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No parents, no siblings, no interruptions. Just two and a half days of bliss.
A knock on my door makes me jolt in the uncomfortable chair.
“Game night in ten minutes, if you want to join,” Lexie the RA says cheerily, and I save the document—pointless, there’s nothing meaningful on it—close my laptop, and follow her into the hall.
Rowan—
I’m so happy to have you in this class. I love romance novels too, and I often feel they don’t receive the proper attention in the literary world.
I will admit, though, that I was hoping to see more of you in this first piece of writing, and that it’s feeling a little thin to me. I feel as though I’m reading from a distance, with a boundary placed between you and the reader. I’m not sure if that was your intention? Either way, what I encourage for your next piece is to let go of the reins a bit more. Let your natural voice out.
Looking forward to reading your next assignment.
—M.E.
6
NEIL
SHE’S AN AUTUMN fever 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.”
