Today Tonight Tomorrow - Rachel Lynn Solomon Page 0,87

near the downtown mini-golf course.

Don’t cry. “We can’t be.”

“You can’t exactly argue with time. If we’re late, we’re late. It’s just a fact.”

This snippiness catches me off guard. This isn’t even how we spoke to each other the past four years. There was always a respect there. I don’t know what this is, but it makes a hard pit settle in my stomach. He regrets what almost happened. I’m sure of it.

Logan Perez is at the door, armed with her clipboard. “You two are late,” she says, shaking her head.

“Only two minutes,” I say feebly, but I’m a rule-follower to my core. Late is late, whether it’s two minutes or two hours.

“Logan.” Neil stands up straighter. “It’s my fault. I made us take this weird route, even though Rowan didn’t want to. Eliminate me, if you have to. But let her stay.”

My face immediately heats up, and that pit in my stomach softens. I’m not exactly sure what he’s trying to pull here. He didn’t outright say he’d take the money if we win, but if I were the only one left, we’d be reducing our chances pretty significantly.

Logan’s gaze flicks between the two of us. “I shouldn’t do this,” she says, “but as the incoming president, I imagine I have some kind of executive power. In general, I consider myself pretty hard-hearted. But what you’re doing, Neil, is really sweet. It makes me feel something right in this general vicinity.” She holds a hand over her heart and grins. “You can both stay in the game, but you speak nothing of this to anyone else.” We nod, and she steps aside to let us through. “Enjoy your safety.”

Once inside, he’s suddenly fascinated with the straps of his backpack.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, still not entirely sure how to interpret it.

He shrugs. “You were right. We shouldn’t have taken so many detours.”

That makes me feel about two feet tall. “I guess I’ll see you in half an hour?”

He nods back his agreement and once again disappears with his friends. I have never been so relieved to see mine. Mara waves, and Kirby, a little more tentative, offers a smile.

“Hi,” I say, unsteady on my feet. If I’m going to cry, at least my friends are here. “I think I need to talk.”

* * *

In a darkened corner of an indoor miniature-golf course, after I apologize a hundred more times for being sour about the Chelan trip, I confess to my friends what they’ve suspected for all these years: that my feelings for Neil McNair go deeper than rivalry.

I tell them everything else, too, about the books I read and the book I’m writing and Delilah Park.

“Go ahead,” I say, pressing my back against the wall, bracing myself. “Make fun of me.”

“You’re writing a romance novel,” Kirby says slowly. “You showed it to Neil.”

Miserably, I nod, waiting for them to insist I could have shown them. But I feel better now, knowing I’m not hiding anymore.

“You didn’t think we’d be supportive?” she asks. There’s no amusement on her face. I think she might be hurt.

“It’s a romance novel. You’ve made it pretty clear what you think about them.”

“Yeah, but…” Kirby shakes her head. “I didn’t realize you loved them, loved them. I was always joking. It wasn’t meant to be mean. You never gave the impression that you were that into them, just that you had them lying around.”

“Because I was afraid,” I say in a small voice. “And I don’t want to be. Maybe I’m not the most amazing writer yet, but I think I’m okay. And I have plenty of time to get better. I don’t want to be ashamed of what I like.”

Mara’s been quiet the whole conversation, which isn’t entirely unusual for her. “I like Harry Styles,” she finally says, which surprises both of us.

Kirby turns to her. “Really? You’ve never told me that. I mean, I can admit he’s a good-looking guy.”

A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “No. I like his music.”

“Oh,” Kirby says. “I’ve never heard it.”

“It’s good,” Mara insists. “I’ll send you some songs.”

Then Mara and I both stare at Kirby, as though waiting for her confession.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I love reality TV. But not even the shows that require talent, like singing or fashion design. The really bad stuff that’s just hot rich people yelling at each other. I started watching it ironically with my sister a few years ago before she went to college, but then I sort

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