Page 56 of Past Present Future

Leilani comes up behind us, throwing an arm around Kait’s shoulder. “Now the debauchery can really begin.” She nods to me. “Thanks again for being one of my snakes. Hopefully I wasn’t too much of a dictator?”

“Just the right amount,” I tell her. “I can’t wait to see the finished product.”

“It’ll take a lot of editing to get it there.” Leilani grins at Kait as she passes her a cup. “But it’ll be worth it.”

And if that doesn’t sound familiar.

We head toward the living room, where the couches have been pushed aside to make room for people to dance. I don’t have the greatest sense of rhythm—Neil could more than attest to that—but dancing in this house of strangers feels like freedom, a blast of heat after an endless winter.

At one point, a guy in an oversize polo shirt attempts to shimmy up to me, but I give him such a vicious glare that he immediately backs away, after which Kait and Leilani dissolve into laughter. It feels good, this night.

A couple hours and too many EDM remixes later, I’m waiting in line for the bathroom when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out expecting to see a message from Neil, so I’m surprised to find an email instead. From Professor Everett. Who… was apparently working on a Friday night. Considering how I spent many a Friday night in high school, I’m not one to judge.

Then I read it, and everything changes.

Rowan,

I just finished your finger trap story. Do you think we could speak after class next week?

M.E.

My stomach sinks all the way to my toes, the floor swaying beneath me. I’d felt so great about that piece, better than I’ve felt about anything I’ve turned in so far this year. I thought I was finally writing what she wanted. I’d layered in all that backstory, labored over every word until each one felt right.

“You going in?” a girl behind me asks, motioning to the open door. Numbly, I shake my head no, and she pushes past me into the bathroom.

I read the email again and again, as though there could possibly be a hidden meaning in those two sentences. Turns out the only hidden meaning is someone I deeply admire telling me you’re not good enough.

“Rowan? You okay?”

Kait’s next to me, and my head is pounding and the music’s too loud and this dress I borrowed from her is too tight. I dig a hand into my bangs, pressing my palm to my forehead as I wordlessly pass my phone to her.

“Shit,” she says when she finishes reading, her brow scrunched with concern. “That’s not good.”

Yeah. I know.

Her assessment comes with a twinge of annoyance, and then a surge of unease. Because in any other scenario, Neil would have been the first person to see this email. Maybe that’s another thing they don’t tell you about long-distance relationships—that the first person you confide in may not be the person who means everything to you. He would have tried to reassure me, prevented me from assuming the worst. Maybe she wants to talk to you about something positive, he’d say, and I’d raise my eyebrows and joke, When has a teacher ever wanted to see a student after class for something positive? Maybe he’d be right and maybe he wouldn’t, but it would have made me feel lighter.

Kait’s comment makes me feel just this side of doomed.

This time when my gaze drifts back toward the living room, all I see are intertwined couples, the ones who might be in love and the ones who might be hooking up and the ones who might be somewhere in between. That could be us, swaying together in a stranger’s house. No matter how many phone calls and video chats we have, it doesn’t change the fact that Neil isn’t here.

There’s that worry at the back of my mind again, only this time it’s louder.

Maybe I’m too settled in my relationship to properly write about love, disconnected from the yearning that defines all my favorite books. I’d fought my way to optimism, but reality was waiting to push me right back. Because what if I haven’t just romanticized romance—what if I’ve romanticized writing itself?

I tighten my fist around my phone, shoving it back into my pocket.

Then I make my way into the kitchen and down two more shots. Then another. By that third one, I can no longer remember what my story was about.

By the sixth one, I can’t feel anything.

I throw my hair back, dancing with Kait and Leilani, screaming the lyrics to songs I’m not sure I’ve ever liked but have invaded my subconscious anyway. Another shot, because it’s starting to taste so much better.

This is still fun. I’m having a fucking blast.

At least until later, with my face stuck in a toilet and my hair sweat-pasted to my forehead, when I decide I’m never doing this again.

NEIL’S RECENT SEARCH HISTORY

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