Free The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

like Smith, who were essentially members of a different species.
    â€œClio Marsh,” Tate says, throwing his arm around her a bit awkwardly. “Wow. It’s been a while. You look great. Different.”
    Clio smiles. The flattery does little to distract her from the fact that she’s very likely losing the one man she’s cared about, but she does what she’s learned to do. She pretends, pushes through, reaches out to hug this classmate she hasn’t seen in more than ten years. “You too, Tate. How have you been?” she asks.
    At this question, he laughs. “Oh, you know, a combination of amazing and miserable. I’m ready for a Bloody Mary. After last night, my head’s in revolt. The hair of the dog might do the trick,” he says without missing a beat.
    â€œOn to the Boathouse then?” Smith says, looking at Clio.
    Clio shrugs. She feels faint, as if the wind is passing through her. She’s here, but she’s not. She finds a word, a single word, all she can muster: “Sure.”
    â€œAh, the famous Loeb Boathouse. Designed by revered park architect Calvert Vaux in 1872,” he says, suddenly slipping into tour guide mode. “Built to provide a covered spot for docking and storing boats. Victorian details. Demolished in 1950 after falling into terrible disrepair and the new Boathouse opened its doors in 1954. Unofficial headquarters for birders who jot their sightings in a notebook inside the building.”
    Smith looks over at Clio and smiles. “Clio here is one of the city’s most celebrated birdwatchers. I imagine you know all about this famous notebook, Clio?”
    Clio nods yes but wishes Smith would pick up on the fact that she’s not up for chitchat. Sure, she knows about the notebook, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s participating in some kind of bizarre theatrical game. Still, she plays along because she cares about Smith, because each word spoken takes her out of her catastrophizing head.
    â€œSo how do you know so much about the Boathouse?” Clio says.
    Tate smiles. “I’m working on an image-recognition New York City architecture app. That, and applying to grad programs in photography. I’m kind of all over the place, to be honest, but trying to be cool with the fact that I really have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”
    This is the Tate she remembers. The guy who’s quick to admit his own ignorance. Yale was a glittering place, intimidating at times, and how refreshing it was to encounter a kindred soul who didn’t pretend to have it all together.
    The three of them make their way to the bar and restaurant not far from them in the park. Despite the cold, there’s plenty of activity.Families. Joggers. Bikers. Dogs. When they enter the restaurant, the maître d’ makes a beeline for Smith and kisses her on the cheek hello.
    â€œMy Napoleonic father’s a regular in these parts,” she whispers to Tate. “Lots of client meetings. You know how it goes.”
    They sit at a table by the window. The waiter hands them menus and Tate is quick to order his drink. Smith follows suit and Clio orders a drink too, though she will not drink it. Her head is already too light. When the cocktails arrive, Tate plucks an olive from his and tosses it in his mouth. He drains his glass quickly, as if on a mission, and looks up at Clio. Smiles. “We used to have some pretty good talks while we were busy doing glamorous tasks like cleaning the washers.”
    Clio nods. Thinks back. “We did.”
    Clio remembers those months, how she looked forward to seeing him during their shifts. He lacked the pretension she glimpsed in so many of their classmates. He was on the quiet side, but everything he did say felt real in a way. His comments on their shared new culture were interesting, if somewhat antiestablishment, and made her feel less alone.
    â€œLook at you two,”