Page 60 of Past Present Future

THE REST OF the weekend is the New England winter of my dreams, the two of us wrapped in scarves with hats pulled down low over our heads, traversing the city on foot and by train, admiring its history.

We celebrate Neil’s birthday in the middle of the night, eyes still closed as we reach for each other, and then again early this morning. The fact that we’ve now spent one of each of our birthdays together feels like some kind of milestone. I’ve never paid much attention to astrology, but I have to admit that during the summer, I looked up Aquarius and Virgo for compatibility. An unusual match, most of the sites said, but an intriguing one with the potential for long-term compatibility. Aquarius and Virgo even motivate each other in their intellectual pursuits.

And I just stared, wondering if the planets had always known something I didn’t.

Neil’s birthday breakfast is a dining-hall feast with Kait and a few others from creative writing, though we can’t stay long because I have a full day of touristing planned.

“The mysterious Neil! He exists,” Kait says over veggie bacon and pancakes, and then leans in and stage-whispers, “And even cuter in person.”

Our first stop is the Boston Public Garden, which even in this weather is full of people jogging, playing lawn games, pushing strollers full of kids. A bride and groom are taking wedding photos, a trio of bridesmaids following close behind to keep the dress from trailing along on the damp ground. I show him the Make Way for Ducklings sculpture, the bronze ducks dressed for the cold in tiny hats. I don’t even care how dorky it is; I’m not sure I’ve ever been more in love with Neil than I am right now, and not just because of what happened last night—but because we were able to be open with each other in a new and freeing way for us.

We go ice-skating in the Common, and I’m not shocked to learn Neil has a little more grace than I do, probably because of those dance lessons he took as a kid. I’m glued to the wall until he holds out his hand and beckons me toward him.

“Not too far,” I warn. “I’m really attached to this wall.”

“We’ll go slow. I promise,” he says, and true to his word, we do.

His gloved hand squeezes mine as we glide along the ice, the rink a blur of brightly colored coats and scarves, blades carving delicate designs beneath our feet. When I wobble, he holds me tighter.

“I have to admit,” he says on our third or fourth lap, “I’ve always kind of wanted to do this.” The rosy tint to his cheeks deepens. “Go ice-skating with a cute girl.”

Somehow, even after last night, this is enough to make me blush, too. “Who would’ve guessed that’d be me?”

Little kids spin circles around us, and I fall an embarrassing number of times, but none of that matters when Neil is the one helping me up. It doesn’t matter when I take such an uncoordinated tumble that he plummets to the ice with me, laughing harder than we should for how sore we’re going to be tomorrow. He’s not frustrated or annoyed—he just seems content.

I missed him so much, but he’s here and I’m here and we are making all of this work.

This should be the kind of scene that inspires me. I want to hold tight to this feeling and take it back out during my next writing session, convince myself that being in love has only made me a better writer. As much as I’d been fully in it during my finger trap piece, maybe what Professor Everett wants to tell me is that it all sounded false. Inauthentic. Lacking the kind of emotion she’d expect from a creative writing major.

Or she’s already decided I’m a complete hack.

Neil wrote in my yearbook that I had a “shimmering optimism,” one he wished he could borrow for himself, and when it comes to this class, I’m starting to think I’ve run out of it. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t force writing out of my head completely. And as much as I’d love his advice, I’m not about to bring it up on a day we’re supposed to be celebrating him.

“I have so much skating-related trauma from my childhood,” I say instead. “Do you remember that old skate rink in Northgate that closed down last year?”

“The one by the mall? I didn’t know it had closed.”

“Yep. And probably for the best, because I don’t think whatever they were spraying in those skates to clean them was environmentally friendly.”

“I haven’t thought about that place in forever,” Neil says, steering us out of the way of another couple, avoiding a collision. “It always smelled like burned pepperoni pizza, even though—”

“—they didn’t actually sell pizza? Yeah. Anyway, I swear, like, everyone had their birthday parties there when we were kids, and inevitably the DJ would always make us do one of those snowball skates. Where everyone has to find a partner.”

Neil groans. “I remember that. I think I’d blocked it out.”

“In hindsight, it seems pretty problematic to force a group of twelve-year-olds to pair up,” I say, gripping his hand tighter. “But this more than makes up for it.”

It’s interesting to have this shared memory of our hometown, something we didn’t experience together but have the same language for nonetheless. I hope we never stop discovering things like that—metaphorically reliving the burned-pizza smell of our childhoods.

* * *

When we can’t feel our toes anymore, a constellation of bruises blooming on both my knees, we return the skates and warm up with hot cocoa during the quick walk to our next destination.

A museum had to be part of Neil’s birthday celebration, and from the moment I discovered it, I knew the Boston Athenæum would be perfect. In addition to being a stunning library, it’s also a museum with thousands of rare books and sculptures and other historical artifacts.

“Happy birthday,” I say, unable to bite back a grin as he gazes around in wonder, head tipped toward the ceiling. This look on his face, the awe so vibrantly painted across it—I’m not sure how I resisted it for four years. There’s such a wholesome sexiness in Neil’s love for learning, for knowledge.

He shakes his head. “ ‘Happy’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. Joyous birthday. Jubilant birthday. Euphoric birthday—that one might be it.” With a wave of his hand, he gestures for me to pose for a photo with him, holding out his arm to capture us. “Thank you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek while he snaps another photo. “I love it.”

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