Chapter 23 Rowan

I WANT TOthrow my romance novels into the Charles River. Drown my favorite couples. Watch the lies drip from waterlogged pages.

All those bookstores and garage sales, hundreds of paperbacks and special editions. Collections of tropes that brought me comfort and taught me what a relationship could look like. Yet not one single blueprint for what I'm supposed to do now, because those books are all about falling in love.

But staying in it? That's a different thing entirely. They don't give a fuck about that.

As I've learned over the past year, my life is not a romance novel. If it were, then I'd be able to see our HEA somewhere in the distance. Last June, when I realized Neil wasn't the perfect-on-paper romance hero I dreamed of and yet he was everything I wanted, I thought maybe I didn't need the kind of happily-ever-after in my favorite books.

Now I know that happily-ever-after is pure bullshit.

On the train back to Boston, I curl up in a window seat and hide my puffy eyes from fellow passengers. I managed to keep it together while I collected my suitcase from my parents' hotel and wished them luck on their next tour stop, but then I broke down at a Duane Reade and bought several family packs of Kleenex.

I message Kait in full emergency mode. Because even if that party left me feeling uncertain about our friendship, I don't know who else to talk to. Are you around? I text, and when she doesn't respond right away, I figure she's just busy. Swamped with homework.

He said he needed time to figure out what happiness looks like on his own.

Maybe I do too—because I'm suddenly not sure I remember how it feels.

More than anything, that sadness inside Neil, the one that's been lurking there for longer than our relationship—it isn't anything I can fix. No amount of talking it out will ease that pain, even if I desperately wish it could.

Even if I want us to figure it out together, whatever this new version of life looks like for him, I have to respect that he wants some time to figure it out for himself first, no matter how much it hurts.

I video chat with Kirby and Mara the next day. Their voices, their faces are a welcome balm, but it's not the same as having them here in person.

"And then you had sad sex?" Kirby says. "My fucking heart. I'm too fragile for this! Neil being sad just doesn't compute."

"Right?" Mara props her chin on Kirby's shoulder. "He's just not Neil if he isn't baiting you or making bedroom eyes at you." Then she turns to Kirby. "Also, ‘fragile' is not a word anyone would ever associate with you."

"When it comes to Rowan and Neil, it is."

"Whatever you need," Mara continues. "We're here for you. Just say the word, and we'll have a care package of Seattle chocolate and coffee in the mail tomorrow."

When we hang up, I lie back down on my bed and resume the ceiling staring that's kept me busy most of the day. I gaze at the penguin posters on Paulina's side of the room and then over at my bookshelves, where I've acquired a handful more romance novels since school started because Boston's indie bookstores are amazing. Now I'm craving their reassurance, desperately wishing I could be a heroine who owned a struggling bed-and-breakfast in a sleepy beach town, or a journalist forced to host a radio show with her ex, or even a high-powered lawyer in the big city. All that daydreaming is back with a vengeance.

"I didn't mean that thing about the Charles River," I whisper, reaching for a Nora Roberts book and then a Delilah Park. Every time a couple breaks up, it's so clear to me what they need to do to get back together. Sometimes it's a simple misunderstanding, and others it's a matter of proving they truly love each other. The common factor is that the other person always takes them back.

All this time, I thought Neil and I were the ones who were going to make it. I'd classified us as romance tropes, Neil the dashing rake with approximately zero rakelike qualities. We were enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, forced proximity. Opposites attract, although I realized pretty quickly that we were never as opposite as I once thought. But there was one trope I never considered. Right person, wrong time—maybe that's us.

With everything I am, I hope that it isn't.

Despite how good it was to hear my best friends' voices, I can't shake the loneliness that keeps me curled up in bed. Kait still hasn't responded, and I've stopped checking my phone, my heart too damaged to care. So when the door to my room opens and Paulina Radowski steps inside, AirPods in her ears and rain boots dripping water, I've never been more excited to see her.

"Hey," she says in her breezy way as she hangs her jacket on the back of our door, until she spots me and then swiftly removes her headphones. "Rowan? Are you okay?"

I'm not sure what it is—the fact that she could instantly tell something was wrong or the urgency of needing a human being to talk to—but her question is all it takes for me to burst into tears.

"I—I'm sorry," I say around a hiccup, pressing my face into my hands. "You should—you probably have somewhere to be. I don't want to bother you."

Paulina shucks off her boots and pulls her chair up to my bed. She's been largely invisible since that late-night quest for Boston cream pie, but every so often, one of us will mention a food craving and the other will google whether Dunkin' makes it in donut form.

"I don't have anywhere to be." Her soothing voice—have I never noticed what a naturally soothing voice she has? I probably haven't heard it enough. "Do you want to talk about it?"

They're the best seven words in the English language.

Slowly, I nod, because even though I still barely know this girl, she is here, and she's listening, and those are apparently the only two qualifications for me to spill.

I only tell her parts of the story, unsure I can condense my history with Neil into a fifteen-minute conversation. She just listens. Asks if I've been hydrating and if I've eaten yet today.

When I shake my head, she disappears downstairs and comes back up with two plates and a bottle of water precariously balanced in her arms.

"This is—extremely nice of you," I say in between bites of pasta.

"You may have noticed… I'm not exactly here a lot," she says. "I went through a bad breakup in August. Right before I left for school. So I decided I'd be as busy as I could, and then the heartbreak wouldn't be able to find me. I joined a hundred clubs and took way too many credits, even tried a couple sports I was miserable at, and I refused to let myself have any free time."

Oh.

"Did it work?"

"For a bit," she says. "But I couldn't run from it forever."

"You could tell me about it. If you want."

She gives me this heavy smile. "Story for another day," she says. "But about you and Neil…" She trails off, spearing a hunk of manicotti. "I wish I had some kind of advice to give. All I know is that it sucks. It's a shitty situation, and it sucks, and I'm sorry."

"Honestly, just hearing that is making me feel a little better. Thank you so much."

Paulina has a Save the Penguins Club meeting she offers to cancel if I'd rather she stay here to watch movies or talk or just sit in silence with another person, but I wave this off, not wanting to take up more of her time and unsure how much longer I can keep talking.

"Oh—and I have a really excellent breakup playlist," she says before she leaves again. "If you want."

When she shares it with me and I hit play, I'm strangely comforted to hear the Smiths as the first song. "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now." Could not be more accurate.

On instinct, I reach for my phone. Neil and I didn't establish any rules for texting, but everything still feels too fresh. I let go, lying back on my bed and closing my eyes, letting Phoebe Bridgers and Kacey Musgraves and Olivia Rodrigo sit in the heartbreak with me.

I think back to that vision of the future again, the one I summoned that snowy night in Seattle, wondering if we can really wait that long to get to a place where we can be wholly independent, and how frightening that sounds, too.

What if all we have is our history, and the new memories we're making together are too few and far between to matter? I don't want our entire relationship to be defined by remember whens. Those will only sustain us for so long, and we can't spend these next three years living in the past.

There's no shortage of fascinating, beautiful women at NYU. In New York City. I'd hate for him to think he's still attached to the girl from his hometown just because our relationship is so tangled with high school. There is so much beyond our little bubble, and if he really wanted to, he could have more. Maybe that's what would make him happier.

He could have someone to grab a casual bite to eat with after class.

Someone he could run to Dunkin' with in the middle of the night.

Someone to sit next to during Shabbat services.

A gym buddy.

A coffee date.

And maybe… maybe that's what he deserves. Someone who's always there, the way I was throughout high school and now cannot possibly be. Maybe this was what my mom meant about not tying ourselves down. She didn't want our relationship to eclipse every new experience we'd have.

Because if I ever had to choose between Emerson and him, I'm not sure that's a decision I could make. It would have to be my education, the same way I know it would be for him.

The person who understands me like no one else ever has.

Phoebe and Kacey and Olivia keep me company while I turn these questions over and over. That day in June, I thought Neil might be my big wild love, but after all of this, what if it's merely a high school relationship? Are we the ones who make it to the happily-ever-after side of the LDR statistic, or the ones who wind up bitter and heartbroken?

I never imagined I'd find my person in high school, but what if I did? How are you supposed to know if it's worth clinging to with both hands and gritted teeth, heels dug into the dirt?

Or are you supposed to let it go, knowing you might regret it for the rest of your life?

In creative writing, Kait takes her usual seat next to me. She replied to my text late last night: Hey sorry! I was wrapped up in some Planet Dread stuff. All good now?

yep was all I sent back.

If she can tell something's off by my sweatshirt and leggings and messy bun, she doesn't say anything. Instead, the first thing she tells me is:

"I'm switching my major to film. I've been thinking about it a lot, and I think my brand of storytelling might work better in a visual medium. I just have to get Miranda's permission and then I can swap this for a film class."

"Oh," I say. "Wow. That's big."

She gives me a tight smile. "I'll really miss you, though! I'm sure we'll still see each other all the time."

I can't explain it, but somehow I'm not sure we will. I prepare myself for the loss—my first writing friend fading away after we bonded over so much, so quickly. But it doesn't come. There's a small sting, but I'm happy for her if film is what she'd rather be doing.

Maybe Kait wasn't destined to be a lasting college friendship—just my first one. And maybe that's okay.

"Rowan?" Miranda asks at the end of class later in the week, after Kait has switched out. "Do you mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?"

I nod, and she lifts herself to sit on the desk next to mine. "Sorry," I say, drumming my fingertips on the cover of my notebook. "I know I've been kind of zoning out during the freewrites." If I ever doubted Miranda's assertion that I don't have to be tortured to write, here is my proof: I am miserable and have no desire to put sentences together.

"It isn't about that," she says. "But I've noticed you haven't seemed quite like yourself lately. So I wanted to check in with you."

"I haven't been doing great," I admit, plucking a wayward strand of hair out of my bun. I haven't washed it since I left for New York, and I'm a little afraid of what it looks like. "I told you about my long-distance relationship, back at the potluck?" Miranda nods. "We, um… we're taking some time to figure things out, I guess. Only I'm not sure how much time we're taking, or how we'll know when we've figured it out, or—" I break off, a pressure threatening behind my eyes, because I do not want to almost-cry in front of my professor. Again.

"That's really rough." There's no hint of condescension in her voice. "I was thinking, and only if you're comfortable—my partner is a fantastic cook, and I've found that a good home-cooked meal can do wonders for the heart."

I want to tell her that while I appreciate that offer, a home-cooked meal cannot possibility solve my relationship crisis, but I stop myself. Because maybe a home-cooked meal does sound kind of lovely.

"I'd love that," I say. "But I'm a vegetarian, and I'd hate for anyone to go out of their way.…"

She waves this off. "That's no problem at all. How about tomorrow night?"

When I show up the following evening, her partner answers the door wearing a wide smile and an apron that says BAHSTON TO ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS with a vocabulary list beneath it. PAHK = PARK. BEEAH = BEER. WISTAH = WORCESTER. I can't help thinking Neil would find it hilarious.

"Welcome! You must be Rowan," he says, holding out a hand. His beard has grown even bushier in the past month. "I recognize you from the party I was never at. I'm Jon, Miranda's lesser half."

Despite everything, I laugh. "Nice to meet you. Whatever you're cooking, it already smells incredible."

Miranda appears behind him, hanging up my corduroy jacket and offering me a drink—"water, seltzer, juice, whatever you want that's nonalcoholic"—looking more casual than I've ever seen her in wide-legged jeans and a white V-neck.

"Thank you so much for having me," I say as she leads me into the kitchen. The site of my breakdown. "Really. This means a lot."

"We love entertaining." Jon takes down bowls from the cabinet while Miranda lays out three sets of silverware. "When we were looking for a house, number one on my priorities list was a kitchen with an island and space for a massive dining table."

I get a flash of literary events that must have been hosted here, New England writers whose names I've seen on spines. One day, I think to myself.

Dinner is a white bean and kale soup, perfect for Boston's mid-spring cold snap, with a side of fresh sourdough from a local bakery. I must compliment the food a dozen times. Maybe the right soup on the right day really does have healing properties.

I thought this might be awkward—I'm not sure I've ever had a meal with two adults who aren't family—but Miranda and Jon are relaxed and easygoing, asking me about my life in Seattle, how I like Boston, what I've been reading lately. I learn that Jon is a carpenter who sells his work at a few local shops.

"He never brags about himself, so I have to." Miranda picks up the gorgeous wooden bowl that only has a couple hunks of bread left in it. "He made this, and pretty much everything we used for snacks during the party."

A little bashful, Jon gestures toward the backyard. "I have a studio out back," he says. "That's where I was hiding out. And you've been enjoying Mir's class? I have to assume she wouldn't invite one of her troublemakers over for dinner."

"Depends on who's cooking," Miranda says.

We all share a laugh at that.

"I have. Being able to let go of perfection and write has helped me enjoy the process so much more." I give Miranda a knowing lift of my eyebrows, and she grins and holds a hand to her heart. "I've even been freewriting a bit for myself lately."

"Then I think my work here is done," she says before turning serious. "Part of the reason I invited you here, Rowan, doesn't have to do with writing at all. And it's that Jon and I started dating when we were sixteen."

"And now you're—" I stop, face heating, because maybe you aren't supposed to ask your professor's age.

But Miranda waves this off. "We're thirty-eight."

"Been together more than half our lives," Jon says, casting her a look that I can tell, even after having officially met him only an hour ago, is bathed in the purest love.

The romance author in me aches at that look. Because despite all the meet-cutes and heart-fluttery moments that make me kick my feet when I'm reading, that is the true romance. The fact that that look is still this sweet after more than twenty years.

It's a realization that stuns me a little.

"It wasn't always easy," Miranda says. "We grew up in Southern California, and then I went to Boston University and Jon went to UCLA."

"I'm really putting that marine biology degree to good use."

"So you did long distance?" I ask. "All four years?"

"All four years," Miranda confirms. "And we didn't even have technology back then, so—"

Jon swats at her with his napkin. "We had phones! We had computers! We're not ancient. Yet."

Miranda pats his impressive beard. "Keep that in mind the next time we go to bed at nine thirty."

"How did you do it?" I reach for another piece of bread. "If that's okay to ask."

"Of course," Miranda says. "We found out pretty quickly that just because the other person wasn't there, it didn't mean we couldn't fully experience college. Having other friends in long-distance relationships helped too—or at least, people we could comfortably talk to, people who'd understand."

"Still working on that part," I admit.

"You'll get there." She has this uncanny ability to sound reassuring about everything. "We had to give each other space, I think, to grow into the people we were going to become. We weren't the same people at eighteen that we were at sixteen, and especially once we got to college, it seemed like everything started changing so rapidly. We couldn't be there for every single milestone."

"But we were there for the ones that mattered most," Jon says. "Racked up a lot of frequent-flier miles. Worked a lot of double shifts."

Miranda places her hand on top of Jon's. Ever so slowly, I catch his thumb stroking her palm. "I think what helped us the most, and maybe this is something that could help you—is realizing that we are going to grow, and that it doesn't mean that the relationship is doomed. It's a time of so much change, and you can change together. Those new versions of yourselves can be just as compatible as the old ones—maybe more so. We were fortunate that they were, but it doesn't mean that we didn't have to work at it."

I nod along with what she's saying, unsure I can put my gratitude into words. They've shared so much with me tonight with no expectation of anything in return. If that isn't true kindness, I don't know what is.

"My boyfriend… He's going through some difficult personal things." Most of it seems too private, but I can share that, at least. "And I've been feeling completely lost. Not because we're struggling—well, that's part of it—but mainly because he's struggling, and I haven't known how to help him."

Jon's expression of sympathy is nothing short of genuine. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I just want to be there for him. However I can."

"The best you can do is make sure he knows that," Miranda says. "Sometimes that's all we can do."

Even if she's right, I still wish I could conjure some magic cure. I can understand why he hid those letters, given how long it took him to be vulnerable with me. It's painful to want to be let in so badly, to realize the other person's spent so many years dragging all kinds of heavy things to jam the door. Only natural, then, that it takes a tremendous effort to open it.

"This transition is already hard enough without relationship troubles on top of it," Miranda continues. "But if it means anything, Rowan, I really think you're going to be okay." A wink. "You've made it through the freewrites, after all."

When we finish dinner and Jon gives me a tour of his studio, I feel much lighter than when I arrived. Their advice isn't a quick fix, of course, but it's hard not to be ten times more optimistic than I was earlier today.

"Thank you so much for this," I tell Miranda and Jon as they walk me to the door, after we've polished off a heavenly blueberry tart. "I'm still trying to process it all, but seriously. This meant everything to me."

She gives me a hug. "I thought it might give you a bit of hope to see two people who managed to make it work. Even if we're ancient."

Jon drapes an arm around her shoulders as they wave me off, and a different kind of hope blooms in my chest. I head for the T station, digging my hands into the pockets of my corduroy jacket, fingers grazing a scrap of paper. Assuming it's a receipt or straw wrapper, I pull it out—and what's on it roots me to the sidewalk.

Forelsket (Norwegian): the euphoria you experience as you begin to fall in love; or, how I feel whenever I'm around you.

I swear time stops for a moment. Traffic freezes and birds pause mid-flight while I try to catch my breath, pressing the note to my heart.

I haven't worn this jacket since… I was in New York with Neil the first time. It was stuck in the back of my closet, impractical for a Boston winter. He must have slipped the note inside at some point before I left. Naturally, I can't not think about the time I found my name in the pocket of his hoodie during Howl, and I imagine he was thinking about it, too.

Even though this was from months ago, I wonder if I found it at exactly the right time.

I read it again and again, memorizing the word, my knees quivering and my pulse pounding like I'm thirteen years old and just learning a boy has a crush on me. Maybe everything I experienced tonight, from Miranda and Jon to the appearance of this note, isn't unlike what Neil observed between my parents during Hanukkah: couples who love each other in quiet and constant ways, where small gestures feel like the purest form of affection.

All this time, I have been surrounded by the kind of romance that most of my books never talk about. I've gotten so good at ignoring it—but now, with forelsket in my palm, I think I'm finally starting to get it.