Chapter 25 Rowan

THE APPROACH OFfinals week seems to wrap the entire city of Boston in a thick layer of anxiety. A twitchy energy swirls through campus, fueled by index cards and highlighters and practice tests. This time when we're staying out all night, we're partying at the library and guzzling energy drinks, waking up with John Locke's The Second Treatise of Civil Government tattooed on our cheeks.

I divide my time between Spanish flash cards and my final creative writing project, unable to process that this year is almost over. While I'm not exactly disappointed with what I've accomplished, it's a bit of a shock to realize there's plenty I've missed out on. Sure, Paulina and I finally tried real Boston cream pie, but I haven't joined a single club. I don't have the tight-knit group of friends I thought I might. And I haven't explored Emerson's Jewish community, even though it was one of the things I was looking forward to the most.

Next year, I decide.

I have time.

It's been seven weeks since that night in New York, six weeks of tentative texting and fragile hope. Living in the uncertainty has been less terrifying than I thought it might be, especially when I give myself space to write about it in between study sessions. As long as writing has been a part of my life, I've never written anything specifically for another person. And yet that's what I find myself doing—because all the words I've scribbled down aren't just about him. Without even meaning to, I've addressed this to him.

A few days before finals start, I slide those pages into an envelope, send them off to New York, and allow myself to exhale.

Back in my room, I settle in for a steamy night with the subjunctive tense. But just as I start quizzing myself, I hear the sound of a frantic key in the lock.

"Rowan?" Paulina's voice. "So… there was someone interesting in the elevator with me just now."

When I turn around in my chair, he is the last person I'm expecting to see. I even have to blink a few times to make sure he's real.

Neil McNair is in my dorm room.

He's standing next to my roommate, giving me a small wave, looking at once sheepish and sweet and maybe even slightly electric, like adrenaline took him all the way here instead of Amtrak. And maybe it did.

This is summer Neil, the one I grew so attached to last year, his hair windblown and brightened by the reappearance of the sun. He doesn't look anything like the boy I saw last time, the one with sunken half-moons beneath his eyes and a heavy slump to his posture. Now he's in an easy cardigan and T-shirt and jeans, his usual scuffed Adidas.

He is here.

I reach for my desk to shut the book I've been working out of, but I'm so distracted that my hand gropes air instead.

"How'd you get in?" I ask, and though that's nowhere near the top of my list of questions, it's what comes out first.

"Sneaked in with someone else," he says, cheeks turning pink in that way I love so much. "Possibly not the best security."

"I'm going to make myself scarce." Paulina grabs her laptop, tosses it into her penguin-shaped backpack. "Bye, have fun, tell me everything later!"

And then we're alone in my room.

There's a confident set to his shoulders I haven't seen in a while, since long before that night in New York. His spine, a little straighter. If I reached out and touched him, I wonder if he'd feel any different.

"So," he starts, just as I say the same thing. An awkward laugh passes between us.

"I wanted to surprise you," he says, ruffling a hand through his hair. Somehow even his nervous fidgeting makes my heart race.

"Consider me surprised. How… are you?" It's only when it leaves my lips that I realize it might be a bit of a loaded question, but Neil either doesn't pick up on it or doesn't mind.

"Good. Really good. Listen—I know finals are coming up, but if you have some time, I thought we could maybe go for a walk?"

Neil McNair came to Boston to ask if I wanted to go for a walk.

"Yes," I say, biting back a smile. "Of course. Yes."

This time, at least I manage to close my book properly.

I'm not sure which one of us is leading, but we end up in the Common, because it's impossible not to be drawn there when the late-April sun has turned it golden. We're not the only ones—people are laying out picnic blankets and setting up croquet and badminton. I'm already warm in ripped jeans and Neil's hoodie.

Once we're in the park, I can't help it—I start laughing.

"What's so funny?" Neil asks, looking mildly concerned.

"I just mailed you a letter." I shove up the sleeves of his hoodie. "And now you won't get it for a couple more days."

His mouth kicks into a smile as he reaches into his backpack. "I look forward to it," he says. "I have so much I want to say to you. But first…" He pulls out a sheet of paper adorned with calligraphy. I can already tell each letter is perfectly, beautifully formed. "I made this scavenger hunt for you. It's… a little unconventional, though."

I stare at him. "You want to do a scavenger hunt? Right now?"

"Just trust me," he says.

Despite everything that's happened, I do.

I think I always have.

"Is it okay if I show them to you as we go?" he asks, and I nod, still half-dazed by this whole interaction.

So he unfolds the sheet of paper, revealing the first clue and holding it out to me.

"?‘The place where I tell you what happened over spring break,'?" I read, giving him a lift of my eyebrows, glancing around this entirely unremarkable portion of the park.

"I went to see my dad."

"Oh."The word somehow comes out with three syllables. It's all I can say at first, giving him the space to elaborate.

"It was something I needed to do. To get a sense of closure," he says. "He wasn't what I expected, and yet somehow exactly what I expected? I thought he'd take digs at my clothes, my school, my hobbies. He did some of that, I guess, and he seemed different in some ways—or at least, he wanted me to think he was. Now that I've had more time to process it…" He trails off, shaking his head. "After it happened, I wasn't able to be a kid anymore. It felt like my childhood was over in one fell swoop. And yet seeing him… I felt just like a little kid again. Part of me desperately wanted his approval, and the other was still so, so angry at him." His features are pinched, as though he's reliving every moment of it in his mind right now.

"It's okay to still be angry at him." We've paused beneath a tall tree, its branches giving us relative privacy. "I hate that you had to go through any of this."

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I told him to stop the letters, for both me and my sister, and that this was the last time I was seeing him."

"And you feel good about that?"

He nods. Firm. "I do. I've been worried that you'd think of me not wanting him in my life as some kind of personal failing."

We haven't broached the physical barrier yet, but suddenly I can't stand the fact that we're not touching. So I reach for his hand, sinking into the instant relief of his fingers wrapping around mine. I didn't think you could miss holding hands with someone the same way you might miss kissing them, but God, Neil gives good hand. Soft but strong, warm and familiar.

"No. Not at all. He was never the father you deserved," I say, squeezing his hand, rubbing my thumb along his. "He should have given you the absolute world."

"I can see that now." He squeezes back as he toes the sidewalk with his shoe. "I should have told you about the letters when I got them. I hated keeping something from you. But I wasn't used to having someone as close as you, and I spent so many years hiding. And that's the absolute last thing I want to do with you."

"I'm glad you could tell me now."

Then he holds out the sheet of paper again. "Ready for another clue?"

We venture deeper into the park, past the tennis courts, and this time he reads it: "?‘The spot where I tell you what happened with my major.'?"

"Neil," I say, starting to understand the "unconventional" piece of this scavenger hunt. "I get it. You don't have to explain it—I understand that these things change."

"No, but I want to," he says. "Of all the things I was afraid of, telling you I may not want to study linguistics anymore just seemed cruel when we both love words so much, and how they've been this connection between us. I guess I thought that if we didn't have Seattle, maybe words were second best."

I shake my head. "One, we will always have Seattle. And two… things change. You told me almost a year ago, in the Westview Library, that I wasn't the same person at eighteen as I was at fourteen. We're all allowed to change our minds—many, many times. If you want to study psychology, then I can't wait to hear all about it."

"The more I go to therapy, the more I realize maybe that's something I'd want to do. Be on the other side of the couch, that is." He accompanies this with the softest smile, and suddenly I can see it so clearly. "I haven't fallen out of love with words. But if one day I could help someone who might be just as afraid of what's going on in their own brain… I think I'd really enjoy that."

This admission that he's gone to therapy makes me so fucking proud of him, I could cry. "I think you'd be amazing. Just please promise you'll still tell me the meanings of things even though I didn't ask for them?"

"Oh, of course. I can't stop being a pretentious asshole that easily."

At that, I reach to nudge him, but he catches my hand, holds it tightly against his chest. His heart taps against my palm. "I missed you," he says, eyes heavy on mine. An undeniable sweetness. "That's not part of the scavenger hunt, but I needed to say it."

"I did too. Every day."

"And look at that, we just so happen to be right here at our next clue."

The place where I apologize. Again. For everything.

"Rowan," he continues, taking both my hands now. I can see him grow lighter with each clue. "I am so sorry. For about a hundred things, but mainly for the way I handled that night in New York. I had a chance to let you in, and all I did was shut you out. I thought it was something I had to go through alone."

"I wish I could have been there for you," I say quietly. "That you would have let me. But I understand why you felt like you couldn't. I don't have this perfectly figured out, either. I love you, and—"

The way he reacts to I love you makes me pause, as though he's been quietly starving for it but afraid to admit it. A vulnerable arch to his brows, a slight wobble of his chin.

"I love you," I repeat, infusing those words with all the care they deserve, "and I want to be in your world with you. No matter what's happening in it." Then I shake my head. "God. I just feel so foolish now. All those times I complained about my stupid class when you were going through real shit…"

"It's not stupid. I know you don't believe that." He's right, of course. "Hey. I always want to hear what you're going through. If it's big to you, it's big to me."

I nod, wondering how he manages to keep impressing me. Surprising me. My heart is already at his feet.

"You're sure you still want me?" he asks, his voice breaking. "Because I thought—I worried that being here at school might make you realize you had options, and you didn't have to settle for me. And maybe you'd want someone more whole."

"When you told me about your dad on the last day of school—I didn't run. And I'm not running now." With our hands still linked, I take a step closer until there are only a few inches between us. "You are the bravest fucking person I know—the only thing that's changed is that I'm one hundred percent certain of that. You are extremely whole to me. Exactly the way you are."

He swallows hard. Tips his head downward. I want so badly to cover his mouth with mine, but I have a bit more to say first.

I let go of his hands, because the feel of his skin on mine is much too distracting. "We can get through this," I continue. "I want to cheer for the good stuff and hold your hand through the bad stuff. Even if it has to happen over video chat." Then I gesture to the list. "Do you mind if I add one? Because beneath this tree is where I tell you the other major reason I was struggling to write this year." Even though I'm not afraid of this anymore, I draw in a deep breath. "For a while, I thought I couldn't write romance because I was in love—that I had to be in pain to write that kind of yearning. And it terrified me, so I was terrified of telling you. It made me question the two of us for a moment, too—because we already had our big romantic moment, and then it was just going to be…" I trail off, struggling to find the words.

"All downhill from there?" Neil supplies, and I can't help laughing.

"I don't know! Maybe," I say. "But I know that's not true. Any of it. I was fighting my perfectionism this whole time, and I guess it might have also been a bit of burnout? You'll see when you open your mailbox, but what I wrote for you—it was because I was in love."

This whole year, I've been rediscovering what love really means when you're in it. The way I fell for Neil was a study in opposites: quickly and yet agonizing, over four years and then in a single night. The getting together was the easy part, even if it felt like the steepest uphill climb at the time. The staying together is the part that books and movies and love songs tend to ignore.

Everything I wrote before we started dating made romance feel magical, monumental. But with Neil, it's not always about those huge moments. It's the tiny details, the ones that remind you the other person is caring about you, even when you're not the best at caring for yourself.

The surprise mail and thinking of you texts and comfort of a favorite hoodie.

"We're going to keep changing. This isn't the first time." I think back to what Miranda said. Because both of us can grow without growing apart. "Maybe we won't change at the same time—we probably won't. But we can change together. We just have to give the other person space to do it. Not to become a completely different person… but to grow."

"I want that. To change with you sounds like the biggest fucking honor." He reaches for my hand again, and a choked sound slips from my throat. "I'm so sorry—again—that I was unsure. The next time I need to figure something out, because I'm guessing that wasn't my last personal crisis—I want you there with me. I want to do this with you. All of it."

"We can't keep living half-lives, though," I say, because we also need to establish this. "We can choose each other while also choosing ourselves. We have our separate lives and friend groups at school, and that's okay. We can't feel guilty about any of it." He nods emphatically. "We'll still talk all the time, obviously, but we have to trust that the other person still feels the same way, and if not, we'll promise to be open about it. If we're ever feeling doubt, we'll voice it as soon as we can."

"Rowan." He curls a strand of my hair around his index finger, and I swear he has never said my name quite like this before. "Is it absurd to talk about the future when we're this young? Maybe. But when we're committed to a long-distance relationship where the distance ends after four years—three years, we're twenty-five percent there—I think we have to. I don't know how I got so fucking lucky to find you in high school, and maybe it evens out with the bad luck of us ending up in two different cities. But that doesn't matter to me. You are worth it. You're worth every train ride and care package and middle-of-the-night phone call. Even if we lived on different sides of the world, I'd upend my sleep schedule on a regular basis just so I could hear your voice. Because if I'm being entirely truthful, which is the only thing I ever want to be with you… I think you might be it for me."

His words settle over me, "you are worth it" and "I think you might be it for me" tucking themselves inside my heart. God, I've never felt like this before, not even on the last day of school. Dazed, drunk, absolutely dizzy with love. I don't know how I ever thought our epic romantic moment had passed.

Neil McNair makes every single one of them feel that way.

"What else is on that list?" I ask, trying to blink away the tears burning behind my eyes.

"I'd rather make the rest up as we go."

In one swift motion, he pulls me against his chest, his mouth landing softly on mine.

We kiss in the middle of the Common on the sunniest day of the year so far, clutching at each other like we've given up on gravity. I think you might be it for me, too, I tell him with every sigh against his lips.

"You're still wearing this," he says, one hand buried in the hoodie fabric. A kiss lands on my cheekbone. The tip of my nose.

"Of course. How else was I supposed to make sure you came back for me?"

When we pull away, I taste salt and realize I've started crying. I rub at my eyes, fingertips coming away streaked with black.

"My makeup is probably all over my face, isn't it?"

He steps closer, licking the pad of his thumb before gently swiping it beneath my eyes, his other fingertips delicately balanced on my cheek. It is such a small, kind gesture that it renders me speechless for a moment, and I think I might start crying again. It's starting to seem likely that one day I'll run out of words to describe how much I love him.

"There," he says, and kisses my forehead. "There actually is one more clue, by the way." He shakes out the sheet of paper, which he shoved into his pocket while we were kissing, and makes a show of repositioning his glasses as he squints down at it. "Sorry, it's a bit risqué, and it was probably a little optimistic at the time—"

This time, I snatch the paper out of his hands. "?‘The place where we make passionate love the rest of the day, depending on our emotional states and general energy levels.' That's got to be the Boston Tea Party Museum, yeah? Or maybe right in the middle of Fenway Park?" A snap of my fingers. "I've got it. Up against the statue of Paul Revere."

He laughs this pure and joyous sound, his arms settling around my waist. "Lead the way."