Today Tonight Tomorrow(61)

“I really will miss all of this,” I say, running my fingers along the spines.

“I think they have libraries in Boston. Big ones.”

I nudge his shoulder. “You know what I mean. This might actually be our last time in here.”

“Isn’t that kind of a good thing?”

I lean against the stack of books opposite him. “I’m not sure.” I reach into my backpack, pull out the success guide. We’ve already shared so much today. After you’ve cried on your nemesis’s shoulder, what boundaries are left? “I was so wrapped up in having this perfect high school experience, and I can’t help feeling disappointed that the reality isn’t what I thought it would be. You’re going to make fun of me, but… here’s that success guide.”

He accepts the wrinkled sheet of paper and scans it, one corner of his mouth tilting upward. I wonder what he’s smiling at: figuring out my bangs or making out with someone under the bleachers.

“I guess I thought I’d be this very specific person by now,” I continue. “And I’m just—not.”

When he gets to the end, he taps number ten in this matter-of-fact way. “?‘Destroy Neil McNair,’?” he reads. “I can’t say destroying you wouldn’t have been on my own hypothetical success guide.”

“Obviously, I failed. At everything.”

He’s still staring at it, and it’s killing me not knowing what’s going through his head. “You wanted to be an English teacher? ‘Mold young minds’?”

“What, you don’t think I’d be a good mind molder?”

“I actually think you would be. If you could get over your distaste for the classics.” He passes it back to me, and I’m both relieved and disappointed he didn’t say anything about the perfect boyfriend thing, if only because I’m curious what he would have said. “It’s not a bad list. I don’t know if it’s realistic, but… do you still want any of these things?”

The thought has crossed my mind a couple times today—before I’ve soundly dismissed it.

“Some of the ones it’s still possible to achieve, yes. It’s not something I think about very often, but I’d love to be fluent in Spanish,” I say. “My mom is, and her whole family is, and I’ve always wished I learned it when I was younger.”

“It isn’t too late, you know.”

I groan with the knowledge of him being right.

“And there was a reason you stopped taking Spanish.” When I shrug, he says, “Because your interests changed. Other things became more important for a while. It’s the same reason you don’t want to be a teacher anymore. You can’t tie yourself to this list you made when you were fourteen. Who still wants the same things they did at fourteen?”

“Some people do.”

“Sure,” he says. “But plenty don’t. People change, Rowan. Thank God they do. We both know I was an arrogant little shit at fourteen, though it didn’t stop you from crushing on me.”

“Twelve. Days.”

He smirks—funny he thinks the arrogance is a thing of the past. “Maybe this version of you would have been cool,” he says, tapping the paper again. “But… you’re kind of great now, too.”

Kind of great.

The compliment turns my heart wild. I slide down the bookshelf, settling onto the carpet, and he mirrors me, so we’re facing each other.

“I just wish it didn’t have to end right now,” I say, though part of me would love for him to elaborate on all the specific ways in which I’m kind of great. “I wish I had more time.”

It’s not until I say it out loud that I realize it’s true. Time. That’s what I’ve been chasing all day, this notion that after tonight, after graduation, none of us will be in the same city again. The things that mattered to us for the past four years will shift and evolve, and I imagine they’ll keep doing that forever. It’s terrifying.

“Artoo. Maybe you didn’t do everything on this list, but you did a lot. You were president of three clubs, editor of the yearbook, copresident of student council…” The smirk returns as he adds: “… salutatorian.”

But it doesn’t bother me anymore. I tug up my knee socks, which are damp and muddy. Howl has wreaked havoc on my perfect last-day outfit.

“It’s strange, though, isn’t it?” I say. “Thinking about our specific group of seniors all spread out next year? Most of us will only be home for breaks, and then less and less after that. We won’t see each other every day. Like, if I see you on the street—”

“On the street? What exactly am I doing ‘on the street’? Am I okay?”

“You’re probably selling your signed collection of Riley Rodriguez books for pizza money.”

“A whole signed collection? Sounds like I’m doing great, then.”

I stretch across the aisle to swat his arm with my hoodie sleeve, which is, well, his hoodie sleeve. “Fine, if I run into you, how are we supposed to act? What are we to each other when we’re not fighting to be the best?”

“I think it would be kind of like how we are tonight,” he says softly. He taps my ballet flat with his sneaker, and while my brain tells my foot to shift away from his, for some reason, the message doesn’t quite get there, and my shoe stays put. “Kind of like… friends.”