13 Little Love Stories

We're Here Now
Katharine McGee
“Thanks again for driving me. I know it’s out of the way,” Carly murmured, glancing over at her best friend, Nate.
“Of course I’m driving you to your interview,” he replied. “I couldn’t let you take the bus in that outfit.” He drove like Carly’s grandfather, his hands never leaving the ten and two o’clock positions on the steering wheel, eyes fixed firmly on the road. It was the same way he’d driven on all their road trips throughout California, when they were listening to true crime podcasts (Nate’s pick) or Game of Thrones books (Carly had been appalled when she learned that Nate hadn’t read them), back when they were very newly friends.
Carly ran her hands nervously over her navy blazer and skirt (borrowed from her friend Anna since Carly didn’t own anything remotely this girly, or this nice). Noticing the gesture, Nate smiled. “Speaking of which, you didn’t tell me you were interviewing to be head librarian in a fantasy novel.”
“This is business attire, Nate. Not that you would recognize it, since all you wear while working are T--shirts and hoodies.”
“All computer engineers are like that. You should know, since you’ll be managing them once you work at Google.” At a stop sign, Nate finally glanced over. “Should we practice one last interview question?”
“Absolutely not.” Carly had done so many mock interviews, she thought her head might explode. “Let’s talk instead about what we’re wearing to eighties prom.”
Nate’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Carl, I’m not going to eighties prom.”
“You’re going to make me go all Molly Ringwald by myself?” Carly was excited about this weekend’s Sig Ep party, the biggest one of the spring semester. While Nate wasn’t actually a member of the fraternity, he was friends with most of the guys and usually tagged along. “Come on,” she pleaded. “My dress is made of pink taffeta. It’s got huge puffed sleeves. You’ll have blackmail material for years.”
“I think I’ll stay home and work on the app,” Nate insisted. Carly knew that he meant it; he really was the type of guy to code his app on a Saturday night.
“It’s been over a month since you and Emma broke up. Don’t you think it’s time you got back out there?” Carly asked gently.
“You act like it’s so great out there,” Nate said, repeating her words with an eye roll. “But maybe I’m just fine where I am.”
Carly sighed but knew better than to push it. She’d met Nate freshman year. They were both living in Wilbur: unquestionably the ugliest building on Stanford’s campus, a concrete monstrosity surrounded by the older, elegant stucco dorms with their courtyards and fountains. They had been at one of those mandatory freshman meetings, sitting cross--legged in a circle in their RA’s room, answering painful “get to know you” questions like Where are you from? and What’s your favorite TV show? Nate and Carly had bonded over both admitting to a love of ER (the early seasons, mostly—-Carly had binge--watched it with her mom for years). When the orientation meeting was finally over and they had each taken a free Stanford T--shirt, Nate had fallen into step next to Carly.
“You said you’re from Houston?” he’d asked. “My mom always goes there for academic conferences. She’s a genetics researcher at Cal Berkeley,” he added in response to Carly’s questioning look.
“Then she probably lectures at Rice. Which isn’t exactly close to me.” Carly glanced away as she added, “I’m from Bellville, an hour outside Houston. Actually . . . I’ve never left Texas before, not until I boarded the flight to San Francisco three days ago.” Her so--called tour of Stanford had been entirely virtual.
It turned out that Nate was local, from the Oakland hills. “If this is your first time in California, then you need to see some landmarks,” he’d insisted. “There’s a lot more to this state than Palo Alto.” He’d suggested they go to Tomales Bay that weekend for oysters—-and thus began their tour of California.
As the year went on, they ventured farther and farther afield. They road--tripped to Yosemite at 3:00 a.m. so that they could hike Half Dome in the predawn light; they braved the icy roads to Tahoe, where Nate attempted to teach Carly to ski (she was hopeless); they drove to Anaheim and waited all afternoon to ride Space Mountain (Carly had insisted on buying Nate a pair of Goofy ears). Her own family road trips, when they’d gone to South Padre Island on the Gulf Coast to visit her grandparents, were nothing like this. Back then, Carly had focused on surviving, wedged in the back seat between her two older brothers, the three of them bickering about music or fighting over a Game Boy.
Carly and Nate, by contrast, could spend hours together without friction—-debating politics, stopping at unexpected attractions like a lizard zoo, sitting in easy, uncomplicated silence. Carly had always gotten along better with guys than with girls; she blamed her brothers, or all her years doing competitive swimming, which was such an individual sport.
For a moment there, Carly wondered if this thing with Nate would turn into something more. But he’d started dating a girl named Emma by Halloween, and he and Carly had settled squarely into the friend zone. Which was a good thing. There were plenty of guys out there (Carly knew this firsthand) but very few true friends.
“We’re here,” Nate announced as they pulled through a set of gates. Google’s campus rose up before them, all sleek glass buildings with geometric sculptures dotting the lawns.
Carly swallowed against a sudden wave of panic. What if she didn’t get this internship? She would have to go home to Bellville and beg for her old summer job at Buc--ee’s, ringing up ICEEs and fudge for weary commuters on Highway 290.
“You’re going to do great,” Nate said earnestly, clearly sensing her anxiety. “You’ve got this.”
“Thanks.” Carly managed a smile, then marched up to the receptionist to give her name.
“Carly Miller?” A young man emerged into the reception area a few minutes later. He was blindingly handsome—-Carly’s mom would have called him movie--star handsome, the sort of handsome that combines perfect features and blue--gray eyes and dark hair that was just the right amount of disheveled.
“I’m Thomas Lyman, here to chat with you about the Global Strategy group. Should we grab a coffee?”