Page 15 of Past Present Future

We’ll be reunited in Seattle, sure, but that’s not the same as traveling together with so many days of uninterrupted time. Picturing him in Europe, completely in his element with his love of languages as we explore places we’ve only ever read about—the vision is such pure bliss, it makes my heart ache.

Then Kait gestures to my phone, and I have to blink myself back to reality. Boston. September. I don’t have to search very long to find one of my favorite photos of Neil, taken at Two Birds One Scone a few weeks ago. He’s reading a book, an afternoon sunbeam slanting through the window and illuminating his red hair. Peak Neil—so entranced by Bukowski that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“How long have you guys been together?” she asks.

“Oh—um, since June.” My face heats, as though I don’t have a right to a long-distance relationship because we haven’t been together that long. “We sort of had this rivalry throughout most of high school, and then on the last day, I realized that I’d had feelings for him for a while.”

“Enemies to lovers,” Kait says with a knowing smile. Because of course a fellow writer would understand the value of a good trope. “You truly love to see it.”

We talk more about Professor Everett’s book—Kait loved Thursday at Dawn, while I preferred her second book, Helvetica. Thursday had a large ensemble cast, omniscient POV, while Helvetica was a more intimate character study. Two aimless twentysomethings on opposite ends of the world, a friendship they sustained through letters as they struggled with relationships and careers and the loss of their adolescent innocence. It absolutely crushed me, and even though I adored it, it reminded me why I prefer romance: because even if your heart gets broken along the way, the author always promises to repair it by the end.

However, I didn’t feel like hurling it across the room when I finished it, the way I might have a few years back. Is that… growth?

My mom was worried about my not taking advantage of everything college has to offer. But here I am, proving that it doesn’t matter that my boyfriend is in another state. Well—it does, but it’s not going to keep me from becoming a collegiate social butterfly.

We walk back to our dorm together, parting ways when Kait heads for a hall council meeting and it’s almost time for my video chat with Neil.

Paulina’s at her desk when I get to our room, stuffing textbooks into her backpack. “Hey,” she says breezily, not even looking up. “Just about to head out.”

And before I can even utter a response, she’s gone. The indifference stings, leaving me racking my brain to wonder if I’ve somehow offended her. I did move one of her succulents in a penguin-shaped pot off the windowsill, but that was only so I could open the window. She moved it back the next day, but she can’t possibly be upset about that, can she? Unless that was a classic passive-aggressive move.

Guess that lifelong friendship with my roommate isn’t meant to be.

I toss my headband onto the bed because God, wearing that for a whole day was a special kind of torture. Then I settle in and open a fresh Word document, clamp headphones over my ears, and wait for my writing playlist to whisk me away. As the Smiths start playing, I tap my fingertips along the keys, focusing on Professor Everett’s prompt. A simple one, surely, for our first assignment.

What brought you to this classroom today? I typed in class, as though there was a chance I might forget it.

A variety of images flash through my mind. The romance novels I found at garage sales. Reading them with my door closed. All throughout high school, I hid what I loved because I was terrified of not being good enough. Here I am, finally comfortable with it… and completely drawing a blank.

When I flick my eyes back to the painfully white page, the cursor keeps blinking. Mocking me. So I type:

What brought me here today was

Before realizing it sounds beyond juvenile, like I’m learning how to restate a question for the very first time.

I’ve loved romance novels since I was a kid and

Emerson’s creative writing program seems like

Writing has never been difficult for me—it isn’t arrogance; it’s a simple fact. The words have just… flowed. I’ve written essays on the Civil War and The Scarlet Letter and cellular respiration. I even wrote thousands of words in a romance manuscript about two lawyers, despite knowing very little about the legal system that wasn’t in AP US Government. I should be able to write about myself, the person I ostensibly know better than anyone.

I switch over to Spotify, deciding maybe I need to add some new songs to my playlist. More new wave, naturally, plus some of Neil’s favorite band, Free Puppies! Once I’m satisfied with it, I spend some time fiddling with my chair for a while before accepting that Emerson student life has simply saddled us with cheap uncomfortable chairs, and next time I’ll go to the library or a café.

Then Neil asks to postpone our video chat because his roommate asked him to play Ultimate Frisbee. This is accompanied by only a sliver of disappointment, because he should absolutely be playing Ultimate Frisbee with his roommate—he and I can talk anytime. Besides, it’s probably a good thing since I haven’t managed a single sentence I don’t hate.

There’s no reason I should be struggling with something so basic, and yet this is the first assignment of the year. I want to impress Professor Everett.

An hour later, after I’ve brought dinner up to my room because maybe I can’t write on an empty stomach, I get another text from Neil:

I may have sustained a minor ocular injury.

It’s accompanied by a photo of him with a black eye. I drop my fork into the bowl of lo mein, holding a hand to my heart.

I don’t think you’re supposed to use your head in ultimate frisbee, I write back. I’m so sorry. does it hurt?

The pang of missing him is both sudden and sharp. If I were there, I’d hold an ice pack to his face, stroke his hair, tell him he could pick a movie to watch and I’d promise not to complain about it.

My trip to New York in two weeks can’t come soon enough. A New York City fall, a Meg Ryan sweater, and a boy who looks at me like I am the sun.

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