Chapter 2: College Beginnings and Growing Apart

1

Rachel and I met our freshman year.

I’d just arrived in this unfamiliar city when an elderly couple outside the dorms asked me for bus fare. After I refused, they chased after me, cursing:

It was one of those muggy August afternoons, the kind where the Spanish moss drips from the trees and the air feels thick enough to chew. Sweat trickled down my back, and the cicadas buzzed so loud it felt like they were inside my skull. I was hauling two suitcases and a duffel bag, barely able to see over the top, when this couple shuffled up and asked for spare change. When I shook my head, the old woman’s voice went sharp.

“So young, yet not a shred of kindness.”

“Heartless girl! No man will want you in the future.”

My cheeks burned, my hands trembling with anger.

Her words stung more than I wanted to admit. I remember looking down at my sneakers, wishing I could disappear, my face burning hot as asphalt in July.

That’s when Rachel showed up.

A group of energetic guys walked by, shielding me behind them. Rachel stood out—handsome and confident, holding a Wilson basketball, wearing limited-edition Nikes. He flashed me a bright smile.

He moved like he owned the sidewalk, every step a little victory lap. The sunlight caught the edge of his buzzcut, and his laugh cut through the muggy air.

“Hey, new kid, you alright?” he asked.

His voice was easy and familiar, the kind that made you think you’d known him forever, even though I’d never seen him before. There was a casual confidence in the way he spoke, like he’d never been on the losing side of anything in his life.

He quickly realized I was actually his peer, not a freshman, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing me. And so, we got together.

After he realized I was a sophomore too, not some lost freshman, he just grinned wider, like he’d discovered a secret. He started hanging around more, always with that basketball in tow, never missing a chance to make me laugh.

He came from a well-off local family in Savannah. I was from a small town in rural Ohio.

He’d joke about growing up with sweet tea in his veins, his mom’s peach cobbler at every Sunday dinner. My stories were about cold winters and county fairs, cornfields and Friday night football games under stadium lights.

Sophomore year, he took me home to meet his parents. I followed him nervously, clutching a bag of apples. Unexpectedly, his mother was warm and welcoming. I breathed a sigh of relief.

His house smelled like cinnamon and furniture polish. I remember the way his mother hugged me, the polite but practiced smile, and how she placed my apples in a bowl next to the bananas—like she already had a spot reserved for guest offerings. She took the apples, her fingers cool and careful, as if she was handling something breakable.

Rachel winked at me. “See? I told you my mom would like you.”

He squeezed my hand under the table, giving me that trademark smirk, as if to say, I told you so.

I couldn’t help but feel happy.

For a moment, it really did feel like something out of a Hallmark movie—the city girl and the Southern boy, everyone laughing over roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

Back then, I didn’t realize his mother’s friendliness was just for her son’s sake—because he was a boy. To her, it was just dating; Rachel wouldn’t lose out either way.

She never asked about my family, my future, or what I wanted. I was there for Rachel—an accessory, like a pretty vase on the mantle.

So, we dated from freshman to senior year.

Four years of late-night study sessions, Friday-night takeout, and whispering secrets on the dorm roof. It felt like forever—like we were building something real.

The year we graduated, my parents wanted me to come home. But if I did, I’d never find a good job. I told Rachel.

We were lying on his futon, half-watching reruns, when I blurted it out. My voice was so small, I barely recognized it.

He grabbed my hand, anxious. “No, you can’t go back.”

His grip was tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear right then and there.

“But living here is so expensive. I’m not sure I can manage.”

I could hear the anxiety in my own words, the fear that I’d end up back in my childhood bedroom, another small-town statistic.

He hugged me tightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask my dad to get you an easy job at the county office. I’ll handle the money. All you have to do is be Mrs. Carter.”

His voice was so sure, like he could fix anything with a phone call or a checkbook. For a second, I let myself believe him.

In that moment, all my doubts and worries melted away.

I sank into his embrace, feeling the weight of uncertainty lift, if only for a moment. It was the closest I’d ever felt to home in Savannah.

I didn’t really need his father to find me a job. I just wanted to know I had a safety net, an escape route. My major actually made it easier for me to find work than for Rachel.

Truth was, I’d already lined up a few interviews—tech startups desperate for people who could code, design, and pitch. I just needed to know that if I failed, someone would catch me.

In the end, Rachel went to work in HR at a company owned by a friend of his dad’s. After several interviews, I landed a product manager role at a top tech company.

He got his offer with a handshake and a wink, while I sweated through three rounds of interviews, trying not to fidget in my blazer.

I stayed in Savannah.

The city grew on me—live oaks, riverfront breezes, the distant sound of trolley bells. My little apartment became a sanctuary, with fairy lights and a growing collection of takeout menus.

But every seemingly perfect moment in life isn’t the end point. Being a top student in middle school wasn’t. Getting into a good university wasn’t. Being with him wasn’t. Getting married wouldn’t be. Even having children wouldn’t be.

It’s funny how you chase the next milestone, thinking it’ll mean something, only to realize it’s just another stop on a long, winding road.