Chapter 3: The Leap to Sophomore Year

There’s a particular silence to moving day in late August—so much more private than the public hum of campus housing, the low hum of resident assistants patrolling the halls for underage drinking, the open confession of vulnerability in every cinderblock corridor. The apartment is three blocks from Evergreen’s east gate, up a flight of cracked concrete steps that Nawana’s grandmother would call “a lawsuit waiting to happen.” They signed the lease online from opposite corners of the state, then reunited for the first time in ten weeks in a parking lot slick with heat and engine oil. Nawana is still getting used to the idea that this is their apartment, not just a borrowed space between the end of one year and the start of another. She’s even less used to the idea of Jordan with a tan.

Jordan’s arms are darker, her hair wild from a summer running mountain trails, her presence somehow sharper, more necessary. She hoists the first box—labeled “KITCHEN/MEDICAL” in blue Sharpie—and muscles it through the front door. Nawana follows, bracing the Screen with her hip, hands full of tangled extension cords and a plastic bag of bathroom supplies.

The interior is less a blank slate than an open dare: battered wood floors, off-white walls dotted with nail holes, two small bedrooms separated by a closet that smells like ancient mothballs. The landlord, who texted only in emojis, left a handwritten note on the counter: “PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE DRUGS INDOORS.” Nawana reads it aloud, snorting, and Jordan nearly drops the box.

“I think our weed will have to be strictly outdoor,” Jordan deadpans, and Nawana laughs so hard she nearly chokes on the end of the extension cord.

By dusk, the apartment is full of the kind of half-assembled comfort that comes from girls who’ve moved too often: futon mattress on the floor, thrifted armchair by the window, kitchen table rescued from a curb and sanded to reveal the scars of old knife wounds. Jordan’s things are already organized by category—textbooks on a shelf, plants lined up along the sill, running shoes neatly paired by the door. Nawana’s things explode across every surface: sketchbooks, tangled USB cords, a pile of vintage T-shirts, half a dozen paintings she’s promised to hang but can’t bring herself to commit to just one wall. When they finish, the apartment smells like takeout burritos and lemon-scented floor cleaner.

They collapse onto the futon, bodies pressed side by side, watching the sun slip behind the row of tall Victorian houses across the street. Nawana’s arm is slung around Jordan’s waist. She can feel the steady rise and fall of Jordan’s breath, the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her tank top.

“Are you scared?” Nawana asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Jordan turns, hair brushing Nawana’s cheek. “Of what?”

“Of this. Us. Living together.” Nawana’s mouth goes dry. “I mean, it’s a lot, right?”

Jordan smiles, a small, private smile she only uses in dark rooms. “I’m not scared. I’m...” She hesitates. “I think I’m ready.”

Nawana nods, and for a while, they don’t say anything. The city outside their window is starting to wake up for the night: car stereos, someone’s baby crying, a dog barking over and over like it’s arguing with the moon.

The first week is a honeymoon. They eat pizza cross-legged on the living room floor, swigging cold root beer and feeding each other bites until someone drops a slice and the cheese fuses to the floor. They explore every inch of the apartment, discovering a leak under the bathroom sink, a loose tile in the entryway, and a colony of black ants that appears in the kitchen at exactly 8:13 every morning. They sleep in one bed and use the other as a laundry catch-all. Sometimes they don’t get dressed until two in the afternoon, wandering the apartment in boxers and oversized shirts, pausing to kiss whenever they pass in the hallway.