheeks.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I was texting Cate for Hannah's address. Four blocks away from campus, thank God I could walk. I needed the fresh air. I bundled myself into sweaters and scarves and my giant parka, and headed out into the night.

The walk helped. It helped to solidify the assholery of Greg and his dumb Dartmouth friends, spoiled brats every last one of them. It helped to clear my mind of his touch, clear my heart of the feelings I'd planted and watered and tended to since he'd first told me I was "so hot" during English class sophomore year of high school. To sweep out the hurt and vow to think about something else, just for one night.

My finals were over. I was headed home in the morning. And tonight, I could do whatever I wanted. I was a free woman. I should be sad, but instead . . . why did I feel so relieved?

At first, when I got to Hannah's, I was struck by how grown-up it looked. Was this what all of Cate's parties were like? Maybe I'd been missing out.

There was a coat pile on the couch, which I gladly added my snow-covered layers to. People had plastic cups filled with wine and were standing around, discussing politics and books and swapping stories of how their finals had gone. And piano music wafted from one of the bedrooms . . .

I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Sure enough, Charlie was sitting at a keyboard in the middle of a girly, hipster bedroom with faerie lights and a ruffled duvet cover. Other than him, the room was empty. Just like that time by the cafeteria his eyes were closed, so I just stood in the doorway, holding my plastic cup of wine, and watched him play. Watched the muscles in his arms ripple, watched his mouth quirk up into a half-smile when he wandered effortlessly through a tricky bit of the music.

Finally, I felt like a little bit of a creep, so I cleared my throat and he opened his eyes and the music fell apart.

"Don't stop on my account," I grinned. "Do you have some kind of sixth sense for pianos? Do you just find them wherever you go?"

"This," he said reproachfully, "is not a piano. This is a keyboard, thank you very much."

"Tomato, tomahto," I shrugged, sinking onto the bed.

"Blasphemy," he muttered, before coming to join me. "How do you know Kiara?"

"I don't," I said truthfully. "Who's Kiara?"

He raised his eyebrows. "This is her room."

"Ah," I giggled a little. The wine was already getting to me. "My roommate knows Hannah."

"So you're roommates-in-law," he nodded wisely.

"I guess I am," I giggled again. "How do you know Kiara? Is she your girlfriend?"

"Tsk, tsk," he said, shaking his head. "That was very clumsy. And Kiara is a lesbian."

"What was clumsy?" I asked in mock indignation.

"If you want to ask if I have a girlfriend, you should just ask."

"I don't!" I protested, a blush creeping up my cheeks. I'd definitely never thought of Charlie like that. Had I?

"Okay," he smiled, going along with my lie. "Well, I don't have a girlfriend. Do you?"

"No," I said into my wine cup.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"Not after today," I said, laughing a little to myself. It was absurd, wasn't it? One moment I'm totally in love, head over heels, and then next . . .

"Oh." He sat back. "Sorry. Want to talk about it?"

"No," I said firmly. But even though I'd meant it-and I had-it just came pouring out, anyway. How we'd fallen in love. How he'd promised me that we would be together forever. Elana. The whole thing.

At the end, Charlie was nodding, rubbing my back.

"What a jerk," he said after a minute.

"Yeah," I agreed, swallowing the last of my wine. Suddenly, the walls felt too close, the room felt hot and stuffy.

Charlie was looking at me with a puzzled expression. "You don't seem-sorry if I'm totally off base here, but you don't seem too upset? Am I wrong?"

"Yes," I tried to say emphatically, but now the room was spinning. "Oh god, I need some air."

Without preamble, Charlie hoisted me to my feet and shuffled me out to the lobby of the building, a dingy little hallway with scuffed linoleum. He opened the front door and let the cold air rush in over me, drying the nervous sweat that had prickled all over my body. I sucked in sweet, pure lungfuls of air and tried not to pass out.

Now he was searching my face, holding me a little at arm's distance.

"Wow," he said finally, "You really are upset."

I pressed a cool hand to my cheeks, closing my eyes and trying to regain my breath.

"Yep."

"You know, some girls show they're upset by crying," he said. "Not by almost passing out in a stranger's bedroom."

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "Lucky for you I'm not most girls."

He laughed softly.

We sat there for maybe twenty minutes, on the dirty floor of Hannah and Kiara's building's lobby, in total silence, just watching the cars drift past. At some point, he took out his phone and started playing something on Spottify-Nina Simone.

"Good for hearbreak," he whispered.

"Sure," I nodded, and leaned the back of my head against the wall.

What I was trying to work out was, was I really heartbroken? I felt panicked, sure, and numb. But did I feel . . . sad? Was that normal when your almost-three-year relationship ends?

After a while, the party seemed to break up upstairs. People walked past us in a happy, tipsy haze, stumbling out into the night to enjoy the rest of their semester before grades started rolling in. Cate dropped my coat and my scarves and my sweaters into my lap and asked "Coming home?"

"Yeah," I said, "Just give me a minute."

She went outside to share a cigarette while I carefully shrouded myself in the knits and wools and synthetic down, shielding every piece of me from the harsh, biting winter.

Charlie stood up too, shoved his hands in his pockets. He studied the floor.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked finally.

"Of course," I smiled, and then sang out an, "I will survive!" He smiled back and I laughed a little and said, "Isn't that what you said to me, at first? When I stepped on your foot?"

"I think so," he said, "but I think it was my hand."

"Right." I smacked my forehead. "Hand! It was your hand. I felt so stupid." Was it just me or was he closer to me now than he was a minute ago?

"I'm glad I met you that day," he said, his voice lower. "I'm glad we're friends."

"Me too." Yes, he definitely was closer now. In fact, we were practically nose to nose.

He was twirling a lock of my thick, black hair, around his finger, his flannel almost brushing against the front of my parka. "Thanks for sitting with me tonight."

"Sure. What are friends for?"

We were almost the same height, so I could see right into his warm, brown eyes. A little hooded, a little hazy, staring at my mouth instead of back at me. Had he had some of the wine, too?

"Nadya," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"We're friends." He inched closer. "You're vulnerable, and sad, and a little drunk. And reeling from the end of a relationship that's not even cold in the ground. So it probably would be a pretty bad move if I kissed you right now, huh?"

I blinked rapidly, totally lost for words.

"But also," his eyes flicked up to mine, "you're so beautiful." Me? Does he mean me? "And I've wanted to kiss you pretty much since the moment you bumped into me. And it's almost winter break, and who knows when we'll see each other again . . ."

I could feel his breath on my face. We were millimeters apart. And I didn't move away.

One hand stayed tucked in his pocket, the other one let go of my hair and came up to cup my cheek. He closed his eyes and brushed his lips against mine, warm and soft and delicious.

And I was too stunned to push him away or kiss him back.

He opened his eyes and stepped away, a bit sheepish.

"Probably going to regret that in the morning," he laughed. "Um, have a good break."

"You too," I said, and pushed open the door.

Christmas break passed without a whimper from Greg. My grades came in-good enough, though not quite good enough for med school. My parents bought me a gold necklace. My high school friends were wild and wonderful as usual.

When I got back to school in January, I threw myself into studying and tried really hard not to think about Greg or Charlie. Knowing now that he traveled in the same circles as my socialite roommate, I vowed not to attend any more "get-togethers" with Cate. I put my nose to the grindstone and forgot about everything else.

But without Greg to text, I was getting a little lonely. I wanted to make new friends, stretch myself a little. So I mustered what little courage I had left, and signed up for intramural kickball.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived and saw Charlie, decked out in matching head and wrist sweatbands, chatting with another one of the guys on the team. His relaxed posture screamed Rebel Without a Cause, his plain white t-shirt was stretched over a clearly well-muscled chest, and his black basketball shorts were slung low over his hips. I violently suppressed the flutter that rippled in the pit of my stomach as I remembered the way his lips felt on mine.

"Hey!" he said to me, as if nothing had happened between us.