Chapter 17 Rowan

THE REST OFthe weekend is the New England winter of my dreams, the two of us wrapped in scarves with hats pulled down low over our heads, traversing the city on foot and by train, admiring its history.

We celebrate Neil's birthday in the middle of the night, eyes still closed as we reach for each other, and then again early this morning. The fact that we've now spent one of each of our birthdays together feels like some kind of milestone. I've never paid much attention to astrology, but I have to admit that during the summer, I looked up Aquarius and Virgo for compatibility. An unusual match, most of the sites said, but an intriguing one with the potential for long-term compatibility. Aquarius and Virgo even motivate each other in their intellectual pursuits.

And I just stared, wondering if the planets had always known something I didn't.

Neil's birthday breakfast is a dining-hall feast with Kait and a few others from creative writing, though we can't stay long because I have a full day of touristing planned.

"The mysterious Neil! He exists," Kait says over veggie bacon and pancakes, and then leans in and stage-whispers, "And even cuter in person."

Our first stop is the Boston Public Garden, which even in this weather is full of people jogging, playing lawn games, pushing strollers full of kids. A bride and groom are taking wedding photos, a trio of bridesmaids following close behind to keep the dress from trailing along on the damp ground. I show him the Make Way for Ducklings sculpture, the bronze ducks dressed for the cold in tiny hats. I don't even care how dorky it is; I'm not sure I've ever been more in love with Neil than I am right now, and not just because of what happened last night—but because we were able to be open with each other in a new and freeing way for us.

We go ice-skating in the Common, and I'm not shocked to learn Neil has a little more grace than I do, probably because of those dance lessons he took as a kid. I'm glued to the wall until he holds out his hand and beckons me toward him.

"Not too far," I warn. "I'm really attached to this wall."

"We'll go slow. I promise," he says, and true to his word, we do.

His gloved hand squeezes mine as we glide along the ice, the rink a blur of brightly colored coats and scarves, blades carving delicate designs beneath our feet. When I wobble, he holds me tighter.

"I have to admit," he says on our third or fourth lap, "I've always kind of wanted to do this." The rosy tint to his cheeks deepens. "Go ice-skating with a cute girl."

Somehow, even after last night, this is enough to make me blush, too. "Who would've guessed that'd be me?"

Little kids spin circles around us, and I fall an embarrassing number of times, but none of that matters when Neil is the one helping me up. It doesn't matter when I take such an uncoordinated tumble that he plummets to the ice with me, laughing harder than we should for how sore we're going to be tomorrow. He's not frustrated or annoyed—he just seems content.

I missed him so much, but he's here and I'm here and we are making all of this work.

This should be the kind of scene that inspires me. I want to hold tight to this feeling and take it back out during my next writing session, convince myself that being in love has only made me a better writer. As much as I'd been fully in it during my finger trap piece, maybe what Professor Everett wants to tell me is that it all sounded false. Inauthentic. Lacking the kind of emotion she'd expect from a creative writing major.

Or she's already decided I'm a complete hack.

Neil wrote in my yearbook that I had a "shimmering optimism," one he wished he could borrow for himself, and when it comes to this class, I'm starting to think I've run out of it. Because no matter how hard I try, I can't force writing out of my head completely. And as much as I'd love his advice, I'm not about to bring it up on a day we're supposed to be celebrating him.

"I have so much skating-related trauma from my childhood," I say instead. "Do you remember that old skate rink in Northgate that closed down last year?"

"The one by the mall? I didn't know it had closed."

"Yep. And probably for the best, because I don't think whatever they were spraying in those skates to clean them was environmentally friendly."

"I haven't thought about that place in forever," Neil says, steering us out of the way of another couple, avoiding a collision. "It always smelled like burned pepperoni pizza, even though—"

"—they didn't actually sell pizza? Yeah. Anyway, I swear, like, everyone had their birthday parties there when we were kids, and inevitably the DJ would always make us do one of those snowball skates. Where everyone has to find a partner."

Neil groans. "I remember that. I think I'd blocked it out."

"In hindsight, it seems pretty problematic to force a group of twelve-year-olds to pair up," I say, gripping his hand tighter. "But this more than makes up for it."

It's interesting to have this shared memory of our hometown, something we didn't experience together but have the same language for nonetheless. I hope we never stop discovering things like that—metaphorically reliving the burned-pizza smell of our childhoods.

When we can't feel our toes anymore, a constellation of bruises blooming on both my knees, we return the skates and warm up with hot cocoa during the quick walk to our next destination.

A museum had to be part of Neil's birthday celebration, and from the moment I discovered it, I knew the Boston Athen?um would be perfect. In addition to being a stunning library, it's also a museum with thousands of rare books and sculptures and other historical artifacts.

"Happy birthday," I say, unable to bite back a grin as he gazes around in wonder, head tipped toward the ceiling. This look on his face, the awe so vibrantly painted across it—I'm not sure how I resisted it for four years. There's such a wholesome sexiness in Neil's love for learning, for knowledge.

He shakes his head. "?‘Happy' doesn't even begin to describe it. Joyous birthday. Jubilant birthday. Euphoric birthday—that one might be it." With a wave of his hand, he gestures for me to pose for a photo with him, holding out his arm to capture us. "Thank you," he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek while he snaps another photo. "I love it."

With high domed ceilings and chandeliers, long wooden tables, spiral staircases, sky-high shelves of books, it really is the platonic ideal of a library.

"I should start studying in here," I say as we wander down an aisle marked with a bust of Alexander Hamilton. "Maybe that would finally jog my writer's block."

"The words still aren't flowing?"

Shit.There goes keeping it in. "I mean, I'm writing, but am I writing anything good? Who's to say." A sharp laugh slips out before I can stop it. "Actually, I can say, and I'm not. Writing anything good, that is. But we really don't have to talk about it on your birthday!"

He must be able to sense my anxiety in those words, because he frowns, auburn brows pinching together. "Why wouldn't we talk about it? It doesn't matter what day it is—I always want to know what's going on with you."

I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I hadn't brought it up. But he has a point, and ever since the email landed in my inbox, that's all I've wanted. His reassurance, sure, but more than that—I've never been able to talk about writing the way I do with him. Even if our tastes are different, he was the first person I told about my romance novel, and he's only ever seemed awed by it.

"I guess we are good communicators now, huh." A flicker of something I can't quite interpret passes over his face, so brief that I'm certain I imagined it. "My professor emailed after my last assignment saying she wanted to talk to me after class, and I just… haven't?" I reach for my phone, showing him the message. "I told her I had to meet with my adviser and then that I had a doctor's appointment, and now I'm not sure what to do when I see her next. I'm running out of excuses."

Two girls in matching winter coats start to turn down our aisle, but then, sensing we're having a moment, head for the opposite one instead.

Neil's hand lands on my back, making a slow trail from one shoulder blade to the other. "Why are you afraid of seeing your professor?" he asks gently.

The possibilities run through my head. Because she's going to tell me I'm not good enough. That I'm a fraud. Because she's going to kick me out of the class.

None of them are realistic, of course, but that doesn't make me any less convinced one of them is going to happen.

"I guess… I've just kind of lived in this bubble where I write something, and then she gives me feedback, and none of it's spoken aloud. Once we start talking about it, that means I have to acknowledge what's going on. That I can't fucking write." I take a few steps forward, shaking my head as tears threaten behind my eyes. I will not allow myself to cry on my boyfriend's birthday, not inside this beautiful library. "Am I fooling myself, thinking I can turn this into a career someday when I can't even turn in an assignment I don't hate? And the one time I managed to—that's the time she decides she needs to talk to me? Because I feel like such a failure. Or maybe I shouldn't even be thinking that far ahead if I'm struggling this much in an intro class. Like, I'm already at the lowest level. I can't go backward from here. I don't know where I'd even go—"

I break off, pressing a hand to my heart as my breaths come out in sharp bursts. Even when I'm trying to be quiet, the library only amplifies the sound, creating a dull echo.

"I don't know who I am without writing," I say in a small voice. "And I don't know what to do if it turns out that I'm not very good at it."

"Hey," he says, the single word more soothing than it has any right to be. His arms come around my shoulders, and he holds me tight to his chest in this aisle of antique books. "Hey. Artoo. This one class doesn't determine your future." A soft brush of his fingers through my hair. "And you are a good writer. Maybe you're going through a rough patch, but you don't just lose that overnight. You are a fantastic. Fucking. Writer."

I want so badly to believe him. "You're biased," I whisper instead. "You're sleeping with me."

"And I've known you were talented since long before that. And"—he lowers his voice, speaks right against my ear—"now I have the privilege of saying that your talent extends to other arenas, too." His attempt at humor has its intended effect: I feel my cheeks heat as I reach for the lapels of his peacoat to keep him close. "Do you remember what you told me in June? When we were in a library significantly less grandiose than this one?"

"First of all, what a dig at the Westview High School library," I say, sniffing. "Second… vaguely?"

"That as soon as you told people you were a writer, you thought you'd have something to prove. That writing made you feel lonely. But then you told me. You showed me your words, and you read them on a stage in front of one of your literary idols. You have come so fucking far." He pulls my shoulders back so we can face each other, his eyes both serious and sweet behind his glasses. "You're not a failure—you're just still figuring it all out. You're turning your brain inside out for other people to see, and that takes a wild amount of bravery."

Now I'm crying for an entirely different reason. "Why can't I be anywhere near as nice to myself as you are?"

This makes him laugh as he hugs me again, his familiar warmth and earthy scent, a comfort I'm not sure I could describe in words even if I had an entire year to put them on paper.

It makes me feel even worse about the one part of my anxiety that I haven't mentioned.

The fear that because I'm in love, I can't write about it.

I'm not sure I could tell him that.

"Why are libraries basically like therapy for us?" I say, swiping under my eyes for mascara stains. Because this is far from the first heart-to-heart we've had inside one. "This place could get us to tell her all our secrets if she really wanted to."

"Maybe there's something to that. So many people have sought comfort here, so many stories and worlds contained in this single building. It's hard to conceptualize the amount of imagination in this space. Letters that were meant to reach people but never did… portraits made by artists who revered their subjects, or hated their subjects, or were in love with their subjects and only able to express their emotion through paint. All those centuries of heartbreak and hope."

"I love that you love words just as much as I do, because that's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard."

For some reason, this makes his expression go flat. He's a fidgeter when he's nervous, and when he starts tugging at the sleeves of his coat, jamming his hands in his pockets only to draw them right back out again, I can tell he's unsettled. No longer quite at ease.

"Neil? Something on your mind?"

"Actually… yes. There's something I've been wanting to tell you. Needing to tell you."

"You can tell me anything."

"I—I know that." Then another wave of uncertainty passes over his face, and I'm frustrated I can't immediately recognize it. "While we're talking academics, I guess I've been… a little unsure of my major lately."

"You don't want to study linguistics?"

"I don't know. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? It's what I've been working toward for years. The language books, the AP classes, all the dictionaries…"

"But—you've always loved words," I say dumbly. Neil was going to be a lexicographer one day, a person who compiles dictionaries—that was what he told me on the last day of school, and I was absolutely enchanted by it.

Maybe words have betrayed both of us.

"I still do," he says. "I just… might like other things too."

Then I collect myself. "That's perfectly okay. Isn't the whole point of college to figure that out? It's okay if it's not linguistics. It's okay if you change your mind a dozen times."

"I don't know if my scholarships will quite cover that," he says with a half smile. "I told you how much I loved my psych 101 class. The one I'm taking this semester is even better. We're studying personality theory, and I suppose I never thought there might be researched, psychological theories to explain why we act the way we do. And that there would be so many different ones, to the point where even one major theory can't cover every facet of personality. It almost feels limitless, the language we have to describe how our brains work." The way he lights up while talking about it, his words almost tripping over each other—how could I have missed this joy, this new passion he has? "You know how much I love school. I've never felt this way about a class before. Not even linguistics."

"Psychology," I say, the pieces clicking together. "I can see it."

"Yeah?"

"It makes sense that you'd want to understand… well, because of your dad."

All at once, the energy in the room shifts.

Your dad.

Your dad.

Yourdad.

I might as well have shouted it, given the stricken look on his face, the way his shoulders go stiff like a statue. He blinks a few times. Swallows hard.

"I mean—" I try, but then I don't know how to finish that sentence. Shit shit shit. I've just made a colossal mistake.

Because we don't talk about his dad. We haven't, not since the afternoon of June 12, when we sat on his bed and he trusted me with a guarded piece of his history.

I'd always figured he'd tell me more when he was ready, but I wasn't going to pressure him. Obviously a single conversation couldn't account for all the trauma and heartbreak of his past, and I hate that now I'm wondering if there's something wrong with me that he hasn't shared more of it.

"That's not—that's not the only reason," Neil finally says, not making eye contact.

"No, I know—"

"My dad—" He breaks off, and I'm struck with the realization that the way he says it is strangely foreign. A gap between those words, as though he's not used to putting them together. "I think I need to get some air."

I follow him down the stairs, gaze fixed on his back while my face flames. Wishing we could rewind to ten minutes ago. Hating that I brought it up. Every pound of my boots is a question: Why? Why? Why?

It takes an eternity to unwind ourselves from the Athen?um maze, weaving around tourists and tour guides and students. Once we're outside, his exhales puff white into the freezing air. He's breathing hard, the wind already turning his freckled cheeks pink and fighting with his hair. The collar of his peacoat is flipped upward, an extra barrier against the cold, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

All I want in this moment is for him to let me in.

"Sorry—I'm not mad at you," he says, turning to face me. His dark eyes hold only concern. "I swear. I guess I was just… surprised to hear you make that connection. Wasn't expecting it."

I place a hand on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have mentioned it in such a cavalier way. I'm sorry." Maybe I didn't know there were limits when it comes to talking about Neil's family, because now it feels like he's shut the door to some secret vault. "If you don't want me to ever bring him up, just tell me. Okay?"

"No—you can. I'm fine. It's fine." He wraps me in a hug, leaving me more confused than ever. Because now I am definitely not going to bring him up again. "It's fine," he repeats, as though trying to convince us both.

I cling to him tighter than I usually do. "Maybe we were both due for a minor breakdown today," I offer, wishing it felt more like I hadn't just completely fucked up. He is my boyfriend, and I care about him more than I thought I could care about another human being, and whatever hurt he's dealing with—I want him to be able to confide in me.

As it turns out, maybe we can't talk about everything.

When he smiles, I can tell it's forced. "Are you hungry? I might be hungry. Let's go get something to eat."

The last day of the weekends we spend together is always the worst, a terrible mental countdown reminding me how many hours we have left. Five. Four. Three. Forty-five minutes. Fifteen. As amazing as it is when we're together, there's such a fierce ache in my chest the moment he leaves.

We're some of the lucky ones, really. We're in the same time zone. We're not all the way across the country, one of us in a small college town only accessible with a layover in between.

It shouldn't be this hard.

Just three and a half more years of painful goodbyes. Three and a half more years of trying to quash that fierce ache.

Three and a half more years of watching him walk away, wishing I'd said something different.