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“That sounds like the plot of a romance novel.”
“About fifty, give or take. Does it still hurt?”
“Not anymore,” I say. Especially not with her touching me like this. Maybe I should play Ultimate Frisbee more often. “Being a redhead is just the gift that keeps on giving—quick to bruise, slow to heal. I’d probably be among the first to die in a zombie apocalypse, huh.”
“Oh, I’m much too weak to survive anything like that. Like, sometimes I don’t eat the crust on sandwiches. We can die together as cowards.”
I thread my fingers with hers as we offer up more of our softest traits, the ones that would make us completely useless in any kind of end-of-the-world scenario. Her inability to fall asleep unless she’s drowning in blankets. My lack of hand-eye coordination. Her preference for scalding-hot showers.
By the time we drop off her luggage at my dorm, my nerves are gone.
Our first stop is a bagel shop a couple blocks away despite it being three in the afternoon, because her affinity for cream cheese is unrivaled and yet somehow, I have a feeling the metric ton of the stuff they put on their bagels won’t be enough for her. My assumption is correct: once she finishes her bagel, she eyes the honey-walnut schmear on mine and asks if she can have a bite.
“This is deeply unfair. I’m going to be dreaming of these bagels until the next time I come back. Writing sonnets about these bagels.” Her brow scrunches. “Figuring out how, exactly, one writes a sonnet.”
“I’m sure they have a class about it at Emerson.”
“You know what, I think they actually do.”
From there, we make our way uptown, swinging by Levain Bakery and taking two of their massive cookies to Central Park. We make small talk that doesn’t feel small—she tells me about the book her parents are working on, and I show her the Lucy photos Natalie has been regularly sending me. Lucy expands her horizons, posed with a book about learning Japanese. Lucy uses the Force, with my Star Wars poster in the background. Lucy gets ripped, her paws propped on my pair of dumbbells.
“New York suits you,” Rowan says when we settle on a park bench amid a sea of tourists and street vendors selling everything from T-shirts and art prints to light-up key chains with miniature Statues of Liberty. “Maybe it was that casual way you swiped your MetroCard, but it’s easy to see you here.”
“Because you’re literally seeing me here, at this very moment?”
She swats at my arm. “It’s easy to see you thriving, I mean. I don’t know anyone who loves learning more than you, and there is just so much here—you’ll never get bored. You wanted to be here, and you fucking did it. You’re just… exactly where you’re supposed to be. Even as much as I miss you.”
“That’s the worst part of New York. The fact that you’re in Boston.”
We squint out into the late-afternoon sun, watching a trio of jugglers toss balls in the air while onlookers drop coins into a jar. Maybe I’ll feel differently when the temperature dips below freezing, but there’s a certain energy here that I don’t always feel when I’m cooped up in my room studying.
“But you love it,” she says, and I detect a note of concern in her voice. “Right?”
Rowan knows why New York is so important to me, what it represented throughout high school. Maybe the only reason it hasn’t lived up to my vision of it is because I haven’t—because I’ve slid right into a routine, the way I did all through high school.
I’ve been waiting for the excitement to overtake me the way it usually does at the beginning of the school year. It’s there, of course, just buried underneath a few layers of stress and wrapped in a few more layers of trepidation.
“It’s intimidating,” I say after a long pause. “But amazing. Of course it’s amazing. Any time of day, you can do just about anything. And there are always people out, even if I’m not one of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been pretty focused on classes and homework. I guess… I guess I haven’t gone out and explored as much as I thought I would. Yet,” I quickly add.
“You can do both,” she says, and maybe it really can be that easy. Her dark eyes grow wide as she gives me this knowing look. “If people only went to college to study, there probably wouldn’t be nearly as many of them. I know you worked hard for this, but it’s okay to let yourself have fun too. We only get to do this once.”
“Fun,” I repeat, as though it’s a foreign concept. “I can definitely try. I want to try.”
“Good. I want a full report.”
I polish off my cookie, making a vow that whatever Skyler asks to do next, I’ll say yes. Even if it’s bungee jumping off the Empire State Building. I’ll pick a club to try out, too—something that’ll get me out of my dorm and into the world.
Somehow, giving myself that permission is an instant comfort.
“How about Emerson? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s super artsy, which I love,” she says. “Everyone’s involved in a hundred clubs, and there’s always someone making a student film outside my dorm. And I like what I’ve seen of Boston so far. Obviously nothing could ever top Seattle for me, but Boston is putting up a good fight.” Her tongue darts out to sweep away a bit of chocolate. “And classes are good. My creative writing class… well, the professor’s incredible. She gives us ten minutes to freewrite at the beginning of each class, which I’ve never really done before, so that’s been new. But I just—” And she breaks off, a hand fluttering through her bangs, not quite making eye contact.
I have only seen Rowan Roth nervous a handful of times.
