It’s real.
Neil loves me.
Earlier today, I couldn’t picture him kissing anyone. Is it because I can only picture this happening with me, that Rowan plus Neil is this inevitability everyone has known except us? Kirby and Mara, Chantal Okafor in student council, Logan Perez who let us into the safe zone, my parents…
Do I love Neil McNair?
Even if I’m not entirely certain, the reality is that I really think I could.
I have to get off this fucking Ferris wheel.
Life is funny, though: the most romantic moment of my life, and I’m at the top of a Ferris wheel with a yearbook instead of the boy who wrote in it that he’s in love with me.
* * *
The Museum of the Mysteries, located in a downtown Seattle basement, is Seattle’s only museum dedicated to the paranormal. I’m not sure why they need to explain it or why the city would ever need more than one museum dedicated to the paranormal, but there it is on the sign in front.
Can we talk? I texted Neil once the Ferris wheel touched down. I feel really awful about what happened. And I think I figured out the last clue. No one’s won Howl yet, or we’d have received a message blast. I’m determined to make things up to him.
He replied ok without any punctuation, very un-Neil-like. He was clearly upset if he wouldn’t spell out the word, but maybe it’s proof he still feels the way he did when he wrote in my yearbook that he agreed to meet back up. Or he wants to win this game and be done with tonight.
He’s waiting on a bricked street with a rickety staircase that leads to the museum. His hair is mussed, his posture slightly hunched. Why did I ever tease him about those freckles? I love them. I love every single one of them. I love his freckles and his red hair and the too-short legs of his suit pants and the too-long sleeves, the way he laughs, the way he pushes up his glasses to rub his eyes.
I am in love with you, Rowan Roth.
He lifts one hand in a wave, and I melt.
I am in so much trouble.
“Hi,” I say in a small voice.
“Hey.”
“Eerie that it’s—” I say, at the same time he says, “Should we—”
“What was that?” he asks.
“Oh. Um. I was going to say, it’s eerie that it’s open so late.”
“It is Seattle’s only museum dedicated entirely to the paranormal,” he says, pointing to the sign.
He’s not quite as stiff as I thought he’d be. We both reach for the door at the same time, our hands brushing. Then we yank them away like we’ve touched fire.
The woman working here is reading a book behind the counter. She has white-blond hair down to her hips and large purple glasses.
“Evening,” she says, barely glancing at us.
We pay the cheap entry fee, thank her, and venture farther into the museum. A strange soundtrack is playing, a classical piece punctuated by screams. It feels like we’re in a haunted house. We keep bumping into each other, like our feet have forgotten how to walk.
“I, um, got the ‘view from up high clue,’ ” I say.
“Me too.” But he doesn’t ask where I went, so I don’t either.
We pause in front of a display about the Maury Island UFO Incident.
I read off the plaque: “ ‘The Maury Island UFO Incident occurred in June 1947. Following sightings of unidentified flying objects over Maury Island in Puget Sound, Fred Crisman and Harold Dahl claimed to witness falling debris and threats by men in black. Dahl later took back his claims and stated it was a hoax… BUT WAS IT?’ ” I tap my chin. “A little bit of editorializing, I think.”
He just grunts.
None of our silences have been this awkward.
“You could take your sister here,” I suggest, trying to lighten the mood.
He shrugs. “She might get scared. She’s not really into creepy stuff, especially after the whole Blorgon Seven thing.”
“Oh. Right.” I round a corner and point to a sign that says THE D. B. COOPER ROOM. “He’s got an entire room to himself, lucky guy.”
One wall lists all the facts known about him:
Ordered a bourbon and soda
Midforties
Dark-brown eyes
Wore a mother-of-pearl tie pin and a black necktie
Receding hairline
Had some level of aviation knowledge
The FBI retired his case in 2016, but clearly Pacific Northwesterners are still fascinated by it, as demonstrated by this exhibit.
“He’s got to be dead,” Neil says. “There’s no way he survived that jump.”
“I don’t know. It’s cool to imagine that he’s still out there somewhere. He’d be ancient at this point, but he could’ve had kids. Maybe he got away with it and outsmarted all of us.” We pause in front of a wax bust of his head. “Kind of a hottie,” I say, trying to lighten the mood again.
“Middle-aged and balding is your type?”
No, freckled redheads who alter their own suits are my type. “Oh yeah,” I say, and it feels, for a split second, like we’re back to normal. But then Neil walks around the room, snaps a photo.
“I guess that’s it,” he says. “We’re done. We can go to the gym and divide up the prize and go our separate ways, like you wanted. You don’t have to give me your share as some kind of pity money.”
And if that isn’t a gut-punch.
He turns to go, but I reach for his arm.
“Neil. Wait.”
“I can’t, Rowan.” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, as though wishing he could pull a D. B. Cooper and disappear. “This was a ridiculous idea, the two of us teaming up. If we tried to destroy each other for four years, why would we suddenly get along tonight?”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry for what I said about your dad. I didn’t mean it. You shared so much personal stuff with me today, and I should have treated that with more respect.”
“You should have. I agree.”
I take a step back, trying to give him space. “I want to be friends.”
He snorts. “Why the hell would you want that? You made it pretty clear earlier that’s not what we are.”
“You’re right. I did.” I take a deep breath. “Look… you’ve been a huge pain in my ass for the past four years, but you’re also all these things I didn’t know until today. You’re an excellent dancer. You love children’s books. You care about your family. And you’re Jewish, and, well… it’s nice to know another one.”
“You’ll meet plenty of other Jewish kids in Boston.”
“You’re making it really hard for me to compliment you.”
He gives me a sheepish smile, and at that I finally feel myself relax. We can be okay. We have to be. “I’m sorry about what I said, too,” he says. “About you sabotaging yourself. That was… completely out of line. You were incredible at that open mic, and—and I should have given you more credit for that.”
“You weren’t entirely wrong, though.” I lean against the railing, a couple feet from him, testing our boundaries. “I’m a bit of a dreamer, and I stand in my own way. Sometimes it feels like competing with you is the only thing that’s grounded me.” I pause, then: “I called my parents. I told them about my book.”