Today Tonight Tomorrow(34)
“I find that hard to believe. You’ve been scoffing nonstop for the past half hour.”
“?‘Hate’ is a really strong word. I don’t hate you. You”—I wave my hand in the air as though the right word is something I can wrap a fist around—“frustrate me.”
“Because you want to be the best.”
I grimace. The way he says it makes me feel immature about this whole thing. “Well—okay, yes… but it’s more than that. Most of what we talk about is completely harmless, but you’ve never been able to stop with the snide remarks about romance novels, and that’s not teasing to me. It just… hurts.”
His grip on his backpack straps loosens, and he ducks his head as though in shame. “Artoo,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry. I really thought… I really thought we were just teasing each other.” He genuinely sounds sorry.
“It doesn’t feel like teasing when you go out of your way to make me feel like garbage for liking what I like. I already have to defend it enough with my parents, and with my friends. Like, I get it, ha ha, sometimes there are shirtless men on the covers. But what I’ll never understand is why people are so quick to trash this one thing that’s always been for women first. They won’t let us have this one thing that isn’t hurting anyone and makes us happy. Nope, if you like romance novels, you have zero taste or you’re a lonely spinster.”
When I finally stop talking (thank God I stop talking), I’m breathing hard, and I’m a little warm. I hadn’t expected to get so worked up about it, not on the day I’m meeting literary goddess Delilah Park, and not in front of Neil McNair.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide and unblinking behind his glasses. He’s going to laugh at me in three, two one.…
But he doesn’t.
“Artoo…,” he says again, even quieter this time. “Rowan. I really am sorry. I—I guess I don’t know much about them.” He changes course, using my real name. Then he lifts a hand until it’s hovering above my shoulder. I wonder what it would take for him to lower it. I remember the Most Likely to Succeed photo shoot, how he was so opposed to touching me. As though it would convey some kind of fondness we have never had for each other. Mutual respect, sure. But fondness? Never.
He drops his hand before I can contemplate it anymore.
“Apology… accepted, I guess.” I was all ready to fight back. I’m not used to peace talks. “Can I ask you something?”
“No. You can’t.” Maybe this is meant to lighten the mood, by the way his mouth quirks up as he says it.
I push at his shoulder, gently. It’s the way I’d touch a closer friend, and it feels so strange that my stomach flips over. I’m not even sure if McNair and I are capable of being friends, or if it even matters. We’re leaving in a couple months anyway. I don’t exactly have time for new friends.
“Why do you hate them so much? Romance novels?”
He gives me another odd look. “I don’t.”
UPPER CRUST PIZZA
June 12 03:18 PM
ORDER #: 0102
SERVER:JENNIFER GUESTS:2 TABLE:9
DINE IN
1 VEGGIE VENGEANCE
$2.99
1 PEPPERONI PIZZAZZ
$3.49
SUBTOTAL
$6.48
TAX
$0.65
TOTAL
$7.13
TIP
$2.50
VISA CARD XXXXXXXXXXXX1519
MCNAIR, NEIL A
THANK YOU!
3:40 p.m.
THE TEMPTATIONS ARE playing inside Doo Wop Records, one of a handful of things that makes me feel as though I’ve stepped back in time. The whole place is a tribute to the 1960s, with vintage concert posters on the walls and private listening booths in the back.
“You fit right in,” McNair says, gesturing to my dress.
“I—oh.” It’s such an un-McNair-like thing to say that it takes me a while to form a sentence. “I guess so. I like old clothes and old music. Are you… into music?” It seems like a basic fact to know about a person: brown hair, brown eyes, would do questionable things to have been able to see the Smiths play live.
“Am I into music?” He scoffs at the question as we head down an aisle marked ROCK J–N. “Was Hemingway the greatest writer of the twentieth century? Yes, I’m into music. Mostly local bands, some that made it big and some that haven’t yet. Death Cab, Modest Mouse, Fleet Foxes, Tacocat, Car Seat Headrest…”
“Did you see Fleet Foxes at Bumbershoot a few years ago?” I ask, ignoring the Hemingway comment. Just for that, I’ll pick an extra steamy book for him to read when I win.
His eyes light up. “Yes! Such a great show.”
And though we’ve been at the same school for four years, there’s something strange about this: McNair and I having been at the same concert, clapping for the same band in a sea of sweaty Seattle hipsters.
He finds the N section first, flips through it as I open my group chat with Kirby and Mara. It’s not impossible Savannah’s recruited more people since Hilltop Bowl, and even if we’re on shaky ground, I don’t want to be scared of my own friends.