But I force my feet to follow his as we creep back outside, the door locking automatically behind us. We don’t talk as we make our way to my car, and it’s only once we’re in the semi-light of the streetlamps that I open my mouth to speak.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to graze his bare arm with my fingertips. He’s cold too. “For all of that. Though I doubt the actual prom was quite as extravagant. They probably had the generic brand of Skittles.”
What I don’t say is that somehow I’m positive this was better than prom. I can barely remember how I imagined it. Sure, the PHSB and I would have danced, but we would have been dating for a while. Would it have been as exciting as dancing with Neil for the first time? Would I have shivered when his hand dipped to my lower back or when his breath whispered across my ear?
Thank God, he half smiles at that. “Only the best for Rowan Roth,” he says, and then I’m spiraling again.
In the light, his freckles are almost glowing, his hair a golden amber. Everything about him is softer nearly to the point of appearing blurry, like I can’t quite tell who this new version of Neil McNair is, leaving me more uncertain than ever.
AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF NEIL MCNAIR’S FAVORITE WORDS
- petrichor: the scent of the earth after it rains (English)
- tsundoku: acquiring more books than you could ever read (Japanese)
- hygge: a warm, cozy feeling associated with relaxing, eating, and drinking with loved ones (Danish)
- Fernweh: a feeling of homesickness for a place you’ve never been (German)
- Fremdschamen: the feeling of shame on someone else’s behalf; secondhand embarrassment (German)
- davka: the opposite of what is expected (Hebrew)
10:09 p.m.
“THANK YOU SO much,” Colleen says as she unties her apron. “I would have closed up early, but we had a last-minute rush.” She lists the remaining tasks: wiping tables, washing dishes, and wrapping up any remaining pastries for tomorrow’s day-old bin.
“It’s no problem. You know I love this place.”
Neil leans against the pastry case, scoping out the goods. If Colleen wonders why he’s here, she blessedly doesn’t ask.
Colleen grabs her purse. “We’ll miss you next year.”
“I’ll be back on breaks,” I insist. “You know I can’t resist those cinnamon rolls.”
“That’s what all the college kids say. But then they get busy, or they want to spend time with their friends, or they move away for good. It happens. Whether you come back to work or not, there will always be a cinnamon roll with your name on it.”
I want to tell her I won’t be one of those people, but the truth is, there’s no way to know.
Colleen leaves us alone in this small café. During the car ride, I couldn’t stop thinking about the dance. I was so wrapped up in it that I relinquished music privileges, letting him play a Free Puppies! song he claimed was their best. But I could barely hear it.
Being that close to him in the library muddied my feelings. I tried to rationalize it: I’m exhausted, and the game has turned me delirious. My mind is playing tricks on me, convincing me I feel something for him I’m positive I didn’t feel yesterday. Or my body was craving closeness to another person’s. I’m a writer—I can make up a hundred different reasons.
The things I said, though, about wishing he were someone else—they hurt his ego. They must have. But I don’t like us like this. I didn’t like it after the assembly this morning, when I refused to sign his yearbook, and I don’t like it now. Or maybe it’s that I like this too much, and that’s even scarier. Neil is softer than I realized, and I’m a barbed-wire fence. Every time he gets too close, I make myself sharper.
“What should we do first?” he asks.
I reach into the pastry case. “Well, I am having a cinnamon roll. And you should too.”
It’s not a perfect spiral, because as Colleen is fond of telling us, imperfect-looking food tastes the best. I hold the plate near Neil’s face, letting him inhale the sweet cinnamon sugar. Before he can take a bite, I snatch it away.
“Icing first,” I say, heading back into the kitchen.
All I want is for us to be normal after what happened in the library, and my brilliant plan is to ignore it. I cannot like him this way. It’s the