“Why?” he asks, his voice earnest and curious. The sky is darker up ahead, and the red and white lights around us cling to the water droplets on the windshield. It gives Benedict’s skin a red glow.
I shrug. “I’m in classes with people who will go on to get their doctorate. Oxford is very goal oriented. People have a ten-year plan. A twenty-year plan, sometimes. Academia, research, tenure… none of those things interest me. I applied on a whim a couple of years ago and got in. I never had a plan for what was supposed to happen next. When I graduate in May… I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
I surprise myself with my answer. I’ve never told anyone any of this or expressed it out loud. But it’s true. Searching for answers to my past will only sustain me as long as I’m in school. Since starting a little over a year ago, I’ve been able to keep myself busy. I enjoy the busy work—essays, field trips, research papers, libraries, lectures. It allows me to focus on something that interests me. It gives my mind a break from thinking of the past, except in an academic sense. My focus has been solely on figuring out whyit happened to me. I’ve been so busy with that—so busy with finding answers, that I don’t have the time or inclination to relive the memories. It’s a blessing in disguise, really. But I’ve never stopped to think what might lie in my future once the research assignments cease to exist.
Once my distraction goes away.
“My biggest fear is that all I will be left with are my memories, clawing at my mind, and a shitload of student debt,” I confess. “I am like the definition of running away from problems. You should ask my roommate. She’s a psychologist, so she can verify.”
Thinking of Zoey sends a sad pang through me. I hope that when she returns, we can mend our friendship and start anew.
“Is religion something that interests you as a subject? Would you ever go on to get a PhD?”
“Maybe,” I say, looking out of the window. “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it. I’m just going through the motions.”
Benedict is quiet for a few minutes. The only sound is the beating of rain on the windshield, and the squeak of the wipers.
“Going through the motions is okay, you know. Just getting through the day? That’s commendable.”
I laugh. “Commendable?”
“Yes. There is so much emphasis on planning for the future. Those kids at Oxford? They’ve been planning for that since they were ten. They gave up birthday parties with their peers to study. Trust me. I was one of them. Life is not automatically better when things are planned out. In fact, I can say for certain that the best things that happened to me were, in fact, things Ineversaw coming.”
I shift in my seat, digesting his words. “Like what?” I ask, turning to him.
His eyes find mine for a second before flicking to the road. I see his hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel—his knuckles white, his jaw set.
“Like you,” he says, his voice gritty and emotional. I swallow and stare at him as his throat bobs. He continues. “The day Lily told me about you? I haven’t been the same since. It is like I can break my life in two. Before and after. Before she told me about my father, aboutyou, my biggest worry was whether or not the laundromat would have enough washers free on the weekend,” he says, laughing. “And all of a sudden, I saw you stumbling out of that house, and it’s like my entire life stopped. It was like you shook all of my old worries to the ground.”
My cheeks burn for the second time tonight, and I continue to fidget with the hem of my shirt. “I don’t remember that day,” I admit shamefully. “I don’t remember you.”
“That’s okay,” Benedict says quickly, his voice serious. He reaches out for my restless hand, his skin rough and warm.
“So, what you’re saying is that I need to let go of the future?” I look over and smile at him.
His lips quirk upwards. “Yeah. Something like that. Whatever you’re searching for is not out there somewhere. It’s not in a Brotherhood meeting, or in a book in the Bodleian. It’s inside of you.”
I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “How’d you get so wise?” I joke, and he laughs.
“I wouldn’t consider myself wise,” he says slowly. “I am well-versed in trying to find answers.”
I nod, staring ahead. “Maybe it gets easier,” I whisper.
“It does,” he replies, squeezing my hand. “Now… are you hungry yet? Because I am ravenous.”
I laugh. “I could always eat.”
“Good. I know just the place.” He smiles as he pulls off the highway, and only lets my hand go when he needs it to take the exit ramp off of the motorway. The only thing around is McDonald’s, and I grin as he pulls into the drive-through.
“It’s like you can read my mind or something.” I turn to him as he pulls into an empty parking space, and his eyes find mine, twinkling. He shuts the engine off.
“I never said I was fancy,” he quips.
“I don’t need fancy. All I need is a McFlurry, a cheeseburger, and some fries.”
“Good. But we are not eating in the car. I have stipulations about eating in Lucille,” he declares.
I burst out laughing. “You named your car?”
