Chapter 21 Rowan

THE EVENT ISadorable in all the ways a chapter-book launch should be, with juice boxes galore and half the kids dressed up as their favorite characters. Which means, incidentally, because the books are somewhat based on my childhood, that a few of them are dressed as me—little buns coiled on top of their heads, striped leggings, bright T-shirts. Look through any Roth family photo album and that was my uniform from preschool to fifth grade.

And the best part: when my parents beckon me to the front of the room, introduce me as their daughter, and ask me to read a section of the book. I used to do this all the time, but it's been a few years, mainly sparked by embarrassment at my first period and bat mitzvah drama having made their way into earlier books. Tonight I wear being Jared Roth and Ilana García Roth's daughter with pride, and I'm surprised to revel in the attention of that many eight- to ten-year-olds.

Because then one of them asks if I write books like my mom and dad, and I meet Neil's gaze before announcing that yes, I'm a writer too. It comes out more confidently, more solidly than I thought it might.

"But you probably have to be a bit older before you read my books," I add.

After kids are whisked home to bed and Neil and I hug my parents goodbye, we order decaf coffee from a nearby café, sipping slowly as we wander through a park.

Boston already has half my heart, but I'm starting to think I could fall a little in love with this city too. My fatal flaw: I spend enough time anywhere, and I suddenly start making it part of my personality. The Greenwich Village mug back in my dorm that I've been using almost every day would have to agree.

There is something perfect about this, the two of us strolling through New York at night, the soothing pressure of his palm on my back.

At least, it would be perfect if Neil didn't seem slightly off.

When he thinks I'm not looking, his expression shifts, eyes appearing unfocused. Jaw muscles going slack. This boy has always been wound tight, but tonight I sense some tension simmering beneath the surface. Probably none of it would be noticeable if I didn't know him as well as I do.

After my misstep in Boston, I'm not sure how to bring it up. If whatever's going on in his head is off-limits the way talking about his dad was.

"I have a surprise for us," I say instead. If there's anything that will bring him back to me, hopefully it will be this. Neil gives me a lift of his eyebrows as I reach into my purse and pull out a room key. "Several blocks from my parents, so. Don't worry about that."

Conflicted emotions flicker across his face: excitement at first, and then concern. "That couldn't have been cheap."

"We're allowed to have something nice once in a while."

"Nice" doesn't even begin to describe it. The hotel is all gold and emerald decor and dripping chandeliers, his arm around my waist as we take the elevator up, up. When it reaches the seventeenth floor, it opens with a cheerful ding.

Inside the room, we both let out audible gasps. Even the bathroom is beautiful, with terrazzo countertops and a walk-in shower. I've never considered what it might be like to shower together, and yet the image appears in my mind with such a fierce determination I suddenly fear every fantasy with him has been utterly wasted. Slippery skin and slicked-back hair. Water pounding against our backs.

And the bed, huge and elegant, with a wrought iron headboard and brocaded duvet and at least eight different pillows.

"You like it?" I ask, and he just laughs.

I've missed that sound. Even over the phone, it's not the same—I don't get to see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way his glasses slip down his nose and he has to push them back up. All these details I've sworn I could never forget, even if we were on opposite sides of the globe.

It feels so precious, this night together.

"That was amazing, seeing you up there with them. At the bookstore." He moves closer, slipping down the sleeve of my dress so he can expose my bare shoulder.

My lashes flutter shut. "Please don't talk about my parents right now."

"No, I'm talking about you. How confident you looked when you talked about writing. Your whole face just lit up—I'd missed seeing that." His teeth flirt with the skin of my shoulder, and when I let out a sigh, he does it again. "I was so proud of you."

He delivers the compliments in between kisses along my neck, undoing the zipper of my dress only a few inches so that his mouth can dip lower.

"Oh God. I think I might have a praise kink." A soft bite at my collarbone. "File that under least surprising things about me."

"Good, because I could do this all night."

When our mouths finally collide, it's all urgency and heat. His hands on the sides of my face, diving into my hair. I reach for the tie I loosened earlier. Let it drop to the floor. In an instant, he has me pushed against the room's desk, our hips pinned together.

"How about those indecent thoughts?" I manage between kisses, loving the way this draws a laugh from his chest.

"Too many. Don't know where to start." A groan as I wrap a leg around his waist, urging him closer. His fingertips burning a path up my thigh.

I'm already dizzy with the scent of him, the one that's faded from his hoodie and scarf. I throw off his suit jacket and tug at his shirt where it's tucked in, freeing the white fabric. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches into his pants pocket for his phone. Tosses it onto the desk.

Just as it lands there, a message pops up. I don't mean to look—really, I don't—but the screen is bright and the room is dark.

Mom: I could call him. Or make a visit. This isn't fair to—

That's where the preview cuts off, but it's more than enough to set off sirens in my mind.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Hmm?"

I pull back for a moment. My breaths are still coming in hard bursts, my heart hammering for an entirely different reason. "Why is your mom texting you something about a visit?"

Neil's exhales start to slow down as he fumbles for the phone. "… Oh."

Even though everything in my body is begging me not to stop, I straighten my dress, the message a shock of cold water to my system. I still only have pieces of the story. Fragments of whatever he's been keeping from me.

"You weren't—I didn't want you to see that." He pushes a hand into his face, jostling his glasses.

"Neil. What's going on?"

He backs up, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to his forearms. His cheeks are scarlet and his jaw is tight, a thread of tension I'm not sure I've seen on his face before. "My dad sent me a letter," he tells the carpet, not meeting my eyes. "Two of them, actually. Including one here at school."

"How did he—"

"He just addressed it to ‘Neil McNair, NYU.' Somehow it found its way to me." A wry, not-quite smile. "The mail room staff deserves a raise, evidently."

Two more letters.

I knew his dad had sent one before graduation. That Neil had considered visiting him over the summer, then told me on the only day we ever talked about it that he'd decided not to. "Let's sit down," I say gently, grazing his wrist with a few fingertips. "Let's talk about this?"

I phrase it as a question, because he didn't want to talk about his dad before and I want him to know, need him to know that I'm not pressuring him.

I have to stay calm. Give him the space to collect himself. So I get a glass of water from the bathroom and pass it to him with a shaky hand before realizing what I'm doing. Whenever I was upset about something as a kid, my mom would have me drink a glass of water, as though it was enough to clear my mind and help me refocus. Sometimes it was. It's what Miranda did, too, when I broke down in her kitchen.

Neil takes a sip and sets the glass on the nightstand, still not making eye contact. In my half-unzipped dress, I gesture for him to sit next to me on the bed with its brocaded duvet.

"When did you get the letters?" I ask.

He closes his eyes, grips my leg like a lifeline. "Winter break. And then a couple weeks ago."

Winter break.Two months ago, and he hasn't told me until now.

I quickly brush that off because this isn't about me. I can't center myself in this tragedy of his life. I didn't know him when his dad committed that crime. During his trial. When he was sent away. I didn't know him, and I cannot possibly know who he was back then, either, as much as I wish I could.

He has been alone in this, and I have arrived here so, so late.

"My mom almost never talks to him, but she's asked him to stop. And it doesn't do anything. Maybe if I could get on the phone or write back, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't want him in my life—I've gotten so used to not having him here, and then these letters show up and they just drag me right back." A shake of his head, as though he's disappointed in himself. "I should be better. I should be stronger than this."

"You don't have to be anything. You feel the way you feel—you don't have to make excuses for it or pretend to be brave. This is me," I say softly, rubbing my hand along his knee. "I only want to know because I care about you. So much."

"Rowan." His eyes fly open, his expression pained, throat pulsing hard as he swallows. "I spent so long building myself up to be someone who wasn't defined by this. You know that. The whole reason I worked myself to the bone in high school was so no one would ever think of me as that kid with the dad in prison." Another moment of quiet. He shifts on the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath us. "Part of the reason I haven't told you… is because I don't want you to have to worry about me. You should be thriving," he says. "I thought if I told you before we came back to school, it would be weighing on you. It was already enough of a burden for me—I didn't want it to be a burden for you too."

My heart lurches in my chest. Should I have guessed at any of this? Asked more questions? Made it clear that I'd be a safe space for him to talk about his dad? Somehow I can't crush the feeling of thinking I should have done more.

"Definitely not a burden." There is no world in which my boyfriend going through a difficult time could be any kind of burden. "And I can do both. I can thrive in Boston and still support you. Isn't that what we're both doing?"

"Right. I guess so," he says, but there isn't as much conviction in those words as I'd like. "It felt wrong not to tell you, though, and I'm so sorry." Then, a massive exhale, as though he's gearing up for what's next. "And while I'm telling the truth about things, I should also say… I can't do Europe this summer. I've been terrified of bringing it up, especially when you've been asking about the tickets, but I just… I don't know if I can."

"It's expensive. I get it." Because of course, there is a tremendous amount of privilege that enabled me to go to Emerson, even with scholarships and financial aid. Those don't cover the cross-country flights, and I'll be taking a not-insignificant number of those over the next four years. "We can do it next summer. I think it'll still be there," I say, trying for a joke, but he doesn't crack a smile.

"That's it? Just ‘okay' and we move on?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm disappointed?" I immediately regret the ribbon of frustration in my voice. "Sure I am, but I understand."

"But that's the thing. I don't want you to understand."

Both of us startle at a sudden knock on the door, backing away from each other on the bed as though we've been caught doing something we shouldn't.

"Room service," calls a voice.

I grimace. "I, um. Ordered that earlier. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea."

Unfortunately, it happens to be the most beautiful dessert, a dark chocolate torte with fresh raspberries and cream, the plate drizzled with syrup. I thank the woman who delivers it about twelve times and tip her more than it cost because I can't think straight. Maybe Neil doesn't want me to understand because there's no way I can. There's this whole piece of his life I will never, ever understand. The fear and the anxiety and the pain, to the point where he wanted to be known only for his academics so no one would go digging into his personal life. And for four years, it worked.

"This isn't coming out right," he says once the door is shut again, the torte seeming to mock us. No one should be having a conversation like this in front of a dessert like that. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't want you to have to see me like this. This is all so nice, and it was probably so expensive, and I want to be the happy-go-lucky person you deserve right now, but I just…" He holds a hand to his face now, as though trying to shield himself from me, and it takes me a second to realize that he's started to cry. Slowly and almost silently, which is somehow all the more heartbreaking. "I—I'm sorry."

I wrap my arms around his trembling shoulders, each jolt of his chest making me desperately wish this were something I could fix. God, I cannot imagine what it's been like, keeping all of this locked tight.

"I've never wanted you to be some happy-go-lucky person," I say as I rub his back, everything in me aching for him. "Frankly, that kind of person sounds like a nightmare to be around. I just want you."

After a long moment, he pulls away and swipes a hand down his face. "I don't know what the hell is going on." His legs are tucked underneath him on the bed, an arm propping him up. He stares down at his fingers pressing into the brocade. "The letters were part of it, and all the newness of college, and being so far from home. I thought if I didn't say how I was feeling out loud, it would go away. Or it would get easier as the year went on, but it just—hasn't." A shuddery breath. "I feel like I never have any energy, even though I'm sleeping too much, probably. I have to force myself to be happy around my friends. Even my classes aren't as exciting as they should be. And I've been scared of telling you, telling anyone, because I should be having the time of my life." When he wrenches his gaze back to mine, his cheeks are reddened, eyes glassy. "That's why I can't imagine going to Europe with you. It's not fully about the money—I've been saving up. Because even though I'm happiest when I'm with you, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I was somehow miserable there. If I ruined the trip for you."

His words are a sharp physical pain. A slash to my chest.

This boy I love so much—he is not okay, and I feel absolutely helpless.

"You could never. Neil. I am so, so sorry." My mind tries to work out of the puzzle of I never have any energy and I'm sleeping too much and I should be having the time of my life. Maybe we can fix this together. I'm no expert, and fatigue could be linked to any number of different things, but based on everything he's said— "It sounds like… Could these maybe be symptoms of depression?"

The word comes out quiet, a timid little thing, and yet it slams down between us like it's made of concrete.

Depression.

Neil.

They don't seem like they should go together.

"I—I don't know," he admits. "I hadn't considered it, but now that you're saying it… maybe it doesn't sound completely off base."

"You saw someone before, right? A therapist?" I ask, and he nods.

"Years ago," he says. "But I don't even know what I'd say now. I'd be so self-conscious of them asking, what do you have to be depressed about? Because I'm so lucky to be here. I want to be here, but my brain has other ideas, I guess. And then I think about how my dad used to act the same way when I was little and I just fucking spiral."

It wasn't that I thought he'd moved on from his dad—if it's something anyone can move on from—but until now, maybe I didn't fully understand the scope of it. That of course he'd still be grieving.

Any advice I give is merely a guess as to what might help him when the reality is that I have no fucking clue. All the books I've read and the love for language we've shared, and I still don't know the right thing to say. How to support him through this.

I have never felt so out of my depth.

"Neil," I say with all the gentleness I can muster. My thumb rubs circles on his hand, his wrist, up his arm. None of it feels like enough. None of it can soothe how deeply he's hurting. "It's not fair that you have to go through this—I hate that you do."

"I don't want to seem like I need constant reassurance from you." These words come out in a whisper. "I thought I could look weak in front of you and it wouldn't matter, but—" He cuts himself off, shakes his head. "I don't want to be this burden. This depressed boyfriend in another state that you have to worry about all the time."

"You need to stop saying that word." Now there's more force in my voice because he shouldn't get to decide how I feel about it. "You couldn't be further from a burden. I love you, and I want to help however I can. Whatever you decide, you don't have to do it alone. I'm here."

"But most of the time, you're not," he says flatly, and I wish he weren't right. "It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. I just miss you so fucking much, it's like—it's like all I want is a really good book, but I've lost the ability to read. And sometimes I can't help wondering if we can really keep doing this for three and a half more years without losing our minds."

I'm struck speechless. My body suddenly feels limp, as though the bed is not enough to hold me up. I wait for him to take this back. To say he didn't really mean it.

But haven't I wondered the same thing? Even if I've pushed it down, the anxiety has still been there, waiting for its chance to pierce the surface.

I want to rewind thirty minutes, to when his mouth was on my shoulder and my hands were in his hair. When we were still naive. His posture is all wrong, shoulders bent at a defeated angle, neither of us having reached for one of the eight pillows that could have padded this conversation.

Because maybe we were always hurtling toward this conclusion, and we were stupid to think we'd be the couple to last.

Maybe he's the only one brave enough to say it.

"I'm just trying to be rational about it," he continues when I don't say anything. "I don't want to rely on you for my happiness. That's too much pressure to put on you." He swallows hard. "I'm sure there are plenty of great guys in Boston."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you'd be happier with one of them."

"Neil." I look him firmly in the eye, the room staring to blur at the edges. My pulse is threatening to leap right out of my skin, and I think I might actually pass out. "I've never seen you like this. You're scaring me."

He shoves his fists into his eyes and jumps to his feet. "I'm not trying to, I swear! It's fucked up that we're even having this conversation when we care about each other so much—I get that. But there's a pile of bricks on my chest all the fucking time, Rowan. All. The. Time. And even picking up the phone to make an appointment for some number of sessions that don't guarantee anything, even if the logical part of me knows all the benefits of therapy and medication, which I'm not even sure I can afford—every day, those bricks get heavier and heavier." Tears are streaming down his face now, so it shocks me when he says, "Please don't cry."

When I put a hand to my cheek, my fingertips come away wet. He's striding back toward the bed, reaching for my face. Thumbing away the tears with gentle, determined movements.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks again, still cradling my jaw. "I love you too much to put you through this. I can't let myself prevent you from having the college experience you deserve."

"What if you are my college experience?"

Somehow it feels like there's more distance between us right now than it does when I'm in Boston.

Maybe it's not about how much we love each other. Maybe it's about logistics and the specific pain of not getting to spend all the time you want with the person that you love.

"I just don't know," he says, and for how smart he is, I cannot stand in this moment that he doesn't have all the answers. "I'm going to hate myself for saying this, but I think—I think I might need some time to figure out what happiness looks like on my own. How I can be happy in New York knowing that you're happy in Boston."

He drops his hands, and just like that, I am rudderless.

A fish snatched out of water.

A plant without sunlight.

I want to ride out this darkness with him, whatever that looks like. I want to fight—but I am also so incredibly exhausted. Tired of missing him. Tired of uncertainty.

If he has to do it alone, then I might have to let him. Even if it kills me.

So I give him a slow, agonized nod that rips my heart in half. Leaves pieces of it scattered across Manhattan. "If that's what you need to do."

He gives me the same slow nod back.

We both go quiet for a while, just staring at each other, unsure what to do with our limbs. It's almost rhythmic, the way our chests still heave with the effort of it all. On another day, it might even be soothing. His suit is wrinkled, his hair wild, and while I must look similarly messy, I can't bring myself to care.

I don't know what happens now.

"Could I—could I still hold you?" I ask.

That's all it takes for the dam to break again. With new tears, he collects all of me in his arms, clumsy hands rushing over fabric and skin.

This cannot be the last time he touches me like this.

"Come here," he says between kisses that taste like salt, and even though I'm already there, I bury my face in his chest. Searching for his heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," he says over and over. "I'm so sorry."

Clothes start coming off; I'm not sure who reaches for what first. At the beginning of the night, I imagined slowly peeling away his suit and tie, how he'd react when he found the lace underwear I have on. Now I barely register any of it, too focused on getting my skin bare against his.

We arch and bend for each other like we are starving, wound tight, craving release. That release comes quickly for both of us, and when our bodies separate, even just for the minute it takes for him to dispose of the condom and for me to use the bathroom, I can't stop shivering.

Then he wraps around me like a shadow, one arm secured at my waist, my back against his chest. His mouth at the nape of my neck, his exhales traveling down my spine.

When I wake up the next morning, he's already gone.