Page 87 of Past Present Future

We all share a laugh at that.

“I have. Being able to let go of perfection and write has helped me enjoy the process so much more.” I give Miranda a knowing lift of my eyebrows, and she grins and holds a hand to her heart. “I’ve even been freewriting a bit for myself lately.”

“Then I think my work here is done,” she says before turning serious. “Part of the reason I invited you here, Rowan, doesn’t have to do with writing at all. And it’s that Jon and I started dating when we were sixteen.”

“And now you’re—” I stop, face heating, because maybe you aren’t supposed to ask your professor’s age.

But Miranda waves this off. “We’re thirty-eight.”

“Been together more than half our lives,” Jon says, casting her a look that I can tell, even after having officially met him only an hour ago, is bathed in the purest love.

The romance author in me aches at that look. Because despite all the meet-cutes and heart-fluttery moments that make me kick my feet when I’m reading, that is the true romance. The fact that that look is still this sweet after more than twenty years.

It’s a realization that stuns me a little.

“It wasn’t always easy,” Miranda says. “We grew up in Southern California, and then I went to Boston University and Jon went to UCLA.”

“I’m really putting that marine biology degree to good use.”

“So you did long distance?” I ask. “All four years?”

“All four years,” Miranda confirms. “And we didn’t even have technology back then, so—”

Jon swats at her with his napkin. “We had phones! We had computers! We’re not ancient. Yet.”

Miranda pats his impressive beard. “Keep that in mind the next time we go to bed at nine thirty.”

“How did you do it?” I reach for another piece of bread. “If that’s okay to ask.”

“Of course,” Miranda says. “We found out pretty quickly that just because the other person wasn’t there, it didn’t mean we couldn’t fully experience college. Having other friends in long-distance relationships helped too—or at least, people we could comfortably talk to, people who’d understand.”

“Still working on that part,” I admit.

“You’ll get there.” She has this uncanny ability to sound reassuring about everything. “We had to give each other space, I think, to grow into the people we were going to become. We weren’t the same people at eighteen that we were at sixteen, and especially once we got to college, it seemed like everything started changing so rapidly. We couldn’t be there for every single milestone.”

“But we were there for the ones that mattered most,” Jon says. “Racked up a lot of frequent-flier miles. Worked a lot of double shifts.”

Miranda places her hand on top of Jon’s. Ever so slowly, I catch his thumb stroking her palm. “I think what helped us the most, and maybe this is something that could help you—is realizing that we are going to grow, and that it doesn’t mean that the relationship is doomed. It’s a time of so much change, and you can change together. Those new versions of yourselves can be just as compatible as the old ones—maybe more so. We were fortunate that they were, but it doesn’t mean that we didn’t have to work at it.”

I nod along with what she’s saying, unsure I can put my gratitude into words. They’ve shared so much with me tonight with no expectation of anything in return. If that isn’t true kindness, I don’t know what is.

“My boyfriend… He’s going through some difficult personal things.” Most of it seems too private, but I can share that, at least. “And I’ve been feeling completely lost. Not because we’re struggling—well, that’s part of it—but mainly because he’s struggling, and I haven’t known how to help him.”

Jon’s expression of sympathy is nothing short of genuine. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I just want to be there for him. However I can.”

“The best you can do is make sure he knows that,” Miranda says. “Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

Even if she’s right, I still wish I could conjure some magic cure. I can understand why he hid those letters, given how long it took him to be vulnerable with me. It’s painful to want to be let in so badly, to realize the other person’s spent so many years dragging all kinds of heavy things to jam the door. Only natural, then, that it takes a tremendous effort to open it.

“This transition is already hard enough without relationship troubles on top of it,” Miranda continues. “But if it means anything, Rowan, I really think you’re going to be okay.” A wink. “You’ve made it through the freewrites, after all.”

When we finish dinner and Jon gives me a tour of his studio, I feel much lighter than when I arrived. Their advice isn’t a quick fix, of course, but it’s hard not to be ten times more optimistic than I was earlier today.

“Thank you so much for this,” I tell Miranda and Jon as they walk me to the door, after we’ve polished off a heavenly blueberry tart. “I’m still trying to process it all, but seriously. This meant everything to me.”

She gives me a hug. “I thought it might give you a bit of hope to see two people who managed to make it work. Even if we’re ancient.”

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