Page 76 of Past Present Future

Two more letters.

I knew his dad had sent one before graduation. That Neil had considered visiting him over the summer, then told me on the only day we ever talked about it that he’d decided not to. “Let’s sit down,” I say gently, grazing his wrist with a few fingertips. “Let’s talk about this?”

I phrase it as a question, because he didn’t want to talk about his dad before and I want him to know, need him to know that I’m not pressuring him.

I have to stay calm. Give him the space to collect himself. So I get a glass of water from the bathroom and pass it to him with a shaky hand before realizing what I’m doing. Whenever I was upset about something as a kid, my mom would have me drink a glass of water, as though it was enough to clear my mind and help me refocus. Sometimes it was. It’s what Miranda did, too, when I broke down in her kitchen.

Neil takes a sip and sets the glass on the nightstand, still not making eye contact. In my half-unzipped dress, I gesture for him to sit next to me on the bed with its brocaded duvet.

“When did you get the letters?” I ask.

He closes his eyes, grips my leg like a lifeline. “Winter break. And then a couple weeks ago.”

Winter break. Two months ago, and he hasn’t told me until now.

I quickly brush that off because this isn’t about me. I can’t center myself in this tragedy of his life. I didn’t know him when his dad committed that crime. During his trial. When he was sent away. I didn’t know him, and I cannot possibly know who he was back then, either, as much as I wish I could.

He has been alone in this, and I have arrived here so, so late.

“My mom almost never talks to him, but she’s asked him to stop. And it doesn’t do anything. Maybe if I could get on the phone or write back, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want him in my life—I’ve gotten so used to not having him here, and then these letters show up and they just drag me right back.” A shake of his head, as though he’s disappointed in himself. “I should be better. I should be stronger than this.”

“You don’t have to be anything. You feel the way you feel—you don’t have to make excuses for it or pretend to be brave. This is me,” I say softly, rubbing my hand along his knee. “I only want to know because I care about you. So much.”

“Rowan.” His eyes fly open, his expression pained, throat pulsing hard as he swallows. “I spent so long building myself up to be someone who wasn’t defined by this. You know that. The whole reason I worked myself to the bone in high school was so no one would ever think of me as that kid with the dad in prison.” Another moment of quiet. He shifts on the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath us. “Part of the reason I haven’t told you… is because I don’t want you to have to worry about me. You should be thriving,” he says. “I thought if I told you before we came back to school, it would be weighing on you. It was already enough of a burden for me—I didn’t want it to be a burden for you too.”

My heart lurches in my chest. Should I have guessed at any of this? Asked more questions? Made it clear that I’d be a safe space for him to talk about his dad? Somehow I can’t crush the feeling of thinking I should have done more.

“Definitely not a burden.” There is no world in which my boyfriend going through a difficult time could be any kind of burden. “And I can do both. I can thrive in Boston and still support you. Isn’t that what we’re both doing?”

“Right. I guess so,” he says, but there isn’t as much conviction in those words as I’d like. “It felt wrong not to tell you, though, and I’m so sorry.” Then, a massive exhale, as though he’s gearing up for what’s next. “And while I’m telling the truth about things, I should also say… I can’t do Europe this summer. I’ve been terrified of bringing it up, especially when you’ve been asking about the tickets, but I just… I don’t know if I can.”

“It’s expensive. I get it.” Because of course, there is a tremendous amount of privilege that enabled me to go to Emerson, even with scholarships and financial aid. Those don’t cover the cross-country flights, and I’ll be taking a not-insignificant number of those over the next four years. “We can do it next summer. I think it’ll still be there,” I say, trying for a joke, but he doesn’t crack a smile.

“That’s it? Just ‘okay’ and we move on?”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m disappointed?” I immediately regret the ribbon of frustration in my voice. “Sure I am, but I understand.”

“But that’s the thing. I don’t want you to understand.”

Both of us startle at a sudden knock on the door, backing away from each other on the bed as though we’ve been caught doing something we shouldn’t.

“Room service,” calls a voice.

I grimace. “I, um. Ordered that earlier. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best idea.”

Unfortunately, it happens to be the most beautiful dessert, a dark chocolate torte with fresh raspberries and cream, the plate drizzled with syrup. I thank the woman who delivers it about twelve times and tip her more than it cost because I can’t think straight. Maybe Neil doesn’t want me to understand because there’s no way I can. There’s this whole piece of his life I will never, ever understand. The fear and the anxiety and the pain, to the point where he wanted to be known only for his academics so no one would go digging into his personal life. And for four years, it worked.

“This isn’t coming out right,” he says once the door is shut again, the torte seeming to mock us. No one should be having a conversation like this in front of a dessert like that. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want you to have to see me like this. This is all so nice, and it was probably so expensive, and I want to be the happy-go-lucky person you deserve right now, but I just…” He holds a hand to his face now, as though trying to shield himself from me, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s started to cry. Slowly and almost silently, which is somehow all the more heartbreaking. “I—I’m sorry.”

I wrap my arms around his trembling shoulders, each jolt of his chest making me desperately wish this were something I could fix. God, I cannot imagine what it’s been like, keeping all of this locked tight.

“I’ve never wanted you to be some happy-go-lucky person,” I say as I rub his back, everything in me aching for him. “Frankly, that kind of person sounds like a nightmare to be around. I just want you.”

After a long moment, he pulls away and swipes a hand down his face. “I don’t know what the hell is going on.” His legs are tucked underneath him on the bed, an arm propping him up. He stares down at his fingers pressing into the brocade. “The letters were part of it, and all the newness of college, and being so far from home. I thought if I didn’t say how I was feeling out loud, it would go away. Or it would get easier as the year went on, but it just—hasn’t.” A shuddery breath. “I feel like I never have any energy, even though I’m sleeping too much, probably. I have to force myself to be happy around my friends. Even my classes aren’t as exciting as they should be. And I’ve been scared of telling you, telling anyone, because I should be having the time of my life.” When he wrenches his gaze back to mine, his cheeks are reddened, eyes glassy. “That’s why I can’t imagine going to Europe with you. It’s not fully about the money—I’ve been saving up. Because even though I’m happiest when I’m with you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I was somehow miserable there. If I ruined the trip for you.”

His words are a sharp physical pain. A slash to my chest.

This boy I love so much—he is not okay, and I feel absolutely helpless.

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