Chapter 1: Rowan 1 ROWAN ROMANCE NOVELS DON''T talk about what happens when the heroine and hero go off to different colleges. Of course, this is usually because both people are gainfully employed adults. Maybe they''re lobbying for the same promotion, or one is an environmental activist trying to protect a park from a real estate developer--and its unfairly charming CEO. Or one is a governess to three wild rascals whose father is a grumpy, dashing rake with a hidden vulnerability at his core. There aren''t many rakes who attend small liberal arts schools on the East Coast. "I can''t believe I''m saying this," Neil starts, surveying my room with a grim expression, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, "but I think you might be bringing too many books." I glance up from where I''ve been pleading with my suitcase''s stubborn zipper. "If they''re not close to me, how will I be inspired by them?" Except he might be right, a statement I''d never have allowed to cross my mind until three months ago, because the suitcase is too small and too full and there are still too many things I can''t take with me.
In my defense, most of my stuff is already packed and waiting in the hall downstairs. This is my last suitcase. The one I''ve been dreading, because of everything it symbolizes. When the zipper doesn''t budge, I dig a hand inside and extricate two pastel Nora Roberts paperbacks, weighing them for a moment before putting one back on my bookshelf. Neil lifts an eyebrow. His arms are crossed over his chest, giving him the appearance of a stern, extremely cute statue. With a groan, I add the other one to the shelf too. "You said you needed help," he reminds me.
"In fact, ''I need you to be ruthless'' were your exact words when you sent me that SOS text this morning." "Yeah, but not about Nora ." I return my attention to the suitcase, and after an initial stutter, the zipper slides shut. "You know, I think I''ve been demonstrating extraordinary restraint." I walk over to my closet, nudging aside a few dresses to reveal the stack of mass-market paperbacks that don''t fit on my bookshelf, most of them collected from garage sales and thrift stores. Neil doesn''t even look surprised. "Ah, yes. That infamous Rowan Roth restraint.
She never exaggerates. Never bends the truth. Never romanticizes anything." I give him an intense side-eye, and his faux seriousness finally cracks, gaze softening and mouth tilting into a grin. Late-August sun arrows through my window, illuminating the freckles on his skin and the lovely golden undertones in his auburn hair. This time of year, it doesn''t get dark until after ten o''clock, and we''ve been taking advantage of those daylight hours as much as we can. Most people seemed to think we wouldn''t last the summer, but the past two and a half months have been the best of my life--and that''s not an exaggeration at all. Some days Neil would hole up in the café where I work, sitting in a corner with an iced chai, busy with his own summer job--remote transcription for a local law office--and when Two Birds One Scone closed, we''d take unsold pastries to a park or sneak them into a movie theater.
We''d bring his sister to the beach or skate park, double-date with Kirby and Mara, argue about Star Wars with his friends. A few days ago, we celebrated my nineteenth birthday with a ferry trip to Whidbey Island. We have eaten too much gelato and squinted too many times into the sun, picked out books for each other to read and mapped the entire city on foot. We''ve gotten great at pushing curfew, chasing sunsets, "just ten more minutes." And then fifteen more after that. The whole time, what we''ve really excelled at is putting off talking about the inevitable: the fact that tomorrow, I fly to Boston while he boards a plane to New York. I turn away from the closet. "You like telling me what to do," I say, placing the tip of my index finger on his sternum and slowly inching it upward.
Teasing, which is still one of my favorite things to do to him. He''s already blushing, long lashes fluttering shut. At the beginning of our relationship, I worried he might stop blushing altogether, and it''s been the sweetest surprise that he hasn''t, that he wears his emotions so plainly for me. "Only because there''s no other circumstance under which you''d allow it." The spark in my chest when I tug him closer by the collar of his T-shirt is a familiar little thrill. I intend for it to be a quick peck, but the moment my lips meet his, I dissolve. His hands come up to my hair, deepening the kiss as I propel us backward, shoving at my suitcase to make room for us on the bed. Then I''m in his lap, his earthy scent altering my brain chemistry, each ragged exhale making me crave the next one.
His fingertips on the waist of my shirtdress. My mouth on his throat. There is something about this boy that undoes me every single time, and sometimes I still can''t believe all of it is real. As though perfectly attuned to what''s going on behind it, there''s a knock on my half-cracked door. Neil and I spring to our feet, smoothing our hair and pretending to be immersed in separate tasks: me, unzipping and rezipping the suitcase, Neil, examining the mug on my desk where I keep my pens and pencils, the one with a watercolor splash of the Seattle skyline. We''ve gotten good at that, too, almost as good as my parents are at knowing exactly when we''re about to cross the line into PG-13. It''s become something of a joke, albeit a frustrating one: the fact that it''s nearly impossible to find some alone time. When we slept together for the first time on the last day of school--or I guess technically, the day after the last day of school, since it happened around four in the morning--neither of us had intended for the relationship to progress that far.
I definitely hadn''t woken up that day and imagined I''d be kissing my longtime rival Neil McNair, let alone sneaking him into my bedroom. But it had just felt right , the two of us being connected in that way. I had this new, persistent ache that I''d never be able to get enough of him; I wanted to have long, sometimes contentious conversations about the world just as much as I wanted to learn all the ways our bodies could fit together. Because even if we went from zero to one hundred in a single night, there''s still plenty we haven''t done, bases we''ve skipped that I''ve been hoping we can find our way back around to. His sister just hit the age where their mom is comfortable leaving her home alone all day, and my parents work from their downstairs office. A few times, we tangled ourselves in the back seat of my Honda Accord, at least until a police officer banged on the window and it spooked us so much we haven''t tried it since. My dad steps inside my room and greets Neil with a wave before turning to me. "Ro-Ro?" he says, leaning against the doorframe.
"You just about ready? We should leave soon if we want to get there by five." Before answering him, I take a moment to gaze around the room. The bulletin board above my desk, where I''ve pinned photos of my friends and academic ribbons and a list Neil and I made on the last day of school: Rowan Roth''s Guide to College Success. and Beyond! My senior yearbook with his love confession in it, an item too precious to transport across the country because I''m not sure I could bear it if an airline lost it. And Neil, standing there with an easy smile, one stubborn strand of hair refusing to lie flat. Yes, and no. Theoretically, I''m ready, but I''m also not sure how fearlessly I can let go. "As I''ll ever be," I say, and when I close the door, it somehow feels like I''m shutting away so much more.
My parents insisted on a send-off before I leave, a picnic at Green Lake with black-bean burgers and roasted corn. Kirby Taing and Mara Pompetti are already there, no doubt ready to gloat about their extra weeks of summer because the University of Washington doesn''t start until the end of September. Eager to have a job, my dad lights the grill while my mom passes out compostable plates. Neil''s mom, Joelle, arrives with a Tupperware of cubed watermelon and a wide-brimmed sun hat. A family of redheads means a lot of SPF. It''s only mildly embarrassing for your parents to meet your boyfriend''s mom, something I discovered last month when all five of us went out to dinner. It hadn''t happened with my past boyfriends, felt too serious for those relationships. A strange kind of So, how about our kids'' raging hormones? But they clicked instantly, bonding over their opinions about the new Seattle waterfront (mixed) and whether the Seahawks have a chance at the playoffs this year (no).
We take a few minutes to settle in, exchanging hugs and hellos. All around us, people are playing croquet and walking their dogs and Rollerblading, the latter two occasionally done at the same time, Seattleites soaking up what might be the last nice day of the season. Because in this city, you just never know. "If someone doesn''t promise me this isn''t the end, I might cry," Mara says. Her wavy blond hair is in a loose bun, and a minidress emphasizes her calves, toned from years of dance. With one eye, I watch Neil and my dad standing semi-awkwardly at the grill, as though they''ve decided that this is how they Bond as Men, though Joelle is the one to inform them that the burgers are starting to burn. Next to Mara on the park bench, Kirby gives her shoulder a squeeze. "It.