“Maybe you’ll discover a hidden talent as a roller-coaster architect.”
“I’m open to it.” A deep breath, a smoothing of my hands on the flowy skirt, and a summoning of courage. The antianxiety trifecta. “This isn’t exactly easy for me to say, which may sound strange after the wedding toast, but… there it is. It’s never been easy, which is part of the problem.”
The slightest of nods. It’s barely encouragement, but it’s enough for me to keep going.
“You know I’ve never really dated anyone. So I assumed I could be that way with you this summer and it would be like my other relationships. No strings, no romance, no emotions. And, well, that clearly didn’t work.”
“I pushed you when you said you wanted to keep it casual,” he says. “I take responsibility for that.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want it to be casual. Not deep down. I was fighting against it, every time you brought it up. I convinced myself it was because I didn’t want the kind of perfunctory romance I saw at weddings, but I think it was because I was afraid to give someone too much of myself. I had to keep one little piece of Quinn locked up where no one could find it. Sometimes, not even me.” I let myself make eye contact with him, his gaze so open, so honest. It’s never not been, I realize. “I’ve been trying this new thing where I’m, like… more of myself, I guess? I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out who ‘myself’ actually is.”
“Whoever you are now isn’t too bad,” he says. “I want to say I’ve got it all figured out, but I haven’t. In a lot of ways, I’m still trying.”
“We’re both imperfect.”
“Sure,” he says. “But we’re learning.”
I expect it to be hard to say all these things, that they’ll burn as they climb up my throat and land in a pile of ash on the ground. But it’s not. I told Tarek it wasn’t easy to talk like this, but either I’m a liar or I’m getting better at it. Or it’s the simple fact that his presence makes it easier.
There’s no swelling music, no promise of scrolling end credits. Just Tarek and me and the things I have never told anyone. I am being honest with him, with myself, for the first time all summer, and it suddenly feels like the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
“It’s also not fair for me to tell you I didn’t like any of the gestures,” I say. “I didn’t hate everything. That’s the thing. I kept telling myself I didn’t want you to do these things for me, but then you’d save me a macaron, or you’d show up at my house in the rain with a homemade mug cake. Sometimes the gestures were right.”
“Not everything is balloons and skywriting. I’m learning that too. Though I’m sure those have a time and a place.”
I let myself crack a smile at that. “I get it, now, why my attempt at a grand gesture didn’t work. You were right—that wasn’t me. It didn’t mean anything, me interrupting you at a wedding. I assumed I could show up and that would solve everything, but that’s not what a grand gesture is about, is it? It’s never one big gesture. It’s a series of small ways to let someone know you care about them. Maybe I’m not cut out for a cinematic kind of romance. But what I do know is that these two weeks have been torture. What I should have done—not just then, but weeks ago, months ago—is tell you how much you mean to me. How much I like you. All the ways I’m”—I break off for a moment, draw in as much air as possible—“all the ways I’m falling for you, from your baking to the sound of your laugh to the way I feel wholly myself with you in a way I’ve never let myself feel before.”
“Quinn,” he says, and I could listen to him say my name on a loop every night before going to sleep. There’s a softness there, a reverence. A thumb grazes my wrist. Then he drops his hand again, that ghost of physical contact leaving my skin aching.
“Weddings have skewed my perception of love—to the point where I didn’t know what it was, or how it would feel, and that’s probably why I didn’t understand how I was feeling until it was too late.”
“Is it?” he asks, and if I had any control over my senses right now, I might notice him inching closer to me in the gazebo. “Too late?”
“No. At least, I hope not.” My voice is scratchy. I barely recognize it. “I thought I had to come up with something grand to sweep you off your feet.”
He just gives me this look, like I’ve missed something huge, and maybe I have. “It’s not about the gestures,” he says. “The gesture doesn’t mean anything if the couple isn’t right for each other. It’s about the person.” A swallow, and then, as his knee taps mine: “You make it grand.”
Oh. That’s—wow. Okay. My heart swells, and god, we don’t even need music. Not an orchestra, not a harp, just the thumping of our hearts and the sweetness of his words. If I had any concept of romance, I’d say it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.
“I love you,” I say quietly, and it’s not enough, and I’m not scared anymore, so I say it again. Louder this time. “I love you, Tarek.”
His whole face lights up, and I’m convinced I’ve never seen anything lovelier than the rich brown of his eyes. “That’s a relief,” he says, “because I love you too. I’ve loved you since—”
And I don’t get to hear how long it’s been because I’m pressing my lips to his, and oh, I’ve missed him. He is warm and solid and I love him, I love him, I love him. I love the way his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer. I love the way his hands map my waist and my hips. I love the way he sighs against my mouth when I break the kiss to hug him, to mold my body to his.
“Sorry, what was that?” I say next to his ear, breathless. “Something about how much you love me?”
I feel the rumble of his laugh in his throat. “I’ve been in love with you since last summer. I love all of you—your uncertainties and your mistakes, too, because you’ve sure as hell let me make mine.” His hand slips through my hair, down to my shoulder, fingers brushing my collarbone. “I never wanted to freak you out. I just thought you weren’t going to get there, and I was going to be fine with it… until I wasn’t.” He brushes some of my hair out of my face so he can press a kiss to my temple so tender, it nearly melts me. “I’m just… really glad we both made it here.”
“I want to do this for real,” I say. “If that’s something you still want too.”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he says, and reaches to slide up the droopy strap of my dress.
It’s no use, because as soon as we start kissing again, it falls back down.
* * *
Eventually, we make our way back to the wedding, my fingers twined with his. I like his warmth against my palm, the way he squeezes once before he lets go.
For a moment I catch Asher’s eye, and one corner of her mouth tugs up into a smile. Like she knew, in all her infinite big-sister wisdom, that this was going to happen. Or my hair is sticking up in a hundred I’ve-just-been-making-out directions. Probably both.
The band returns from a break, launching into something I’ve heard only a hundred times at a hundred different weddings.
I groan. “I hate this song.”
“I love this song,” Tarek says. He holds out his hand. “You should probably lead.”
He tries his best not to step on my feet, and I kick off my heels, unable to stand in them a moment longer. I am dancing at my sister’s wedding with my boyfriend. It’s exactly where I want to be.
“I can’t believe summer’s almost over,” I say. “Well, it’s September, so I guess it is over.”
He nudges my arm. “Right, you’ll be a supercool college student soon.”
“At least California’s not that far.” I hope he hears the subtext, that I am fully in this with him, that I’ll send him letters and care packages and pick him up at the airport. Now, there’s a grand gesture: waiting in SeaTac traffic.
“No,” he agrees with a smile, bending to kiss the corner of my mouth, “it’s not that far.”
“And the quarters aren’t that long.”
“Quinn,” he says, as though sensing
I’m about to anxiety-spiral, that I’m trying to grasp on to some certainty in what might be a wholly uncertain situation. “I’m not worried about it. It took us this long to figure it out. I think we’re going to be okay.”
I lay my head on his shoulder. Asher said she’d stay until they kicked her out, and I can’t imagine leaving anytime soon either. I’m sure my mom has plenty of extra shoes in her emergency kit. “I think so too.”
And okay, maybe this song isn’t that terrible when you’re dancing to it. Other things that aren’t terrible: his hand on my lower back, his vanilla-sugar scent, the way he whispers to me that summer was great but autumn will be so much better, his lips brushing my ear.
No, not terrible at all.
Maybe it’s even a little romantic.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m sending the biggest, warmest thank-you to editor extraordinaire Jennifer Ung. I can’t believe this marks four books and countless dog memes together. You are a tremendous force, and I’ll never stop feeling lucky that my words landed on your desk in 2016. To my wonderful publicist, Lauren Carr—thank you for your boundless enthusiasm. To designer Laura Eckes and illustrator Caitlin Blunnie—thank you for this cover that so perfectly captures Quinn and Tarek.
Thank you to my agent, Laura Bradford, and at Simon & Schuster, thank you to Justin Chanda, Kendra Levin, Anne Zafian, Dainese Santos, Jenica Nasworthy, Penina Lopez, Sara Berko, Lauren Hoffman, Chrissy Noh, Lisa Moraleda, Christina Pecorale, Victor Iannone, Emily Hutton, Michelle Leo, and Anna Jarzab.
Rosiee Thor, I’m still laughing that a joke you made years ago wound up sparking this book. I just couldn’t let go of the idea of a teen harpist, and I’m infinitely grateful for your wisdom and generosity. Sharon and Dave Thormahlen, thank you for welcoming me into your studio and teaching me all about lever harps! The book didn’t fully click for me until that trip. I’m so honored that you shared your music and craft with me.
To my writer friends, I hope you know you’re stuck with me forever. Tara Tsai and Rachel Griffin—you help make Seattle my favorite place. Auriane Desombre and Susan Lee, you can be copresidents of the Tarek fan club. Kelsey Rodkey, Sonia Hartl, Annette Christie, Andrea Contos, Carlyn Greenwald, Marisa Kanter—I love you all so much.
A huge thank-you to my street team, the Raincoats, a group that is full of creativity and joy and kindness: Abantika Bose, Aishi Acharya, Allie Smaha, Allyson Burns, Amelie Fournier, Ari Nussbaum, Charvi Koul, Chelly Pike, Chloe Maron, Colby Wilkens, Danielle Tedrowe, Fin Daniels, Francine Puckly, Gretal McCurdy, Hallie Fields, Holly Hughes, Humnah Memon, Isabella Rangel, Jennifer Allain, Jessica Pupillo, Jordan Bishop, Jozi Bailey, Julie Martin, Kajree Gautom, Katie J. Rogers, Kayla Plutzer, Kyla Imwalle, Léa Colombo, Leïla Fournier-Parent, Lili at Utopia State of Mind, Makenna Fournier, Meghan Doberstein-Ley, Melinda Joseph-Kelly, Melissa See, Mike Lasagna, Minju Kim, Pavitra Madhusudan, Rachel Williams, Randi Muilenburg, Sarah Ann Valentini, Simant Verma, Sophie Schmidt, Sydney Springer, Tova Portmann-Bown, Trish Caragan, and Yonit Diaz.
Finally, thank you to my family, and especially to Ivan. I can’t imagine doing any of this without you.
More from the Author
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Our Year of Maybe
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Author photograph by Sabreen Lakhani
RACHEL LYNN SOLOMON is the bestselling author of romantic comedies for teens and adults, including Today Tonight Tomorrow, The Ex Talk, and We Can’t Keep Meeting Like This. Born and raised in Seattle, she loves gloomy days, cable-knit sweaters, and writing while it rains outside. You can find her online at rachelsolomonbooks.com and on Twitter and Instagram @rlynn_solomon.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Rachel-Lynn-Solomon
Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster, New York
ALSO BY RACHEL LYNN SOLOMON
You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone
Our Year of Maybe
Today Tonight Tomorrow
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text © 2021 by Rachel Lynn Solomon
Jacket illustration © 2021 by Caitlin Blunnie
Jacket design by Laura Eckes © 2021 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Interior design by Hilary Zarycky
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Solomon, Rachel Lynn, author.
Title: We can’t keep meeting like this / Rachel Lynn Solomon.
Other titles: We cannot keep meeting like this
Description: New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2021. |
Audience: Ages 12 up. | Audience: Grades 7–9. | Summary: Wedding harpist Quinn and cater-waiter Tarek develop feelings for each other, but while Tarek is a hopeless romantic, Quinn is not sure she believes in love, especially since the same boy she might be falling for spurned her the previous summer.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020038930 (print) | LCCN 2020038931 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781534440272 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534440296 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Love—Fiction. | Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. | Weddings—Fiction. | Jews—United States—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S6695 We 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.S6695 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020038930
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020038931
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