In hindsight, always in hindsight, I find myself thinking that of course this is how our first kiss would go. And pretty soon, we’re just that pair of degenerate American teenagers making out on a crowded sidewalk of Montreal, Quebec. As degenerate American teenagers do.

I’ve had a few make-out sessions here and there (a guy-in-high-school amount, not a hussy amount), and it is, hands down, the best kiss of my life.

I look at Corinne afterward, and everything about the moment feels like a postcard: the lint caught in her pink hat, the flush of her cheeks, the way she’s scanning my face and biting the inside of her cheek as if there are a million things in her head that she’s trying to hold back right now. Or is that me?

We can do this. After all, normal people do this all the time, no? And they even manage to hold on to it without fucking the whole thing up, right?

We eventually break for oxygen, both smiling and giddy, out of words as if the kiss said it all.

“So, date?”

“Date.”

We keep holding hands and head down a random street of Montreal in search of who knows what, and frankly, who cares?

Twenty

As the train pulls away from Montreal on our return trip to Manhattan the next day, its giant FARINE FIVE ROSES neon sign receding into the distance, I realize I really enjoy this skyline.

Montreal is nothing like Manhattan; it’s smaller and more concentrated, and unlike the city that never sleeps, Montreal feels like a city that’s gotten a good night’s rest and woken up in time for a bike ride alongside the Saint Lawrence River. But, all things considered, I can really picture myself going to college here. I could learn enough French to impress, graduate in three years, at almost no cost compared to the US universities that don’t offer scholarships or needs-blind admission. In a world where Columbia didn’t exist, where that sticker wasn’t on our fridge, I could almost imagine McGill being my dream school.

Corinne bundles up and cocoons in the aisle seat next to me, having no interest in the view. She doesn’t snore, but her entire body goes limp and heavy the moment she drifts off.

I text Ma that we’re on our way back and send her a few select photos of Montreal. The street known as “Little Haiti,” with blue-and-red flags on every storefront. A long, blurry shot of the local theme park La Ronde, situated on its own little island off the side of Montreal and that’s closed for the season. The cobblestoned Old Port.

She sends me a string of happy emojis, which means she probably doesn’t have time to engage too much at the station.