“It’s the right decision for me. For a lot of reasons.”
“I’ll have to change your nicknames.” When he makes an odd face, I add: “I look forward to it.”
I lean in and kiss him. It’s so easy to get caught up in the moment with him, for the outside world to dissolve away.
“I also, um, got something for you,” he says after a few moments, shifting so he can get to his backpack. “After we split up, I passed by a QFC, and I thought it might at least make you smile if you decided you wanted to talk to me again. And that maybe you’d be hungry.” With that, he reveals the gift: a tub of Philadelphia with a red ribbon around it, and a compostable bag with two bagels inside. “I also have a spoon, if you prefer it that way.”
“You’re never going to let me forget that, huh?” I say, though my heart trips over this unexpected gift. It’s ridiculous, yes, but it’s also so damn sweet.
“No. I love it. I—” He breaks off, as though realizing he might reveal something he’s not sure I’m ready for.
“I love you too,” I say, and the horror on his face eases back into calm. It’s so easy to say, and it gives me such a rush that I immediately want to say it again. “I, um, I read what you wrote in my yearbook. In my defense, it was tomorrow, and I thought you hated me. But I’m in love with you, Neil McNair—Neil Perlman—and I think maybe I’ve been in love with you for a long time. It just took my brain a while to catch up to my heart. I don’t know how I missed it, but you are pretty fucking great.”
It’s incredible to watch someone melt in front of you. His face softens and his lips part, and he pulls me so close that I can feel our hearts thudding against each other.
“I know I wrote it down, but I have to say it out loud now too,” he says. I brace myself for it. I’ve wanted to hear those words ever since I found that first romance novel at a garage sale. “I’m in love with you. You are the most interesting person I know, and I’ve never been able to talk to anyone the way I can talk to you. I’ve devoted the past four years to leaving Seattle, but you… You are the best thing about this city. You are going to be the hardest to leave. I love you so much.”
From all the books I’ve read, I thought I understood the concept of love, but wow, I knew nothing. I fold myself into him, not because I want his body heat but because I can’t seem to get as close as I want to be. I thought I was prepared to hear it. After all, I’d already seen it in writing. But it fills me up completely, to the point where my chest nearly aches. I’ve given this boy the messiest parts of me, and he’s done nothing but convince me he’ll be careful with them.
With starry eyes, we kiss and we watch the sky and we dip bagels into cream cheese. When we finish eating, I reach into my backpack and pull out Rowan Roth’s Guide to High School Success.
“So this was kind of bullshit, huh?”
“Not bullshit,” he says. “But possibly not the most encouraging or inspiring thing?”
“I don’t know if I want to tear it up.” I flip it over on the railing, smooth out the wrinkles. “But maybe we could write a new one?”
Rowan Roth’s Guide to College Success… and Beyond!
By Rowan Luisa Roth, age 18 and Neil (Perlman) McNair, age 18
Abandon the idea of “perfect” because it doesn’t exist. No one wants a perfect cinnamon roll; they want one that’s wonky and misshapen and slathered with icing. Cream cheese icing, of course.
Finish my book. Write another one.
Take as many classes that sound interesting as I can. Creative writing, and maybe Spanish, and maybe some other things too. Keep an OPEN MIND!
Listen to more happy music, though melancholy music has its time and place too.
Enjoy as many nights like this as possible.
3:28 a.m.
THE POWER IS still out, and Neil McNair is in my room, and that is somehow not the strangest thing that’s happened today.
After we finished our list, I asked if he wanted to come back to my house, since he never got a chance to see my room. It’s the right ending to this day: letting him into my little piece of the world, the way he let me into his.
I am extremely grateful my parents are downstairs and heavy sleepers. I’m sure they won’t be up until after noon, but I don’t want to take any chances, so we tiptoe inside, and I have to force myself to whisper.
My phone has some juice from my car charger, so I find a soft but not too mopey Smiths song and hit play.
“So this is Rowan Roth’s room,” he says, trailing a hand along my desk. I love the way he looks in my room, softly lit from a flashlight. He glances from the photo collages and academic awards on my walls to the books stacked on my nightstand to the dresses spilling out of my closet.
“Yep. All the magic happens right here.”
“I like it. It’s very you.” He turns so his back is to the desk. “What do you feel like doing?”
“Hmm… I was thinking Monopoly.”
“Monopoly?” There’s that lazy grin. “Okay, but I’m really good at Monopoly, and it’s going to be embarrassing if I beat you aga—”
My lips are already on his. This kiss feels heavier than what happened at the museum, in the gym, at Kerry Park. Like someone stuck us in an electric socket or lit us on fire. He buries his hands in my hair, propelling me backward. When the backs of my knees hit the bed, he whispers, “Sorry,” and I have to hold in a laugh as I tug him down next to me. Climb into his lap. Then we’re kissing again, and his glasses keep falling down, so he whips them off and places them on the nightstand. He is so adorable and so hot and so sweet, always so sweet.
“I want to see you,” I say, my fingers flirting with the hem of his T-shirt.
“I’m warning you, it’s a lot of freckles.” But he pulls it off, revealing, to my delight, the wonderfully freckled stomach I got a glimpse of earlier.
“I love your freckles. Really and truly.”
I leave invisible handprints all over his chest, learning exactly where he’s ticklish. He skims his hands up to my knees, my hips, beneath the dress that has suddenly become a straitjacket. I twist on his lap, trying to reach the zipper. He has to help me with it, and together we tug it off.
Once I’m in just my bra and underwear, he stares.
“I’m not unattractive, right?” I say, because teasing him will never stop being fun.
“Now you know why I was wholly incapable of paying you a compliment. You are spectacular,” he says, leaning in to kiss down my neck. “And stunning. And—sexy.” There’s a beat before he says that last one, and the word makes me shudder. God.
“You are going to destroy me,” I whisper.
Losing my dress makes me kiss him with even more urgency. I run my hand over the front of his jeans, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. It’s maybe the best sound I’ve ever heard, at least until I unzip and unbuckle and cast his jeans aside completely, pressing him deeper into the bed, and he releases another breathy groan again. Yep, I’m destroyed.
For a while we dissolve into a blur of lips and sighs and touches. The occasional mattress squeak when we reposition, a thin layer of fabric separating us. With every new touch, he’s timid at first, and it fucking kills me.