Today Tonight Tomorrow

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  I didn’t know it could feel this way.

  When the band takes a break, Neil and I wander through the crowd, accepting congratulations and playing a few games, though after about ten minutes, we’re a little gamed out. My knee is starting to ache, and I’m not sure I can stand for much longer.

  “I’m trying to think of a clever way to say this, but… do you want to get out of here?” I ask him.

  “I do,” he says, “and I actually have somewhere in mind, if you’re up for one more adventure.”

  I give him an emphatic yes before following him through the crush of our almost-former classmates. There will be more parties over the next week. I’m sure of it. But there is so much out there beyond high school, so much that I cannot possibly begin to wrap my mind around. I’m trying my best to keep it that way. This summer, I will say plenty of goodbyes—to my friends, to my parents, to the gum wall and the Fremont Troll and cinnamon rolls as big as my face. They won’t be forever goodbyes. I’ll be back, Seattle. I promise.

  So when we get outside, I take one last look at the school. Later, Neil and I will talk about what this means, about what we’ve done tonight and what happens tomorrow. But right now I want to savor this moment with him, both the quiet and the way he looks at me like he’s counting the seconds until we can kiss like we did in the museum.

  Maybe this is how I’m supposed to say goodbye to high school: not with an arbitrary list or a preconceived notion of the way things are supposed to be, but by realizing we’re actually better together.

  Neil squeezes my hand. “Ready?” he asks.

  “I think I am.”

  Then I take a deep breath… and I let it all go.

  THE TOP 5 FREE PUPPIES! SONGS, ACCORDING TO NEIL MCNAIR

  “Pawing at Your Door”

  “Enough (Is Never Enough)”

  “Stray”

  “Darling, Darling, Darling”

  “Little Houses”

  2:49 a.m.

  “THE BEST VIEW in Seattle,” Neil says as we get out of my car on the south side of Queen Anne Hill.

  Kerry Park isn’t big, a narrow strip of grass with a fountain and a couple sculptures. The view of the Space Needle completely sneaks up on you. It looks unreal from here, huge and bright and glorious, especially at night. He’s right: it’s the best view in Seattle.

  “This is where you went earlier?” I ask, and he nods.

  I limp along with him to the edge of the lookout.

  “I cannot believe you did that.” He gestures to my leg. “Are you sure you don’t need some ice or something?”

  I shake my head. “Sacrifices had to be made.”

  We position ourselves on the ledge, our legs dangling onto the grassy hill below. Again I’m struck by how normal this feels. He’s been part of my life for so long that there’s a comfort mixed with the newness, and I can’t wait to know him in all the ways we missed out on.

  “When did you know?” I rest my head on his shoulder. “That you didn’t despise me.”

  “It wasn’t one singular event,” he says, his arm settling around my waist. “Early junior year was when I started having feelings for you, but I figured it was pointless. You couldn’t stand me, and I seemingly couldn’t stand you.”

  “You hid it so well.”

  “I had to. If I suddenly acted differently, you’d get suspicious.”

  “So you liked me even during that student council meeting that lasted until midnight, that White Man in Peril incident?”

  “The what?”

  “Oh—A White Man in Peril. It’s what I call your classics, since they’re all about, well—”

  “White men in peril,” he finishes, laughing. “And yes. Yes I did. What about you?”

  “Three hours ago?” I say, and with his free hand, he clutches his heart as if in pain. “Fifteen hours ago, when I saw your arms in that T-shirt?”

  “God bless my rigorous workout routine.”

  “Is that what you call those eight-pound weights on your desk?”

  “I—um—I keep the bigger ones in my closet,” he says. “Really massive ones. Fifty, sixty pounds. I don’t want anyone to get too intimidated, you know.”

  “That’s very thoughtful.” I snuggle closer. “If I’m being honest, though… I’m not sure. I realized it today, but I think I’ve liked you for a while.”

  After a few moments of quiet, he asks, “Do you remember that election for freshman-class rep?”

  “Of course. It was a landslide victory for me.”

  “As I recall, you won by a pretty narrow margin.” He twirls a strand of my hair. “I won that essay contest, and you won the election. And then we kept at it, trying to one-up each other.”

  “All these years, we were fighting when we could have been… not fighting.”

  He pulls back, and when I lift my head, he’s eyeing me strangely. “I was actually thinking the opposite. That I’m not sure we were ready for it. I definitely wasn’t.”

  “Maybe not,” I admit. Still, it’s shattering, thinking of what we could have shared. Visions of an alternate timeline pass through my mind—football games and homecoming dances and awkward photos and—

  I force it away. That’s not our reality.

  “It’s kind of poetic that it’s happening tonight, though,” he says. Then, with a thread of worry in his voice: “It’s not just tonight for you, is it? Because I’m really in this, if you are.”

  “I am. This… this feels real. I want to be with you.” I’m aware, again, of all the conversations we haven’t had yet. The conversations I’m suddenly afraid to have when he feels so right next to me.

  He traces the outline of my eyebrow with his fingertip. One, and then the other, as though he is trying to memorize what I look like. “I wanted to tell you. I decided I’m not going to see my dad this summer. Maybe one day I’ll change my mind about it and want some kind of relationship with him, but it’s still too raw. I’m not ready.”

  “You feel good about that?”

  He nods. “I do. And—I made an appointment online. To change my last name. It’s time.”

  “Neil,” I say, placing my hand on his knee. “That’s… wow.”

  “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 t
hose 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.

  His hand slips between my legs, stroking the inside of my thigh and up, up. “Would this… be okay?”

  “Yes. Yes.” What I really mean is please.

  It took me long enough to figure it out for myself, so I give him some guidance. It turns out, he is an excellent listener. He whispers my name into my ear, slowly undoing me, and then I’m at the edge and falling, falling.…

  I’m still recovering when the power suddenly returns and the house flashes to life, every light in my room blinking on at once.

  He does have freckles everywhere.

  I absolutely love it.

  We’ve spent so much of tonight in the dark that I can’t help laughing, and he joins in, squinting at the bright lights. “Shhh,” I say, but it’s no use.

  “Too bright,” he groans. “There’s plenty of natural light coming in from outside.”

  And he’s right, so I peel myself out of bed to turn everything off and then wait a minute to make sure my parents aren’t moving around downstairs. When I’m confident they’re still safely ensconced in scotch comas, I crawl back to him.

  He reaches for me, but I place a gentle hand on his chest.

  “Hold on,” I say. “How far are we going here, exactly? We should talk about… whatever it is that we’re doing. Or not doing.” Anxiously, I tug at my bangs. “Because I’m kind of on board with all of it, but I know you haven’t, you know. Had sex.”

  The weight of it hovers between us. Neil pushes into a sitting position, the sheets pooled around our ankles. This isn’t like with Spencer, where, because I’d already done it with Luke, I figured, why not. I want this, with Neil. I want to talk about it, and I want him to feel comfortable talking about it with me. The idea of being with him in that way makes me dizzy with desire. I want more than this one night, but I can’t think about the future right now.

  “Trust me,” he says, his hand settling on my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “there is literally nothing I want more than you. Not even valedictorian.”

  “I don’t know if having sex is better than being valedictorian. And I’m also not sure that’s the correct usage of ‘literally.’ You should know that.”

  “With you, it might be.” Worry flickers across his face. “I have to be honest. I’m a little nervous. That I’ll, like, mess up or something, or make it horrible for you. And then you’ll never want to do this again, which would be devastating, given how much I like you.”

  His nerves endear him to me even more. I like that he doesn’t immediately become this smooth, overconfident guy.

 
; “I’m nervous too,” I admit. “Excited, but nervous, and that’s normal. That’s why we’ll talk to each other. We’ve always been good at that, right?” I say, and he nods. “The first time with someone is usually imperfect. That’s part of what makes it fun: figuring out together how to make it good.”

  “It’s not going to be romance-novel perfect,” he says, but he’s not admonishing me.

  “No. Not the first time, and probably not the second or third either. Maybe not ever, honestly, but it’ll be ours. And… that might be better.”

  His thumb draws circles on my hip. “Are you sure you want this too? We haven’t—I mean, we’ve known each other awhile, but we only just kissed tonight, and…” A rambly Neil McNair is almost too adorable.

  It’s an easy decision. “I’m sure.”

  “And hey, you still have a condom in your backpack.”

  I groan. “Oh my God. I was so mortified.”

  “Chekhov’s condom,” he says, and then I’m laughing along with him.

  “I do, in fact, have some that haven’t been sitting in Kirby’s locker for God knows how long.”

  It takes only a moment to slip out of bed and grab them, a moment to shed our underwear. Another few moments to help him put one on before realizing it’s inside out. Into the trash it goes, and then we try again.

  Once we get it right, it doesn’t last extremely long, because we’re tired or because it’s his first time or some combination of both. Every so often, he checks in with me, asking if it’s still good, if I’m still good. And yes. Yes. We try our best to be quiet, but we can’t stop whispering to each other. We’ve only just become friends, real friends, and there’s so much we want to say.

  He finishes first, and then his fingers drift down between us and he gets me there for the second time tonight. Another thing I’ve learned: Neil McNair is exceedingly generous.

  Then we’re quiet, quieter than my sleeping, darkened house. It’s a peaceful, appreciative kind of quiet. I burrow close to him, resting my cheek against his heartbeat while he plays with my hair.