“Right,” I say, swiping my wrist across my eyebrow. The moment is gone—because that’s how it always is, isn’t it? What happens in my head is better than the reality. “Hand me that towel?”
* * *
Once I lock the doors, Neil makes a strange clicking sound with his tongue.
“You know,” he says. “We’re actually not far from that open mic. We have time to make it, if you still want to see Delilah.”
The air bites at my cheeks. “We shouldn’t,” I say. But we have only two clues left, and the thought of this night ending, being done with Neil… it makes me unreasonably sad. The open mic would at least increase our time together.
“Okay.” He jams his hands into his pockets and turns down the street where my car is parked.
“Okay?” I have to jog to keep up with him. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”
He shrugs. “If you don’t want to see her, don’t see her.”
“Is this some kind of reverse-psychology bullshit?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“I really hate you.”
“You don’t have to do it. We can get in the car right now. But you love her, don’t you? If not today, when will you get another chance? What excuse will you make the next time your favorite author is in town, or when someone wants to know what kind of book you’re writing?” He leans in, plants one hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to be encouraging, I think, but it’s incredibly distracting. “I know you can do this. You’re the person who revolutionized garbage collection at Westview, remember?”
Despite myself, I crack a smile at that.
“So hear me out,” he continues. “If you don’t just do it and rip the Band-Aid off—”
“Two clichés in one sentence?” I say, and he shoots daggers at me.
“—you might wish you had. All that regret you were talking about earlier, with the success guide—here’s a goal you can accomplish now, even if you can’t cross it off some list.”
I try to visualize it—but I’ve never been to Bernadette’s, so I can’t. Maybe I’ll stumble over my words, make a fool of myself in front of Delilah. But today was supposed to be about owning this thing that I love, and I’ve already made so much progress with Neil of all people. It felt so great to finally talk about it. Freeing.
And I don’t think I’m done yet.
“You win,” I say.
When he grins, it’s bright enough to light up the night sky.
It’s kind of beautiful.
SIX THINGS ABOUT NEIL MCNAIR THAT ARE NOT ACTUALLY TERRIBLE
- He occasionally wears T-shirts.
- His knowledge of words and languages is somewhat impressive.
- He’s a decent listener—when he’s not being combative.
- He read Nora Roberts.
- He knew, somehow, that I could do that open mic, even if I didn’t.
- His freckles. All seven thousand of them.
10:42 p.m.
BERNADETTE’S IS DESIGNED to look like an old speakeasy, dimly lit, black-and-white photographs of old Seattle lining the walls. Tables and chairs point toward a small stage in the back, where a girl maybe a few years older than we are is onstage, sawing back and forth across a violin. No—a viola.
“She probably already left,” I whisper to Neil. “Or she’ll think it’s stalker-y that a fan tracked her down to get some books signed.”
“Or she’ll be flattered,” he says.
I run my fingers through my bangs, pushing them to the left where they’re supposed to sit after years of combing to teach them to lie flat that way. I’m growing them out, and that’s final.
I like them the way they are, Neil said about my bangs earlier. It ricochets off the inside of my skull until it’s I like I like I like I like over and over and over again. When I catch him looking, he quickly glances away, and I feel myself flush.
Naturally, that’s when I spot her, sitting with another woman at a table a few feet away.
She’s flawless, laughing at something the other woman is saying in this full but quiet way. Her black hair is cut in a sleek bob, and she’s wearing a navy jumpsuit with white hearts all over it. Little heart decals even adorn her nails.
And of course I have what looks like shit staining the front of my dress.
“Say hi,” Neil whispers, placing a hand on the small of my back.
Somehow, I propel myself forward. “Sorry, but—are you, um, Delilah Park?”
Delilah and her tablemate turn to us. Her berry lips curve into a warm smile. “I am.” Ever polite, she gestures to the woman next to her, dressed in a fitted blazer and ignoring how often her phone lights up on the table in front of her. “This is my publicist, Grace. I’m so sorry, I just performed about twenty minutes ago.”
Cool, cool, I’ll just disappear now. I’m ready to turn and run when Neil taps my backpack.
Courage. I can do this.
“I love your books,” I blurt. “I mean, I’m sure you get that a lot. Because obviously if someone is going to one of your events, it’s because they love your books, unless they’re being dragged there by someone else, in which case they should still, like, be respectful and not outright tell you they don’t love your books? Not that I’m saying a bunch of the people who go to your events don’t love your books. I’m sure nearly all of them do. And I definitely do. Love your books, that is.”
Grace tries to suppress a grin.
“Thank you,” Delilah says, and she sounds genuine. “Did we meet at the bookstore earlier?”
I shake my head. “I missed the signing. It’s a long story that involves the zoo and a pot cookie and a really complicated game.”
“Um, that sounds like the best story,” she says, like we’re friends.
My shoulders dip with relief. Somehow, I am speaking to her. I’m having a conversation with Delilah Park, whose words I’ve admired for so many years.
“Is this the person who doesn’t love my books who you dragged with you?” she asks, gesturing to Neil.
I feel myself flush hotter, but there’s kindness in her voice. She isn’t making fun of me.
“I haven’t read any yet,” Neil admits, and then locks eyes with me before adding, “but I want to.”
I am floating. “I have some books with me, if you don’t mind signing them?”
“Absolutely,” she says. Grace is already handing her a pen. “Who should I sign them to?”
I spell my name for her. Grace has Delilah’s lip stamp, too, and when she presses it into the ink pad and then onto the page, I am shocked I’m still standing. It gives me a sense of déjà vu after what happened with Neil and my parents. I guess we can’t help it—we’re both book nerds.
“It was so great to meet you, Rowan,” she says, passing the books back to me. She gestures toward the stage. “Are you performing something?”
“Actually,” someone says, and with horror I realize that someone is me, “I was just going to sign up.”
Maybe she tells me good luck or that she’s looking forward to it or that I’m about to make the worst mistake of my life. This is when my brain temporarily shuts off, and Neil has to guide me to a table.