Looking back, Kirsten would never be able to identify the exact
moment when she started thinking of Sandy as something more than a friend.
In later years she realized that he'd been interested in her from the very
start, probably from that first conversation at the job fair in the gym.
But he took things slowly, mindful, she thought, of the age difference
between them and realizing that she needed to be sure she could make her
way without someone older and more experienced to rely on. He would come
by Finnegan's during the slow stretch in between the lunch and dinner rush,
order a Coke, and regale her with funny, mock-outraged stories about his
reactionary law school classmates or the stupidity of the athletes whom he
tutored part-time for extra cash. It was Sandy's idea that Kirsten start
studying with him in the law library, where it was quiet and there were few
distractions. And over time, Sandy became a distraction: she would try to
concentrate on her book and instead find herself thinking about how much
she loved the way his emotions registered in his intense blue eyes or how
endearing she found his boundless, geeky enthusiasms.
In the end, Kirsten made the first move. It was the last day of freshman year, and Kirsten had dropped off her last paper on her way to work. Sandy and his law school buddies stopped in to celebrate finals being over, and after his friends left, he waited for Kirsten to come by the table and say hi.
"So I guess that's the end of flirting in the library for a while," she said.
"I guess so," Sandy replied, looking surprised. Neither of them had ever acknowledged that there was actual flirting going on.
"I was thinking," she said "Do you think we might want to try getting past the flirting stage?"
Sandy's face registered a mixture of shock and amusement and open desire. "I would like that. What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Kirsten replied, smiling. "I thought maybe we could go somewhere after my shift and discuss that further."
Later that night, back at Kirsten's apartment, Sandy paused while undoing the buttons on her over-sized man's shirt, and gently asked "you've done this before, right?"
Kirsten made affirmative noises and then whispered "sometime, later, not now, remind me to tell you the whole story about why I didn't go to Harvard."
Sandy looked momentarily perplexed. "I'm dyin' to know how that's not a non-sequitur," he said, before turning his attention to more pressing concerns.
They spent a happy, busy summer stealing time to see each other. Kirsten got a part-time job at a craft gallery to supplement her waitressing income. Sandy put in far too many hours at the legal aid clinic, where the pay was miserable compared to his classmates' summer associate gigs at fancy San Francisco law firms, but where he finally got to do something he really believed in, make a difference in someone's life other than his own. Kirsten's boss at the gallery asked her if she'd try to do some light bookkeeping, and Kirsten proved to be a natural. Her boss, who was a brilliant wood-turner and significantly less-brilliant businesswoman, was only too happy to have someone else take over the books, and Kirsten gleefully threw herself into the world of budgets and numbers and dollars and cents. Years later, she would think of it as the summer when they became their grown-up selves, although she was certain that none of her colleagues or acquaintances would recognize elegant, accomplished Kirsten Cohen in that 19-year-old in torn jeans. In August, her financial aid came through and she was eligible for a work-study job, and while she took pleasure in the tangible evidence of her independence, she didn't need it. She gave notice at the restaurant and signed on full-time at the gallery.
Several weeks later, during their weekly Sunday morning phone conversation, her mother broached the subject of Thanksgiving. "We'd all really love it if you would come," she said. "Hailey talks about you all the time. Your father misses you,"
"But not enough to call and ask me himself," Kirsten pointed out.
"He's exactly as stubborn as you are," Susan Nichol said. "One of you is going to have to swallow your pride, unless you plan never to see each other again. Will you at least think about it?"
"I'll think about it," Kirsten said, playing with the loose threads on the green sofa that she and Leslie had rescued last May from someone's trash. She decided she'd think about it for a week before she told her mother that she couldn't afford the time off from work.
After she hung up, Sandy, who spent most nights at Kirsten's but diplomatically made himself scarce during her Sunday phone calls home, brought her a cup of coffee and asked her, as he did every week, "so how's your mom?"
"Fine," Kirsten replied. "Same as always. Singlehandedly running the tennis club, the parents' association at my sister's pre-school, and the boards of half the charities in Orange County." She sipped her coffee and told him "she wants me to come home for Thanksgiving."
"And what did you say?" he asked.
"I said I'd think about it, but I've thought about it, and I'm not going."
Sandy seemed to consider for a moment, and then told her "I think you should go. You haven't seen your dad or sister in over a year. You've only got one family."
"So do you, and you haven't been back to New York since you came here."
Kirsten might have imagined it, but she thought she saw a flash of something, anger or hurt, in his eyes as he turned away and headed to the kitchen to pour himself more coffee.
"Not the same thing," he said when he came back. "I'd have to fly home or take two weeks off of work to take the bus, and you know I don't have that kind of money. I'm sure you could bum a ride with someone who's driving to L.A. for Thanksgiving. I know your family makes you nuts, but you shouldn't just cut them out of your life."
"I talk to my mom and Hailey," she protested. "It's not like we're not in touch. It was fine when my mom came to visit last winter. It's just that seeing my dad, in their house. it's like reverting to high school."
"It's just a couple of days," Sandy reminded her. He hesitated before saying "I'll come along for moral support if you want. I won't let you revert. I bet you didn't know anyone like me in high school."
Truth be told, Kirsten didn't need moral support, but she liked the idea of introducing Sandy to her parents. He was the least Newport person she knew. He was proof positive that she'd moved on from her narrow Orange County existence. He would announce to her parents that there was no way they were getting their perfect, preppy daughter back. Sandy's friend Mark was visiting his girlfriend at Irvine for the holiday, and he offered to give them a lift in exchange for gas money.
"I'll come if I can bring my boyfriend," she told her mother.
"That Sandy fellow is your boyfriend?" Susan asked, and Kirsten realized just how superficial their conversations must have been and how much about her life her mother didn't know. "Are you two serious?"
"I guess maybe," Kirsten answered honestly, feeling guilty about keeping her mother in the dark. "I don't know.
"Well, you must be pretty serious if you want to bring him with you the first time you come back in a year," her mother said, sounding none too pleased. But in the end she agreed, making it clear that Sandy would be sleeping in the guest room.
In the end, Kirsten made the first move. It was the last day of freshman year, and Kirsten had dropped off her last paper on her way to work. Sandy and his law school buddies stopped in to celebrate finals being over, and after his friends left, he waited for Kirsten to come by the table and say hi.
"So I guess that's the end of flirting in the library for a while," she said.
"I guess so," Sandy replied, looking surprised. Neither of them had ever acknowledged that there was actual flirting going on.
"I was thinking," she said "Do you think we might want to try getting past the flirting stage?"
Sandy's face registered a mixture of shock and amusement and open desire. "I would like that. What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Kirsten replied, smiling. "I thought maybe we could go somewhere after my shift and discuss that further."
Later that night, back at Kirsten's apartment, Sandy paused while undoing the buttons on her over-sized man's shirt, and gently asked "you've done this before, right?"
Kirsten made affirmative noises and then whispered "sometime, later, not now, remind me to tell you the whole story about why I didn't go to Harvard."
Sandy looked momentarily perplexed. "I'm dyin' to know how that's not a non-sequitur," he said, before turning his attention to more pressing concerns.
They spent a happy, busy summer stealing time to see each other. Kirsten got a part-time job at a craft gallery to supplement her waitressing income. Sandy put in far too many hours at the legal aid clinic, where the pay was miserable compared to his classmates' summer associate gigs at fancy San Francisco law firms, but where he finally got to do something he really believed in, make a difference in someone's life other than his own. Kirsten's boss at the gallery asked her if she'd try to do some light bookkeeping, and Kirsten proved to be a natural. Her boss, who was a brilliant wood-turner and significantly less-brilliant businesswoman, was only too happy to have someone else take over the books, and Kirsten gleefully threw herself into the world of budgets and numbers and dollars and cents. Years later, she would think of it as the summer when they became their grown-up selves, although she was certain that none of her colleagues or acquaintances would recognize elegant, accomplished Kirsten Cohen in that 19-year-old in torn jeans. In August, her financial aid came through and she was eligible for a work-study job, and while she took pleasure in the tangible evidence of her independence, she didn't need it. She gave notice at the restaurant and signed on full-time at the gallery.
Several weeks later, during their weekly Sunday morning phone conversation, her mother broached the subject of Thanksgiving. "We'd all really love it if you would come," she said. "Hailey talks about you all the time. Your father misses you,"
"But not enough to call and ask me himself," Kirsten pointed out.
"He's exactly as stubborn as you are," Susan Nichol said. "One of you is going to have to swallow your pride, unless you plan never to see each other again. Will you at least think about it?"
"I'll think about it," Kirsten said, playing with the loose threads on the green sofa that she and Leslie had rescued last May from someone's trash. She decided she'd think about it for a week before she told her mother that she couldn't afford the time off from work.
After she hung up, Sandy, who spent most nights at Kirsten's but diplomatically made himself scarce during her Sunday phone calls home, brought her a cup of coffee and asked her, as he did every week, "so how's your mom?"
"Fine," Kirsten replied. "Same as always. Singlehandedly running the tennis club, the parents' association at my sister's pre-school, and the boards of half the charities in Orange County." She sipped her coffee and told him "she wants me to come home for Thanksgiving."
"And what did you say?" he asked.
"I said I'd think about it, but I've thought about it, and I'm not going."
Sandy seemed to consider for a moment, and then told her "I think you should go. You haven't seen your dad or sister in over a year. You've only got one family."
"So do you, and you haven't been back to New York since you came here."
Kirsten might have imagined it, but she thought she saw a flash of something, anger or hurt, in his eyes as he turned away and headed to the kitchen to pour himself more coffee.
"Not the same thing," he said when he came back. "I'd have to fly home or take two weeks off of work to take the bus, and you know I don't have that kind of money. I'm sure you could bum a ride with someone who's driving to L.A. for Thanksgiving. I know your family makes you nuts, but you shouldn't just cut them out of your life."
"I talk to my mom and Hailey," she protested. "It's not like we're not in touch. It was fine when my mom came to visit last winter. It's just that seeing my dad, in their house. it's like reverting to high school."
"It's just a couple of days," Sandy reminded her. He hesitated before saying "I'll come along for moral support if you want. I won't let you revert. I bet you didn't know anyone like me in high school."
Truth be told, Kirsten didn't need moral support, but she liked the idea of introducing Sandy to her parents. He was the least Newport person she knew. He was proof positive that she'd moved on from her narrow Orange County existence. He would announce to her parents that there was no way they were getting their perfect, preppy daughter back. Sandy's friend Mark was visiting his girlfriend at Irvine for the holiday, and he offered to give them a lift in exchange for gas money.
"I'll come if I can bring my boyfriend," she told her mother.
"That Sandy fellow is your boyfriend?" Susan asked, and Kirsten realized just how superficial their conversations must have been and how much about her life her mother didn't know. "Are you two serious?"
"I guess maybe," Kirsten answered honestly, feeling guilty about keeping her mother in the dark. "I don't know.
"Well, you must be pretty serious if you want to bring him with you the first time you come back in a year," her mother said, sounding none too pleased. But in the end she agreed, making it clear that Sandy would be sleeping in the guest room.