Page 93 of Past Present Future

“Yes,” I say, biting back a smile. “Of course. Yes.”

This time, at least I manage to close my book properly.

I’m not sure which one of us is leading, but we end up in the Common, because it’s impossible not to be drawn there when the late-April sun has turned it golden. We’re not the only ones—people are laying out picnic blankets and setting up croquet and badminton. I’m already warm in ripped jeans and Neil’s hoodie.

Once we’re in the park, I can’t help it—I start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Neil asks, looking mildly concerned.

“I just mailed you a letter.” I shove up the sleeves of his hoodie. “And now you won’t get it for a couple more days.”

His mouth kicks into a smile as he reaches into his backpack. “I look forward to it,” he says. “I have so much I want to say to you. But first…” He pulls out a sheet of paper adorned with calligraphy. I can already tell each letter is perfectly, beautifully formed. “I made this scavenger hunt for you. It’s… a little unconventional, though.”

I stare at him. “You want to do a scavenger hunt? Right now?”

“Just trust me,” he says.

Despite everything that’s happened, I do.

I think I always have.

“Is it okay if I show them to you as we go?” he asks, and I nod, still half-dazed by this whole interaction.

So he unfolds the sheet of paper, revealing the first clue and holding it out to me.

“ ‘The place where I tell you what happened over spring break,’ ” I read, giving him a lift of my eyebrows, glancing around this entirely unremarkable portion of the park.

“I went to see my dad.”

“Oh.” The word somehow comes out with three syllables. It’s all I can say at first, giving him the space to elaborate.

“It was something I needed to do. To get a sense of closure,” he says. “He wasn’t what I expected, and yet somehow exactly what I expected? I thought he’d take digs at my clothes, my school, my hobbies. He did some of that, I guess, and he seemed different in some ways—or at least, he wanted me to think he was. Now that I’ve had more time to process it…” He trails off, shaking his head. “After it happened, I wasn’t able to be a kid anymore. It felt like my childhood was over in one fell swoop. And yet seeing him… I felt just like a little kid again. Part of me desperately wanted his approval, and the other was still so, so angry at him.” His features are pinched, as though he’s reliving every moment of it in his mind right now.

“It’s okay to still be angry at him.” We’ve paused beneath a tall tree, its branches giving us relative privacy. “I hate that you had to go through any of this.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I told him to stop the letters, for both me and my sister, and that this was the last time I was seeing him.”

“And you feel good about that?”

He nods. Firm. “I do. I’ve been worried that you’d think of me not wanting him in my life as some kind of personal failing.”

We haven’t broached the physical barrier yet, but suddenly I can’t stand the fact that we’re not touching. So I reach for his hand, sinking into the instant relief of his fingers wrapping around mine. I didn’t think you could miss holding hands with someone the same way you might miss kissing them, but God, Neil gives good hand. Soft but strong, warm and familiar.

“No. Not at all. He was never the father you deserved,” I say, squeezing his hand, rubbing my thumb along his. “He should have given you the absolute world.”

“I can see that now.” He squeezes back as he toes the sidewalk with his shoe. “I should have told you about the letters when I got them. I hated keeping something from you. But I wasn’t used to having someone as close as you, and I spent so many years hiding. And that’s the absolute last thing I want to do with you.”

“I’m glad you could tell me now.”

Then he holds out the sheet of paper again. “Ready for another clue?”

We venture deeper into the park, past the tennis courts, and this time he reads it: “ ‘The spot where I tell you what happened with my major.’ ”

“Neil,” I say, starting to understand the “unconventional” piece of this scavenger hunt. “I get it. You don’t have to explain it—I understand that these things change.”

“No, but I want to,” he says. “Of all the things I was afraid of, telling you I may not want to study linguistics anymore just seemed cruel when we both love words so much, and how they’ve been this connection between us. I guess I thought that if we didn’t have Seattle, maybe words were second best.”

I shake my head. “One, we will always have Seattle. And two… things change. You told me almost a year ago, in the Westview Library, that I wasn’t the same person at eighteen as I was at fourteen. We’re all allowed to change our minds—many, many times. If you want to study psychology, then I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

---