Chapter 6 Neil

SHE'S AN AUTUMNfever dream of a girl: apricot corduroy jacket, striped turtleneck, short black boots. A denim skirt that accentuates her curves. Her long hair is wild and windswept, despite the fact that she's been sitting on a train for four hours, probably because she's been wrapping strands around her fingers, messing with her bangs in that adorable way she always does. A habit that imprinted on me long before I had the words for my feelings.

And the best part: her smile, broad and entirely unrestrained, dragging me like a magnet closer and closer.

I swallow back a sudden burst of nerves as people stream out of the train behind her, turning Penn Station into veritable chaos on a Friday afternoon. In my most anxious moments, I've been worried the distance will have turned us awkward, or if a month apart will have somehow changed us. We text almost constantly, with video calls every few days. But Rowan is not a girl meant for video calls—she is someone who needs to be perceived in vivid color. I'll take what I can get, of course, but 1080p can't capture her ambition or enduring optimism.

In an instant she's in front of me, throwing her arms around my neck while I pull her close, hugging her tight.

That scent, strawberry shampoo and sweetness and home.

"Welcome to New York," I say, mouth brushing her ear. I can feel her shiver as I do this, remembering how sensitive she is there. It's something I committed to memory the moment I discovered it, eager to make her shiver like that again and again.

"It's been waiting for me?"

"Well, I definitely have."

I'm not sure I can hold out much longer, so I kiss her, right there in the middle of the train station.

Instant bliss, a shot of warmth to every part of my body. She is every good thing I've missed. I've second-guessed myself too many times since I got off the plane before resolving that if she was out there doing her best in Boston, then I could sure as hell do the same thing here. My hands tangle in her hair, trailing down her back before settling at her hips, where the denim hugs her body. Her stunning sigh. Her urgency. How is it that she's even better than I remember?

Her fists are on the collar of my jean jacket, mouth parting against mine. I thought I'd overdressed for the upper-sixties weather—what locals are calling an unusually chilly week for September—but it's worth it for the way she clings to the lapels, drawing me closer.

Rowan Roth, here with me in New York City.

Someone walking by us lets out a catcall, and we muffle our laughter as we break apart.

Over the past couple weeks, I've settled in as much as a recent NYC transplant can settle. While I'm embarrassed by the number of times I've had to ask strangers for directions, no one else has vomited next to me on the subway—although I did witness an impromptu breakdancing competition on the A train last week—so I'm calling that a victory. Being out here has given me a strange new sense of independence, one I can't measure against anything else because nothing I've experienced comes close. I remember the first time I was allowed to watch Natalie on my own, the first time my mom let me take the bus by myself. Flashes of autonomy that felt monumental at the time.

It's overwhelming, too, just how many clubs and events are fighting for our attention at once, but I have to remain focused on academics over everything else. Classes, homework, video calls with Rowan, work-study—which consists of shelving books at NYU's Bobst Library three afternoons a week—and then more homework. That's my routine, and I can't afford to deviate from it.

At least, not until now.

Rowan gasps as she gets a look at my face. "I can't believe it. You look—"

"Devilishly handsome?"

The mottled purple bruise around my eye has been slow to fade, and Skyler's taken the opportunity to devise ridiculous explanations for it. "Five huge guys," he'll say when he's with me, usually at breakfast or dinner. Maybe Ultimate Frisbee bonded us. "Took them on all by himself."

Gently, Rowan brings her fingertip to trace the skin beneath my lash line. "Well, yes, always, but I was thinking more along the lines of, you got into a fight with a mob boss because you went on a date with his daughter."

"That sounds like the plot of a romance novel."

"About fifty, give or take. Does it still hurt?"

"Not anymore," I say. Especially not with her touching me like this. Maybe I should play Ultimate Frisbee more often. "Being a redhead is just the gift that keeps on giving—quick to bruise, slow to heal. I'd probably be among the first to die in a zombie apocalypse, huh."

"Oh, I'm much too weak to survive anything like that. Like, sometimes I don't eat the crust on sandwiches. We can die together as cowards."

I thread my fingers with hers as we offer up more of our softest traits, the ones that would make us completely useless in any kind of end-of-the-world scenario. Her inability to fall asleep unless she's drowning in blankets. My lack of hand-eye coordination. Her preference for scalding-hot showers.

By the time we drop off her luggage at my dorm, my nerves are gone.

Our first stop is a bagel shop a couple blocks away despite it being three in the afternoon, because her affinity for cream cheese is unrivaled and yet somehow, I have a feeling the metric ton of the stuff they put on their bagels won't be enough for her. My assumption is correct: once she finishes her bagel, she eyes the honey-walnut schmear on mine and asks if she can have a bite.

"This is deeply unfair. I'm going to be dreaming of these bagels until the next time I come back. Writing sonnets about these bagels." Her brow scrunches. "Figuring out how, exactly, one writes a sonnet."

"I'm sure they have a class about it at Emerson."

"You know what, I think they actually do."

From there, we make our way uptown, swinging by Levain Bakery and taking two of their massive cookies to Central Park. We make small talk that doesn't feel small—she tells me about the book her parents are working on, and I show her the Lucy photos Natalie has been regularly sending me. Lucy expands her horizons, posed with a book about learning Japanese. Lucy uses the Force, with my Star Wars poster in the background. Lucy gets ripped, her paws propped on my pair of dumbbells.

"New York suits you," Rowan says when we settle on a park bench amid a sea of tourists and street vendors selling everything from T-shirts and art prints to light-up key chains with miniature Statues of Liberty. "Maybe it was that casual way you swiped your MetroCard, but it's easy to see you here."

"Because you're literally seeing me here, at this very moment?"

She swats at my arm. "It's easy to see you thriving, I mean. I don't know anyone who loves learning more than you, and there is just so much here—you'll never get bored. You wanted to be here, and you fucking did it. You're just… exactly where you're supposed to be. Even as much as I miss you."

"That's the worst part of New York. The fact that you're in Boston."

We squint out into the late-afternoon sun, watching a trio of jugglers toss balls in the air while onlookers drop coins into a jar. Maybe I'll feel differently when the temperature dips below freezing, but there's a certain energy here that I don't always feel when I'm cooped up in my room studying.

"But you love it," she says, and I detect a note of concern in her voice. "Right?"

Rowan knows why New York is so important to me, what it represented throughout high school. Maybe the only reason it hasn't lived up to my vision of it is because I haven't—because I've slid right into a routine, the way I did all through high school.

I've been waiting for the excitement to overtake me the way it usually does at the beginning of the school year. It's there, of course, just buried underneath a few layers of stress and wrapped in a few more layers of trepidation.

"It's intimidating," I say after a long pause. "But amazing. Of course it's amazing. Any time of day, you can do just about anything. And there are always people out, even if I'm not one of them."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been pretty focused on classes and homework. I guess… I guess I haven't gone out and explored as much as I thought I would. Yet," I quickly add.

"You can do both," she says, and maybe it really can be that easy. Her dark eyes grow wide as she gives me this knowing look. "If people only went to college to study, there probably wouldn't be nearly as many of them. I know you worked hard for this, but it's okay to let yourself have fun too. We only get to do this once."

"Fun," I repeat, as though it's a foreign concept. "I can definitely try. I want to try."

"Good. I want a full report."

I polish off my cookie, making a vow that whatever Skyler asks to do next, I'll say yes. Even if it's bungee jumping off the Empire State Building. I'll pick a club to try out, too—something that'll get me out of my dorm and into the world.

Somehow, giving myself that permission is an instant comfort.

"How about Emerson? Is it everything you hoped it would be?"

"It's super artsy, which I love," she says. "Everyone's involved in a hundred clubs, and there's always someone making a student film outside my dorm. And I like what I've seen of Boston so far. Obviously nothing could ever top Seattle for me, but Boston is putting up a good fight." Her tongue darts out to sweep away a bit of chocolate. "And classes are good. My creative writing class… well, the professor's incredible. She gives us ten minutes to freewrite at the beginning of each class, which I've never really done before, so that's been new. But I just—" And she breaks off, a hand fluttering through her bangs, not quite making eye contact.

I have only seen Rowan Roth nervous a handful of times.

Once when our class voted for freshman-class rep.

Then in AP Chem junior year, when our misguided partnership led to a lab station bursting into flames.

And finally, my personal favorite: right before she kissed me for the first time.

When it came to our rivalry, she always wore a mask of confidence. For so long, all I could see was her ambition—and her irritation with me when my ambitions matched hers. It's only recently that I've gotten to know the girl behind that mask, the one with vulnerabilities and fears she doesn't always show the world.

Whatever she's about to share, it must be serious.

"You can tell me," I say softly, trying to encourage without pressuring.

A nod, and then a deep breath. "My first assignment… didn't exactly go the way I planned." She reaches into her bag and takes out a couple folded sheets of paper stapled together. Passes them to me.

Rowan doesn't share her writing easily. Essays and projects, sure, but anything remotely personal—that's just for her. At least, it was until she let me read her fiction for the first time in June, the romance novel she's been working on for the past couple years. And then surprised us both when she read a portion of it out loud at an open mic.

The prompt for this assignment was a deceptively simple one that Rowan bolded at the top of the page: What brought you to this classroom today? I read her writing first and then the critique from her professor that I know must have felt terrible, no matter how kindly it was delivered. I feel the same kind of ache, a stomach-churning discomfort. When you're as conditioned for straight A's the way we've been, you can't focus on the positives. You see red marks on a sheet of paper and only the negatives matter. The rest of it might as well not exist.

"Artoo. I'm sorry," I say. "I know that's not what you wanted to see."

"You think the writing's bad?"

"No!" I place a hand on hers, meeting her eyes with mine. "Absolutely not. But I know how you write. And I don't know if it's up to your usual standards for yourself."

She chews her lower lip. "That's fair. And true. It's like, the nicest note, though. I don't know why I'm so upset about it."

"How did you feel when you turned it in?"

"Not great."

"Maybe you were putting too much pressure on yourself?" I say. "With it being the first assignment and wanting to impress your professor. Because I get it—I've been feeling the same way. Or maybe you were holding back because you don't know her well enough yet?"

"Probably some combination of the two. I must have been too in my head. Old Rowan is back with a vengeance," she says, and then groans. "Oh my God. Have we both been holding back in different ways? You with New York, me with writing? What is wrong with us?"

I can't help laughing at that because she might be right. "I don't know. It's just different now. We knew the rules at Westview. Small fish, meet big pond." To illustrate this, I wave a hand at the park surrounding us.

"It's not fair that we can't have everyone from high school here with us. To make the pond a little friendlier."

"You really want Brady Becker in your creative writing class?"

"Fine, not everyone."

"If it makes you feel any better, I was late to linguistics my first day—"

"Neil McNair? Late?" She feigns a gasp as I nudge her, a half smile playing on her lips. "Let me write up a tardy slip."

"I've barely spoken in class since then. Which I suppose is mildly ironic." It's true, and I'm not proud of it. Of all my classes, Psych 101 has been the one keeping me up late with reading and only partially because there's just so much to read.

I picked it for a science requirement, and it's been a complete surprise. We began with the brain, because nothing else we learned would make sense if we didn't understand how our bodies' command center operated. I assumed the lecture would be huge and impersonal, without much engagement, but Professor Bayer is animated and passionate. The first few classes, I noticed some laptops open to social media or online shopping; now nearly everyone is immersed in their notes.

Though I took AP Chemistry and Biology in high school—fives on both, thank you very much—I've often felt more drawn to the humanities. And yet I realize I am curious about the human mind, too, those age-old questions about nature versus nurture, whether we're born innately good or innately evil. How we make decisions and how we tune our moral compass.

Questions that might help me understand my own family, if answers exist.

"You'll get there," Rowan says, and I wish I had her confidence in me. "It's strange, isn't it, to be somewhere no one knows you. To not have that history with anyone."

"To not have you there, urging me to be better."

Her eyes hold all the warmth and understanding I love so much. "I miss it," she says softly. Then she seems to brighten. "I had this idea," she continues, tapping my chest with her index finger. "Something that might make this year easier."

I lift my eyebrows, curiosity piqued.

"I've never been to Europe. You've never been to Europe. What if we did the whole broke college student backpacking thing this summer, as a way to cap off our freshman year? One of my friends went with her boyfriend and said it completely changed her. You can geek out about all the languages, and I can pretend to be annoyed with you when you order for us in flawless French but secretly I'll find it extremely hot."

A grin spreads across my face. I can picture it: sipping espresso in Italian cafés, exploring ancient castle ruins. Rowan there with me.

Unfortunately, I can also picture the enormous price tag.

"I love it," I say, even as that worry twists my stomach.

"Yeah?" Now she's grinning too, perched on the edge of the bench, one leg bouncing up and down excitedly. Her joy is infectious, and for a moment I think I'd say yes to anything if it meant getting to see her this way. "Because I know it's still not going to be cheap. We could take a flight with a hundred layovers and stay in hostels, of course. And it wouldn't be until summer, so that gives us enough time to save up."

"I think we can do it. I still have most of the Howl money, and—we can budget." If there ever was a perfect use for the Howl prize, this is it. I'd never have won without her.

All of high school, my life was full of no. If this is something Rowan wants for us—and the more I think about it, the more I want it, too—then I'll do everything I can to make it happen.

"I'll only eat croissants in Paris, if I really have to."

"And only chocolate in Belgium." I drop a hand to her knee, clutching it. "Or—oh! We could go to Basel, Switzerland. It's right near Switzerland's borders with France and Germany, and Switzerland has four national languages, which is really quite fascinating, and—" I pause. "I feel like I've never said Switzerland as many times as I just did."

"One, I love that you just know that off the top of your head. And two: that sounds amazing."

I've never given much thought to travel. It's always seemed as though I had too many other priorities to allow any space for wanderlust. But God, it's there, that desire to see the world. There's no way I could have studied those languages, often in my spare time, without it sitting beneath the surface.

The fact that she's looking ahead like this, making this plan for us… My heart is suddenly too big for my chest.

"And just so you know," she says, "you'll never be a small fish to me."

"Is that innuendo?"

She just gives an innocent shrug as I pull her toward me for another kiss.

This girl.She could take the gloomiest day and paint it brightest gold.

Eventually we make our way back downtown. Earlier this morning, I managed to grab rush tickets for a new musical adaptation of Romeo and Juliet, and when the lights dim and the curtain goes up, her hand in mine in a back row of the theater, I'm full of nothing but calm. We're sliding back into what we had before summer ended, the two of us fitting together the way we always have.

Only this time we have two new cities to learn. Apart, and then together.

And perhaps, this summer, so many more.