Page 21 of Past Present Future

“Yeah. Yes. Just…” I’m unsure how to vocalize it. Even during our first time together I was able to guide his hand. For some reason, maybe because this is new territory for both of us, I’m now at a total loss.

“Oh,” he says, that single syllable containing so much disappointment, his face beautifully flushed. Ever gentle, with the way his fingertips skim up my thighs, thumbs brushing my hips. “We could try something else?”

All summer, we were dying to be alone. And now that we are… what, we’ve got performance anxiety? I’m distracted in a way I hoped this trip would clear up. I want to be here, with him, and yet my mind is in a hundred other places.

Then, just as I’m reaching for his shoulders because he feels entirely too far away from me, a fire alarm goes off.

We bolt upright.

“Um,” I start as the alarm blares, because the timing? Could not be worse.

Neil practically leaps off the bed, handing me my shirt before reaching for his own.

“It’s got to be a drill,” he says as he opens up his closet, tossing me a pair of sweatpants because I’m sure he knows putting my tights back on would require some serious acrobatics.

We have to take the stairs, six flights down with the rest of the dorm, some students in pajamas and some of them looking like they were mid–party prep. All of them looking pissed.

At almost midnight, New York is disorienting. A haze of noise and bright lights, cars honking and sirens in the distance, people laughing and shouting and pushing past us on the sidewalk. It takes me a few long moments to get my bearings.

I hug my jacket tighter around me, shivering, before Neil pulls me closer. It could be worse, though: there’s a girl out here in only a robe and flip-flops, her hair soaking wet.

One of the RAs jogs over and addresses the group.

“Looks like someone burned popcorn in the microwave and set off the alarms,” he says, which elicits a chorus of groans. “They’ll let us back inside any minute.”

It is, understandably, a challenge to get back in the mood when we return to his room twenty minutes later.

“I’m sorry,” I say when he closes the door. “Not about the fire drill, about—before.”

A little furrow appears between Neil’s brows. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, unsure why I couldn’t have just been more present, a twinge of guilt settling low in my stomach. “It’s fine. Really.”

“I’m just happy to be spending time with you, whether we have clothes on or not.” His arms come around me, mouth grazing my ear.

Because of course he’s sweet about it.

“I love you,” I say, having missed the way his features go soft when I say it in person.

“Adore you.”

* * *

As nice as it is to fall asleep together and wake up in the same bed, the awkwardness of last night continues to weigh on me Saturday morning.

Last night, he tucked my body against his and we watched part of The Force Awakens because we’ve been making our way through the Star Wars franchise since the beginning of summer, when Neil was shocked to learn I’d never seen any of the movies.

The rest of the weekend, we play tourists at the Museum of Natural History and the Statue of Liberty, two things he’s been saving so we could do them together. When we get back to his dorm that night, I tell him I’m exhausted and he agrees, which is true, but I’m also worried about what might happen if we try anything again.

Maybe that first time, with all its beautiful imperfections, was so lovely that nothing can measure up.

It’s a thought I wish I could banish as soon as it enters my mind. We already had our big romantic moment on the last day of school, our epic love story that ended with both of us admitting our feelings for each other after years of animosity. We fulfilled the trope, in its most basic terms: we started out enemies and became lovers. We gave the speeches that characters deliver in all my romance novels. The declarations of love. Period, underlined, THE END in big bold letters.

What comes after that?

Sunday afternoon, when Neil drops me off at Penn Station after a farewell bagel, I find myself wondering, as the train pulls away, why I miss him more than I did three days ago.

KIRBY

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