“Now that we’re friends,” he says, “can you tell me more about your book?”
His words remind me how close I was to meeting Delilah Park. She’s probably back at her hotel at this point. Off to her next tour stop tomorrow.
If I can’t be brave there, maybe I can be brave here.
“You really want to know?” When he nods, I take a deep breath. Anything to take my mind off whatever’s happening with our shoes and what I may or may not want to happen with the rest of our bodies. “It’s… sort of a workplace romance. Between two coworkers.”
Hannah and Hayden. Two made-up people who’ve lived in my head since the summer before junior year. Hannah came to me first, a free-spirited, smart-mouthed lawyer with a mix of traits from my favorite heroines. Then Hayden, the uptight attorney with a hidden soft side, challenging her for a promotion. Opposites attract is my favorite trope, so it made sense to start there. Because, of course, the thing about opposites: they always have a lot more in common than they think.
Sometimes I think about them before I go to sleep, then dream about them. Telling Neil about them feels like I’m telling him about my imaginary friends. In a way, I kind of am.
“Was that so hard to say?”
“Yes! It was,” I say, but now that it’s out there, it doesn’t feel nearly as terrifying.
“Isn’t the whole point of being a writer for someone to read your stuff?”
“I mean—yes, ugh, but I haven’t gotten there yet,” I protest. “It’s… complicated. No one’s ever read anything I’ve written that wasn’t for school.”
Theoretically, I want to share my work. I want to fully own this thing I want to spend my life doing. I want to not care when people call it a guilty pleasure, or have the courage to convince them why they’re wrong. Or even better, the confidence not to care what they think.
“You want to, though,” he says.
I nod.
“Let’s say you’re not instantly perfect at this. You keep trying. You get better.”
“I don’t know, that sounds like a lot of work,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“I have an idea. But you might hate it.” When I lift my eyebrows at him, he continues: “What if… you let me read it? Just a page or two? What could be scarier than me reading it, right?”
Surprisingly, I don’t hate his suggestion. His expression is soft, and I’m convinced he wouldn’t laugh at it. What’s more surprising is that I want to show him. He loves words as much as I do—I want to know what he thinks.
“You wrote a fucking book. Do you know how many people wish they could do that, or how many people talk about doing it and never do?” He shakes his head, as though he’s impressed by me, and I want so badly to be that impressed with myself. “You saw Vision in White in my room. I’m not the guy I was freshman year. And you can tell me to stop whenever you want, okay? I’ll put it down as soon as you say the word.”
He’s being so sweet about this. I want to tell him how much this lack of judgment means to me, but maybe it’s easier to show him.
“I—I know.” With trembling hands, I find the file on my phone and pass it to him. I shut my eyes, my heart pounding. I can’t see him, but I can sense him right next to me, hear the softest swipe of his thumb on the phone screen.
“Chapter one,” he starts.
“Oh my God. Please don’t read it out loud.”
“Fine, fine.” He goes quiet, and I last only a few seconds before I lose it.
“I take it back. The silence is worse.”
He laughs. “Do you want me to just not read it?”
I let out a shaky breath, wiggling my shoulders to release the tension there. “No. This is good for me. Keep going, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Okay,” he says. “Chapter one. Hannah had despised Hayden for two years, one month, four days, and fifteen—no, sixteen—minutes.…”
Chapter 1
Hannah had despised Hayden for two years, one month, four days, and fifteen—no, sixteen—minutes.
She remembered the exact moment he’d walked into the office, his suit impeccable, not a hair on his head out of place. She knew because she’d been glancing—okay, staring—at the clock that hung above her desk, counting down the minutes until her boss’s next meltdown.
She’d already heard more than she wanted to about this new hire, a graduate from Yale Law who also held an MBA from Penn. No one else at the firm had multiple advanced degrees, and Hannah knew this thrilled the partners; the trio of salt-and-pepper-haired men in the swanky corner office.
Hannah, however, was a little less thrilled. She was on track to be made partner, and she wasn’t about to let this multiple-degreed hotshot get in her way. Not when she’d given the firm sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week for the past five years of her life. She hadn’t gone on a vacation or a second date since law school, but it would all be worth it when she had a swanky corner office too.
If Hayden Walker didn’t get in her way.
So she watched as he flicked raindrops off his jacket and made his way toward his desk, which happened to be right across from hers.
He gazed down at her with electric-blue eyes. “Are you my secretary?” he’d asked.
Of course he had a British accent.
9:20 p.m.
“YOU CAN STOP there,” I say softly.
Without missing a beat, he passes my phone back to me. He doesn’t try to read ahead or hang on to it any longer—he listens. He didn’t put on a voice, not even when he was reading the dialogue. He read it like he was in front of the classroom, giving a presentation. When I finally regain enough composure to look at him, his cheeks are flushed.
I liked how my words sounded in his voice.
“That was…”
“Horrible? Should I quit? I’ll quit.”
“No. God, no. Not at all. Artoo, that was really, really good. You should have used a comma in that third paragraph, not a semicolon—”
“I sincerely despise you.”
He offers a sheepish smile. “You’re a great writer. I mean it. That was so… tense.”
Now I’m blushing too. Neil McNair likes my writing. More than that, hearing him read it made me realize how much I like this story and these characters.
“Nothing even happened between them,” I say.
“It’s the anticipation, though. The reader knows something will happen.”
“The anticipation is great, don’t get me wrong. I love it. But I love the happily-ever-after that a romance novel almost always guarantees. Even if it’s not realistic.”
“Happiness is, though,” Neil says. “Or it can be. Maybe not ever-after kind of happiness, but that doesn’t make it any less real. My mom and Christopher have gone through a lot. Shouldn’t you want that other person to help you through difficult stuff?”
“That kind of stuff doesn’t happen after the epilogue,” I admit. “Most of Delilah’s books end with a marriage or a proposal and the assumption that everything’s going to be perfect. I know sometimes it really is just a fantasy. Obviously, Spencer and I weren’t perfect.”
Spencer, the boy I tried to force into the role I’d dreamed up. What would the past semester have looked like if I’d broken up with him, given myself permission not to have a PHSB by the end of it? I could have had more fun, I’m sure. I could have spent more time with Kirby and Mara instead of trying to interpret Spencer’s latest cryptic text.
“I’ve never felt that way about anyone either,” he says, and I sit a little straighter, ready for more Neil McNair Relationship History. “The relationships I had… They were nice, but not earth-shattering. I don’t know. Are relationships supposed to feel that way?”
“Earth-shattering?”
“Yeah. Like every moment you’re with them, your head is spinning and you can’t catch your breath and you just know that this person is changing your life for the better. Someone who challenges you to be better.”
“I—I think so,”
I say, because he’s caught me off guard, and I really am unsure. Spencer didn’t challenge me—he wasn’t a question on an AP exam. What I don’t tell Neil is that I’ve been looking for that earth-shattering love too, and sometimes I want it so badly, I’m convinced I could wish it into existence.
“You’re going to think this is bonkers, but Bailey and I… We broke up because she thought I had a thing for you.”
I snort. Loudly. It’s so ludicrous. “Oh my God. Kirby and Mara—they think I’m obsessed with you.”
“My friends think I’m obsessed with you!”
This sends us into a fit of laughter for a solid couple minutes.
Neil recovers first. “I really thought romance novels were just…” He waves his hand. “Sex.” Though he says it a little less awkwardly this time, he still leaves plenty of space around the word.
“Well. That’s often part of it, but not all the time. And… I definitely don’t hate that part. But they’re so much more than that. They’re about the characters and their relationships. How they complement and challenge each other, how they overcome something together.” I break off, then add: “Although they did lead me to believe my first kiss would be more magical than it actually was.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“Gavin Hawley. Seventh grade. We both had braces. We were doomed.”
“I’ll do you one better. You know how I get nosebleeds in the winter?”
“Oh. Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says. “Chloe Lim, eighth grade. In the cafeteria, which in hindsight was absolutely the worst idea I’ve ever had. Everyone called it the Red Necking.” This makes me snort-laugh, and he shakes his head. “I was traumatized. I didn’t kiss another girl for two years after that.”
But he’s laughing too. I love the sound of his laugh, and the way he looks when he’s laughing. It’s like he lets himself go, forgets that he’s supposed to be stiff and smug. I don’t think I’d ever really seen it until today.
“Will you finally sign my yearbook now?” he asks when we quiet down. “I have to have a Rowan Roth autograph for when you get famous.”
A waterfall of relief. “I’ve been feeling like garbage ever since I said no.”
I write the nicest message I can muster, one that recounts some of our past rivalries and wishes him all the best next year. Neil takes his time. The pen stops and starts, and he taps it on his chin, smudges his hand with ink.
When we swap back, I make a move to open mine up, but he lunges for it.
“Don’t read it until tomorrow,” he says.
“It’s almost tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just don’t read it while I’m here, okay?”
Naturally, it makes me more curious, but given that I only just let someone read my writing, I can’t blame him. It can be awkward to read a yearbook message in front of the person who wrote it.
“Fine. Then don’t read mine, either.” I tuck the yearbook into my backpack. “We should go. Unless there are any clues we could find here?”
“Oh—a floppy disk!” I’m positive it’s the most enthusiastic anyone’s been about a floppy disk in at least two decades. “This is exactly where we’d find one, right? I’ll check the resource room.” He jumps to his feet, but before he leaves our aisle, he kneels back down as though he forgot something. “The one down the hall. Next to the science wing. I just want to be really clear about where I’m going this time. I know you get freaked out when I leave.”
* * *
When he comes back five minutes later, he’s holding a floppy disk, a roll of streamers, and a pack of Skittles.
“I assume that doesn’t have anything to do with the mysterious Mr. Cooper,” I say, gesturing to the streamers and the Skittles.
“I had this idea.” He places everything on the circulation desk, spending an inordinate amount of time arranging each object, as though mulling what he’s going to say next. “You didn’t go to prom. We’ve been talking so much about high school ending, and it seems to be this quintessential high school experience, at least if movies and TV are to be believed.”
“Right…”
“Well, the food was pretty mediocre.” He holds up the Skittles. “And here’s an appropriately cheesy song.” He scrolls through his phone, then hits play on an old song from High School Musical, and I snort because it really is cheesy. “My sister just discovered it. I will graciously accept your condolences.” Then he makes his face serious, sliding his phone onto the circulation desk and holding out his hand. “It won’t be the perfect prom from your success guide, but… will you go to prom with me?”
I stop laughing because while part of me finds this corny as hell, it’s also incredibly sweet. My heart is in my throat. I can’t remember the last time someone did something this nice for me.
Behind his glasses, his gaze is steady. Unwavering. It makes me even more aware of how wobbly I’ve suddenly become.
“We should leave” is what comes out instead of yes. Clearly, my brain-to-mouth connection is broken when it comes to him.
His expression doesn’t falter. “One dance?”
And God, he looks so earnest in the darkness that I have no idea why I didn’t give him my hand immediately.
“Fine,” I relent, “but not this one.”
I find something else on my own phone, something soft and lovely by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.
“Much better,” he agrees.
I slide one hand into his and bring my other up to his shoulder, while his free hand settles on my waist. I’ve danced with people before—Spencer, Luke, a couple awkward guys in middle school—but we’d already been dating. This is uncharted territory. Because we’re the same height, we’re staring directly into each other’s eyes, my right hand clasped in his left.
“We don’t have to leave room for Jesus,” he says. “Or whatever the Jewish equivalent is. If there is one. Leave room for Moses?”
“Leave the door open for Elijah,” I say, and he snorts.
“Yes. That’s the Jewish version.”
“And we’re the worst Jews.” Still, I inch closer. “But it’s awkward, staring at you like this. I’m going to spend this whole thing trying not to laugh.”
He shifts so his hand on my lower back gently pushes me closer to him, so I can rest my head in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Oh. Wow. We are… much closer than we were a second ago, and he is solid and confident and warm, which I don’t understand, since he’s been in a T-shirt most of the day. God. That dorky T-shirt. QUIDQUID LATINE DICTUM, ALTUM VIDETUR. It might as well mean “look at these sick biceps.”
“Better?” he asks, his breath hot on my cheek, my ear. That single word travels down my spine and into my toes, an electric current. I’m reminded of my freshman-year crush, when for twelve days I fantasized about the two of us going to homecoming together. Is this what it would have been like? How he would have held me?
Probably not, I decide. I towered over him back then, before his growth spurt brought him up to my height. And he was scrawny, and now he is decidedly… not.
“Mm-hmm,” I manage to say, but I’m not actually sure it is. It’s both better and worse because Neil McNair is a fucking paradox. That good hoodie smell from earlier—it wasn’t the rain. It was just him. If my face is flushed from being this close, at least he can’t see it.
“Good.”
As we sway back and forth to the music, one thing becomes apparent right away:
“I’m not great at this,” I say after apologizing for stepping on his feet.
It transports me to this scene in Sweet as Sugar Lake, where diner owner Emma closed the place early so she could teach her best friend (and longtime crush) Charlie how to dance before his brother’s wedding. It still stings, missing my chance to take a photo with the replica of the Sugar Lake gazebo Delilah was bringing on tour.
“It’s okay. I make up for it.”
It’s arrogant but true. He’s good, while my dancing styl
e draws inspiration from those floppy things at car dealerships. “You are, like, absurdly good.”
“I took dance as a kid. Ballet and jazz, mostly. A couple tap classes here and there.”
“That is really cool,” I say, and it is. “My cousin Sophie is a choreographer. Or, she’s studying it in college. She and Kirby and Mara have tried to teach me, but I am a total lost cause. Do you have any sick moves? I want to see some sick moves.”
“I’m afraid this is the extent of my sick moves these days,” he says, and at that, he guides me through a gentle spin, and when I wind up exactly where I started, my level of impressed is officially off the charts. His limbs are more confident moving to a rhythm than they are the rest of the time. I can’t believe this is the same boy who wore a suit with too-long sleeves earlier today.
Neil being this good a dancer—it’s kind of hot.
The realization turns me inside out, as though my traitorous heart and brain are on display for him to see.
“What made you stop dancing?” I ask his shoulder, no longer able to make eye contact. If I don’t keep talking, I’m going to spiral. Neil. Hot. My brain has gone rogue, and with it my trembling hands, which he tries his best to keep steady. Because he’s a good dancer. Which I find hot. Damn it. Spiraling. I try to summon memories of the past few years, the times he made me so furious I couldn’t see straight.
It doesn’t work.
“School got too busy,” he says. There’s some sadness there that only increases my tenderness for him. “And my dad never liked that I was interested in it.”
“Maybe you could take some classes in college.”
“Maybe,” he echoes as the song changes. One dance, he said. I’m certain he’ll let go, but he doesn’t, and I remain firmly in his arms. “I’ve missed it. This is… nice.”
It is. It’s so fucking nice, but it’s fleeting, like everything else about tonight. I can’t get too attached. All of it is about five kinds of concerning. Neil isn’t my PHSB. He’s not the guy who would make out underneath the bleachers or hold my hand during a movie. He wouldn’t take ridiculous selfies with me and post them with ironic hashtags I kind of unironically like, or declare his love with a bouquet of roses. He is not a romance-novel hero.
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