Chapter 11 Rowan

"YOU LOOK DIFFERENT."

I roll my eyes. "I look the same, Kirby."

Mara leaps off Kirby's bed, where she's been paging through an old magazine, and draws me in for a tight hug. Then she pulls back to look at me. "She's right. You do look different. And we missed you."

"Fine. I trimmed my own bangs and it went terribly and you'd really think I'd have learned my lesson by now. Thank you for noticing."

If anyone looks different, it's the two of them. Nothing in their physical appearance, at least not obviously so—maybe it's just the fact that I haven't seen them for months. And yet it hits me that this, the two of them in Kirby's room, is entirely normal. The way it used to be for all of us. Clothespinned above her desk is the collage of photos we helped her arrange a few years ago because she saw it online and wanted to re-create it. In a place of honor on her bookshelf is a small figurine of Angkor Wat she got on one of her trips to Cambodia with her family, along with a few awards from dance, though she doesn't dance anymore. A dried corsage from prom, one that I know lives in Mara's room, too.

I plop down onto the bed, picking up the discarded magazine. "What's this?"

Kirby laughs. "You know how my parents have been asking me to clean out my closet for, um, the past three years? Well, I decided now's the time, and look at this absolute relic."

"?‘Fifteen tips to drive him wild in bed,'?" I read off the cover, beneath an airbrushed photo of an actress who used to be on some werewolf show we all watched. "?‘You won't believe number seven!' Wait, what's number seven?" I flip through it. "?‘Make eye contact'? Seriously? No wonder print journalism is failing."

"And there's more where that came from." With concerted effort, Kirby shoves the door of her closet, where stacks of magazines and clothes and even a pair of skis threaten to topple over.

"If you can believe it, it was worse three hours ago," Mara says.

"I can, in fact." Kirby has always been a predictable kind of chaos, and I've missed it. "Almost as much as I can believe that Kirby's about to put me to work less than five minutes after I got here."

Kirby swings her desk chair over to the bed, nudging me with her foot. "Yes, but first I want to hear everything about Emerson! Tell, tell."

So I do—or I try to. I tell them about my mostly nonexistent roommate, and about Professor Everett's class, and about how much I love Boston.

"But Seattle will always have my heart," I assure them.

I got home late last night and passed out, and this morning I allowed myself to sleep in until ten o'clock, which was still just seven a.m. Pacific time. Neil got home a couple days ago, but I had to see Kirby and Mara first.

Three weeks until I go back to school, and I plan to make the most of it.

"And how's our favorite former nemesis?" Mara asks.

I consider this for a moment—not whether our relationship is going well, but how much I want to tell them. They know we slept together on the last day of school, made suggestive eyebrows at me all through graduation. But what happened in New York felt too complicated to text. Besides, both of us are back in Seattle for the next three weeks, and with that comes an instant sense of comfort.

Neil and I know how to be together in Seattle.

"He's good. We're good," I say. "The distance isn't always easy, but we've been texting… creatively."

The two of them start squealing, and Kirby tosses a pillow at me. "Oh my God, you icon." Kirby tells me about her classes—"Anthropology of Ice Cream has forever altered the way I view mint-chocolate chip"—and Mara mentions a performance she did with a modern dance troupe on campus.

"I think it went okay," she says shyly, braiding a strand of her blond hair.

"She's being modest," Kirby says. "She was the only freshman in the show, and she rocked it."

Mara blushes, gives Kirby a tender look.

If they've heard too much about these things from the other person, they don't give any indication of it. From the very beginning, they have just been good together, Kirby's sharper side balanced by Mara's gentleness, and a mutual respect and compassion that's easy to admire. I love that they haven't changed, that Kirby is still a mess and Mara won't stop teasing her about it.

I love my best friends separately, but I really love them together, too.

Most of winter break is quiet, and that's exactly what I want it to be. Neil and I spend plenty of time together, sometimes with Kirby and Mara, sometimes with his friends. We spot some of our high school classmates around town, trade stories about our first few months of college. We stand in the rain to get burgers at Dick's—fries and a chocolate milkshake for me, one of my favorite Seattle meals. Afterward, when we're eating in my car, Mara announces, "I got Dick's sauce all over my arm," as someone inevitably says while eating at Dick's, and we can't stop laughing for a solid five minutes.

And of course, there's the time I spend with my parents, too, and some stilted Spanish with my mom. She speaks slower with me than she does when she talks to my grandparents, uses more basic words, but I don't mind. Most of all, my parents are curious about Professor Everett's class—her grading process, her methods, her teaching style—and whether they agree with it.

"That's interesting," my dad says when I tell them about the freewrites. "A little like journaling?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

They didn't go to school for writing. My dad, who illustrates their picture and chapter books, studied art and my mom studied European history.

"We just want to make sure she isn't leading you astray," my mom says with a wink.

I can't bear to tell them the whole truth: that I'm ashamed of the work I've turned in so far, despite the creativity buzzing through campus. Seems like everyone's been bitten by that bug except for me, though I've been holding out hope that returning somewhere familiar will get the words flowing again.

Neil comes over to celebrate Hanukkah with us on the second night. My parents are always especially affectionate with each other around the holidays, and this one is no exception. At one point my dad notices a smudge of latke batter on my mom's glasses, leans down to wipe it off with a damp cloth. She grins at him, giving him a quick peck when she thinks I'm not looking.

Their recipe for vegan latkes is one I dream about in the weeks leading up to Hanukkah, and I've been eager for Neil to try it. It feels so radically normal, spending a holiday with him. My parents are almost as obsessed with him as I am—or at least, I thought they were before my mom's warning during move-in. It probably helps that he loves their books, and so does his sister, Natalie, though she didn't grow up with them the way he did. The way we both did, technically.

But my mom hasn't mentioned that fraught conversation during any of our phone calls, and tonight there's only comfort and ease as my parents ask him how school's going, how he likes New York. Maybe my mom truly heard what I said and changed her mind.

"We're hoping our publisher brings us out there in the spring," she's saying, spooning applesauce onto a latke. "We're just waiting to finalize a few more details for the tour."

"I'll be in the front row."

"And make all the little kids sit behind you? Evil," I say between bites of latke.

"None of those kids know what it was like to have to wait for each book to come out," he says. "Now they can just go to the library and get them all at once."

"Kids these days," I deadpan.

"What's the Jewish community at NYU like?" my mom asks.

"It's great," he says. "I've been to services a couple times and met a few other Jewish friends."

My dad eyes the last latke on the plate, and while all of us encourage him to go for it, he splits it with his fork and gives half to my mom. "They must have something like that at Emerson."

"I haven't gone yet," I admit. Back in high school, I'd never met an extracurricular I didn't like. Student council, quiz bowl, yearbook. I guess I haven't gotten involved in many activities at Emerson yet; I've been too preoccupied with my writing. "I've wanted to—it's just been busy."

"Completely understandable," my mom says. "Your focus should be on your studies, anyway."

The comment rubs me the wrong way, reminding me what she said about our relationship.

"She can do both," my dad says. "College isn't just about academics."

Then a look appears on my mom's face that I swear I've never seen before, an almost tenderness. "That's true. I suppose it's where we met, after all." On top of the table, she covers his hand with hers.

They were twenty when they started dating. How can she judge me about Neil when she was only two years older when she met my dad?

"Actually—" I glance over at Neil, giving him a grin. "We were talking about maybe going backpacking in Europe this summer."

I swear I see my mom's hand tighten on my dad's.

"Backpacking," he says with a low whistle. "That would certainly be an experience. We must have some old Rick Steves guidebooks around here somewhere.…" As any good Pacific Northwesterner with a hint of wanderlust, my dad worships at the altar of travel icon Rick Steves.

My mom turns serious again. "Just the two of you?"

Beneath the table, I slide my foot over to Neil's ankle, letting it linger there. "Yes."

"We haven't decided on any countries yet," Neil says, and turns to my dad. "I'd love to check out those books."

My dad leaps up from the table, eager for a task, and starts perusing our bookshelf, muttering, "I know they're in here somewhere."

Meanwhile, my mom goes silent. Neil could personally deliver them a national award for children's literature and she'd still have doubts about us. Thankfully, she doesn't say anything else about it.

After dinner, Neil and I get overly competitive with dreidel. He wins a game and then I win a game before we decide it's probably too dangerous to continue. Then when it's time for Hanukkah gifts, he gives me a knitted beanie—"to complete your outfit"—and a pastel-covered notebook from a local stationery shop, because he understands that for a writer, a notebook is not a lazy gift. I give him an NYU sweatshirt, because I have a feeling it's something he'd consider too much of a luxury to buy for himself when he has other sweatshirts.

"Thank you," he says, holding it close after he unwraps it.

We stay awake after my parents go to bed, watching The Last Jedi on the couch in the living room. We're half paying attention, half simply enjoying being this close to each other. There are two mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of us, mostly empty, while outside, a light dusting of snow covers our lawn. My parents told us he could stay over if the weather gets bad enough, since he doesn't drive. On the couch, my mom emphasized.

Right now, at least, the couch feels pretty perfect. He's lying behind me, head resting on top of mine, our legs intertwined. A blanket on top of us.

I will the creative part of my brain to use this as inspiration, to capture this feeling and put words to it later. Look, here's your romance. Write about this.

"This is the good part," he murmurs into my ear. His body is so warm that I think I could fall asleep like this, dozing off while his thumb gently strokes my knuckles. My elbow. My hip bone.

"You've said that at least five times."

"And I meant it every time."

Even though he can't see me, I roll my eyes, then watch as Kylo Ren, with Rey in front of him pleading for her life, uses the Force to turn Luke's lightsaber on Snoke instead—which, he's right, is a fantastic moment. But what I love the most is the anxious hitch of his breath, even though he's probably seen this a dozen times. I could watch Neil watching Star Wars for hours and never get bored.

There's a novelty to the fact that we get to see each other again tomorrow, and next week. That night in New York was a blip—I'm sure of it now. If we haven't been physical since then, it's only because we haven't had the opportunity.

"What's it like being home?" I ask as his hand slides into my hair. I catch it just in time to plant a kiss on his palm.

"Mmm. Good. Weird."

"Neil McNair, monosyllabic? Who are you?"

He tugs gently at my hair. "It's hard to describe. All of it is familiar, of course, but it also feels a bit like being a guest in someone else's home. Little differences you wouldn't usually notice, like a new brand of toilet paper, or the way the house smells. Not bad, but then you wonder if it's always smelled that way, or if you just got used to it."

"I had some of that too. My parents made the bed in my room nicer than I've ever made it, and they had all these towels set out already, but not the towels I used to use. The guest towels." I nestle more deeply into him. "It's probably going to be a little more different each time we come back, huh."

As he nods, my heart twinges slightly. Change is never easy, and I knew I'd be opening myself up to so much of it by going to school across the country. I am already a different person than I was in September, than I'll be on my flight back home in June.

"But you're here, Artoo," he says. "And that makes it so much better."

"I can't believe I used to think that name was an insult."

"Nope, just my way of secretly pining for you."

"Tonight was really great." I slide my foot between his ankles, letting his weight anchor me. "Best Hanukkah I've had in years."

"Your parents are still so in love," Neil says. "You can tell."

It's true, despite my lingering annoyance over my mom's reaction to our backpacking idea. I'm not sure if it's the holidays or I'm only just now seeing it through his eyes, but they've never been shy about their affection for one another. Working together the way they do could so easily be a disaster, and yet it isn't.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess they are."

"Do you think that'll be us someday?"

I pause the movie as the characters are gearing up for a third-act battle on the salt-covered planet Crait. I already know we'll have to rewind and watch it again later.

Slowly, I wriggle around to face him. His glasses are off, and there's such a sweet sleepiness on his face that I wish I could take a photo of him, just like this, though I'm not sure any camera could capture my favorite details. The sweep of freckles along his cheeks, his long lashes. The soft mess of his auburn hair.

In any other relationship, a question like this might be terrifying. Too much, too soon.

We're only eighteen and nineteen, I might say. We've only been together six months.

And yet with Neil, everything felt serious right away. Maybe it was because we were on the precipice of graduation, knowing that anything we started would be tested in the fall. We were already thinking about the future. Or because we'd both had our hearts broken, and we respected each other too much not to jump in with both feet. Eyes open.

That was how it was supposed to feel—I'd been so certain of it all summer. We were serious about everything in our lives: school, our futures, each other. We were giving this everything we had or nothing at all. There was no in-between.

"Going to bed early while our kid stays up to make out with their boyfriend?"

He laughs a little, but then: "You know what I mean."

Neil McNair is a deeply sentimental person, and it's one of the things I like most about him. After all, he was the one who said "I love you" first—or wrote it, technically.

I allow myself to really, truly consider it, that kind of future with him. Picking a city to live in. Decorating an apartment together, bickering over what to put on the walls. Coming home from work, cooking together in the kitchen.

Falling asleep together every night.

I don't know yet if that future includes kids, if that's something I want, and I don't know what I'll be doing.

But even as I try to resist painting some idealized portrait of the future, Neil is there. He's at the front door, in the kitchen, beneath the sheets of a bed we probably found cheap on Craigslist.

My eyes fall shut, that vision suddenly seeming so real.

All I know is that I want this, him, as long as I can.

So I burrow closer to him, because this is the good part, the two of us cocooned on the couch while snow falls outside, and say with complete sincerity: "I hope so."