8:51 p.m.
“PETRICHOR,” NEIL SAYS as we creep toward the library. We parked a few blocks from the school to make sure no one would recognize my car. We’re in a residential neighborhood, half the homes already shut down for the night. A man tugs his dog away from a row of flowers, while across the street a trio of girls in fancy dresses piles into a Lyft.
“What?” I ask, lugging the books in a canvas grocery bag.
“The smell of the earth after the rain,” he says. “It’s a great word, isn’t it?”
I tug his hoodie closer. We’re not soaking wet anymore, just a little damp. Now that we’re outside again, I’m convinced the scent of his hoodie had to be the rain. I’m not still thinking about it, but if I were, it’s just… petrichor.
“So you know the plan?” he says as we head down the sidewalk.
We discussed it in the car after googling “how to break in to a library” because we are nothing if not resourceful.
“Yep.” I hold up the backpack filled with books. “We find a window and see if it’s unlocked. Then we get in and drop off the books.”
“And then we get the hell out,” Neil says.
“You’re sure there’s no security system?”
“Not for the library.”
We match each other’s steps, and I try my best to ignore the scent of his hoodie.
“I can add this to the list of my sentimental late-night Westview memories,” I say. “Right after hooking up with Luke Barrows for the first time in his car, parked right around… there.” I point across the street.
He mock-gasps. “Rowan Roth, I thought you were a good girl.”
That stops me in my tracks.
“I am,” I say, extremely aware of the thud of my heartbeat, “but… that doesn’t mean I’m a virgin.”
“Oh—I didn’t mean—”
“Because you assumed good girls—girls like me who get straight A’s—don’t have sex?” My voice is a little too hard-edged, but I can’t help it. He fell right into something I happen to feel particularly strongly about. I don’t know what’s messing with my head more, wondering what Neil might have meant or that we’re now officially talking about sex. “You realize how wrong and outdated that is, right? Good girls aren’t supposed to have sex, but if they don’t, they’re prudes, and if they do, they’re sluts. And of course, none of that takes the spectrum of gender or sexuality into account. Things are starting to change slowly, but the fact is, it’s still completely different for guys.”
Neil chokes on what I assume is his tongue, his wide eyes indicating he had no idea this was where the conversation was going. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, clearly making every effort not to meet my gaze, “seeing as I’ve never… you know.”
Oh my God, he can’t even say the word.
“Had sex?” I say, and he nods.
“I’ve done other things,” he adds quickly. “I’ve done… everything else, just about. Everything except…” He waves his hand.
Other things. My mind goes a bit wild with that, wondering if other things means the same for him as it does for me. And here’s my answer to the question I had earlier: Neil is a virgin.
“Sex.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not a bad word,” I say.
“I know that.”
We start walking again. A few years ago, I’d have been utterly embarrassed by this conversation. While my friends and I have had these kinds of discussions—Kirby won’t miss an opportunity to rail on the patriarchy—I’ve never talked like this with a guy. Not Luke, not Spencer. Romance novels should have made me less afraid. I’ve read the words so many times. I should be able to say them out loud, but it hasn’t been easy when I can’t even admit I love those books in the first place. And here I am, finally saying what I want, and it’s with Neil of all people.
“You’ve…?” he says, letting me fill in the blank.
“Yeah, with Spencer. And Luke,” I say, and I appreciate that he doesn’t have a dramatic reaction to this. “I don’t know why it should be embarrassing when so many of us think about it so often. And yet it’s especially taboo for girls to talk about it.” This is another reason I love romance novels: the way they attempt to normalize these conversations. Not saying the world would be better if more people read romance novels, but… well, yeah. I am. “Masturbation is the worst double standard.”
The sky is nearly black, but a streetlamp slashes light across his extremely red face.
“I’m… familiar with the topic.”
I snort. “I’m sure you are. It’s just assumed that guys do it, so much so that guys can even joke about it. But for girls, it sometimes still feels like this dirty thing we’re not supposed to talk about, even though it’s perfectly healthy and plenty of us do it.”
“So you…”
“I mean, I’m not going to give you a play-by-play.”
He coughs again, and it turns into a choking fit. This is it. I have murdered Neil McNair.
He holds up a hand as though to assure me he’s okay. “I’ve learned a lot tonight.”
We’ve reached the senior parking lot on the edge of the library. I’m grateful to refocus on the reason we’re here, because truthfully, the conversation was making me a little feverish. And my brain won’t quit with the other things spiral, summoning a variety of helpful images to fill in the many, many options.
More likely, though, I’m anxious about the break-in. That would account for my increased heart rate.
“I’ll go check these windows,” McNair says, jogging several yards away, and once he leaves my general bubble, I let out a long, shaky breath and rearrange my bangs.
First I try the back library door. It doesn’t budge. “Back door’s locked,” I call to Neil. I push at a window. “Damn it. If anyone spots us here, do you think they’d rob us of our titles? I mean… we’re breaking and entering to return books. They wouldn’t call the police, would they? Since we go here? Or went here? All of these are stuck. There’s supposed to be something you can do with a credit card, right?”
I unearth a card from my backpack and locate a very helpful wikiHow. “It says to wedge the card into the gap between the door and the frame, and—Neil?”
I turn to Neil, who’s suddenly struggling to muffle a laugh. He fantastically fails, the laughter sputtering out.
“What? What’s so funny?”
He shakes his head, doubling over as he clutches his stomach. I get the sense he’s laughing at me.
“Neil McNair. I demand you explain yourself.”
He holds up a finger and digs into his pocket, revealing a key ring. “I—I work here,” he manages to say around a laugh. “Or—worked here. I should probably turn this thing in while we’re here.”
“Seriously? This whole time?” I reach for them, but he holds them out of my grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me you still had a key?” But I’m laughing too. A little bit.
“I wanted to see if you’d actually try to do it. I didn’t think it would go this far. I thought you’d give up sooner.”