Today Tonight Tomorrow

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  I blow out a breath. They know, and Kirby and Mara know, and when I start classes in the fall, this could be what I tell my new friends too. I’m writing a romance novel.

  The Great Wheel glimmers against the night sky. I’ve never actually been on this Ferris wheel. The name is no joke. When it was built, it was the tallest Ferris wheel on the West Coast, and the idea of being so high up scared me. But tonight its lights draw me closer, and I wonder why I was ever afraid of it.

  “Last ride of the night,” the guy at the ticket booth says after I hand over my five dollars. “You’re just in time.”

  A minute later, my feet are off the ground.

  The air is cool against my face, and down below, the water is black and serene. A couple cars above me, two teens are laughing and taking selfies. A couple cars below me, a father is trying to calm a too-rowdy child.

  “Don’t you dare rock this seat, Liam,” he says. “Liam… LIAM!”

  I am on a Ferris wheel at midnight. It would be extremely romantic if I weren’t alone.

  This whole day, I’ve felt on the edge of so many things. In high school, I knew how to do everything and how it should all make me feel. There’s a comfort in challenging Neil because there are only ever two outcomes: he wins, or I win. A routine. A security blanket.

  I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’d never been on the Great Wheel. I’d never almost broken into a library. I’d never experienced Seattle the way I did tonight, but it’s not just the setting. Bit by bit, today forced me out of my comfort zone. The end of the game means the end of high school, and while there’s plenty I romanticized, there’s so much I’ll miss. Kirby and Mara. My classes, my teachers.

  Neil.

  “Oh my God,” someone says, breaking my concentration. A woman’s voice. “Oh my God!”

  The voices are coming from the other side of the wheel. It’s not a scared-sounding oh my God. It’s the good kind.

  “She said yes!” Another woman’s voice.

  Everyone on the wheel breaks into cheers as the couple embraces. If that’s not romance-novel-worthy, I don’t know what is.

  I want to leap fearlessly into whatever is next for me. I really do. And it’s not like I have a choice—I’m not going to sit on top of this Ferris wheel for the rest of my life. I mean, the guy said I’m the last ride of the night, so quite literally, it’s not an option. I’m just terrified of falling, of failing, of not being able to catch myself.

  My car stops at the top. It’s so fucking beautiful, my lit-up city, that I’m going to be a tourist and take a picture. I unzip my backpack and reach for my phone, my fingers grazing a familiar hardcover.

  My yearbook.

  Slowly, I pull it out of my backpack, hands trembling as I turn to the back pages. He didn’t want me to read it until tomorrow, but fuck it, it’s tomorrow, and I’m desperate to know what it says.

  I have to flip around to find it. Two pages in the back were stuck together, and that’s how he managed to find some space. There’s my nickname in calligraphy, and—woof, it’s long. My eyes dart around at first, struggling to focus on any single word. What I’m hoping is for some reassurance that I haven’t fucked things up beyond repair, though of course he wrote this before our fight. Still, it feels like a life preserver.

  So I inhale the cold night air, and then I start reading.

  Artoo,

  I’m switching back to regular handwriting. Calligraphy is hard, and I didn’t bring my good pens. Or I need more practice.

  Right now you’re sitting across from me, probably writing HAGS 30 times in a row. I know a little bit of a lot of languages, but even so, I struggle to put this into words. Okay. I’m just going to do it.

  First of all, I need you to know I’m not putting this out there with any hope of reciprocation. This is something I have to get off my chest (cliché, sorry) before we go our separate ways (cliché). It’s the last day of school, and therefore my last chance.

  “Crush” is too weak a word to describe how I feel. It doesn’t do you justice, but maybe it works for me. I am the one who is crushed. I’m crushed that we have only ever regarded each other as enemies. I’m crushed when the day ends and I haven’t said anything to you that isn’t cloaked in five layers of sarcasm. I’m crushed, concluding this year without having known that you like melancholy music or eat cream cheese straight from the tub in the middle of the night or play with your bangs when you’re nervous, as though you’re worried they look bad. (They never do.)

  You’re ambitious, clever, interesting, and beautiful. I put “beautiful” last because for some reason, I have a feeling you’d roll your eyes if I wrote it first. But you are. You’re beautiful and adorable and so fucking charming. And you have this energy that radiates off you, a shimmering optimism I wish I could borrow for myself sometimes.

  You’re looking at me like you can’t believe I’m not done yet, so let me wrap this up before I turn it into a five-paragraph essay. But if it were an essay, here’s the thesis statement:

  I am in love with you, Rowan Roth.

  Please don’t make too much fun of me at graduation?

  Yours,

  Neil P. McNair

  12:43 a.m.

  AT FIRST THE words don’t sink in. It doesn’t make sense. This has to be some elaborate joke, one final, twisted way for Neil to win by making a fool of me. So I read it again, lingering on the fourth paragraph, and the sixth paragraph, and the way my nickname looks in his handwriting. And then the seventh paragraph, the single-sentence confession:

  I am in love with you, Rowan Roth.

  There is too much care and sincerity in those words for it to be a joke. My pulse is roaring in my ears, my heart a wild animal.

  Neil McNair is in love with me. Neil McNair. Is in love. With me.

  I’m not sure how many times I read it. Each time, different words jump out at me, “crush” and “beautiful” and “in love,” “in love,” “in love.”

  Something catches in my throat—a laugh? A sob? Valedictorian Neil McNair wrote “fuck” in my yearbook. I read it again. I can’t stop. “Shimmering optimism”—not head-in-the-clouds-ism. He likes that about me, enough to tell me when I’m so extreme about it that I’m standing in my own way.

  Except. It would have been a mistake, he said when I asked about what happened on the bench.

  He was bluffing. He had to be. This note is so heartfelt, he couldn’t have switched off those feelings in a matter of hours. I may not know much about love that I haven’t read in a book, but I’m sure it lingers longer than that. A simmer, not a spark.

  This message, it’s sweeter than any romance novel.

  It’s real.

  Neil loves me.

  Earlier today, I couldn’t picture him kissing anyone. Is it because I can only picture this happening with me, that Rowan plus Neil is this inevitability everyone has known except us? Kirby and Mara, Chantal Okafor in student council, Logan Perez who let us into the safe zone, my parents…

  Do I love Neil McNair?

  Even if I’m not entirely certain, the reality is that I really think I could.

  I have to get off this fucking Ferris wheel.

  Life is funny, though: the most romantic moment of my life, and I’m at the top of a Ferris wheel with a yearbook instead of the boy who wrote in it that he’s in love with me.

  * * *

  The Museum of the Mysteries, located in a downtown Seattle basement, is Seattle’s only museum dedicated to the paranormal. I’m not sure why they need to explain it or why the city would ever need more than one museum dedicated to the paranormal, but there it is on the sign in front.

  Can we talk? I texted Neil once the Ferris wheel touched down. I feel really awful about what happened. And I think I figured out the last clue. No one’s won Howl yet, or we’d have received a message blast. I’m determined to make things up to him.

  He replied ok without any punctuation, very un-Neil-like. He was clearly upset if he wouldn’t spe
ll out the word, but maybe it’s proof he still feels the way he did when he wrote in my yearbook that he agreed to meet back up. Or he wants to win this game and be done with tonight.

  He’s waiting on a bricked street with a rickety staircase that leads to the museum. His hair is mussed, his posture slightly hunched. Why did I ever tease him about those freckles? I love them. I love every single one of them. I love his freckles and his red hair and the too-short legs of his suit pants and the too-long sleeves, the way he laughs, the way he pushes up his glasses to rub his eyes.

  I am in love with you, Rowan Roth.

  He lifts one hand in a wave, and I melt.

  I am in so much trouble.

  “Hi,” I say in a small voice.

  “Hey.”

  “Eerie that it’s—” I say, at the same time he says, “Should we—”

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “Oh. Um. I was going to say, it’s eerie that it’s open so late.”

  “It is Seattle’s only museum dedicated entirely to the paranormal,” he says, pointing to the sign.

  He’s not quite as stiff as I thought he’d be. We both reach for the door at the same time, our hands brushing. Then we yank them away like we’ve touched fire.

  The woman working here is reading a book behind the counter. She has white-blond hair down to her hips and large purple glasses.

  “Evening,” she says, barely glancing at us.

  We pay the cheap entry fee, thank her, and venture farther into the museum. A strange soundtrack is playing, a classical piece punctuated by screams. It feels like we’re in a haunted house. We keep bumping into each other, like our feet have forgotten how to walk.

  “I, um, got the ‘view from up high clue,’ ” I say.

  “Me too.” But he doesn’t ask where I went, so I don’t either.

  We pause in front of a display about the Maury Island UFO Incident.

  I read off the plaque: “ ‘The Maury Island UFO Incident occurred in June 1947. Following sightings of unidentified flying objects over Maury Island in Puget Sound, Fred Crisman and Harold Dahl claimed to witness falling debris and threats by men in black. Dahl later took back his claims and stated it was a hoax… BUT WAS IT?’ ” I tap my chin. “A little bit of editorializing, I think.”

  He just grunts.

  None of our silences have been this awkward.

  “You could take your sister here,” I suggest, trying to lighten the mood.

  He shrugs. “She might get scared. She’s not really into creepy stuff, especially after the whole Blorgon Seven thing.”

  “Oh. Right.” I round a corner and point to a sign that says THE D. B. COOPER ROOM. “He’s got an entire room to himself, lucky guy.”

  One wall lists all the facts known about him:

  Ordered a bourbon and soda

  Midforties

  Dark-brown eyes

  Wore a mother-of-pearl tie pin and a black necktie

  Receding hairline

  Had some level of aviation knowledge

  The FBI retired his case in 2016, but clearly Pacific Northwesterners are still fascinated by it, as demonstrated by this exhibit.

  “He’s got to be dead,” Neil says. “There’s no way he survived that jump.”

  “I don’t know. It’s cool to imagine that he’s still out there somewhere. He’d be ancient at this point, but he could’ve had kids. Maybe he got away with it and outsmarted all of us.” We pause in front of a wax bust of his head. “Kind of a hottie,” I say, trying to lighten the mood again.

  “Middle-aged and balding is your type?”

  No, freckled redheads who alter their own suits are my type. “Oh yeah,” I say, and it feels, for a split second, like we’re back to normal. But then Neil walks around the room, snaps a photo.

  “I guess that’s it,” he says. “We’re done. We can go to the gym and divide up the prize and go our separate ways, like you wanted. You don’t have to give me your share as some kind of pity money.”

  And if that isn’t a gut-punch.

  He turns to go, but I reach for his arm.

  “Neil. Wait.”

  “I can’t, Rowan.” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, as though wishing he could pull a D. B. Cooper and disappear. “This was a ridiculous idea, the two of us teaming up. If we tried to destroy each other for four years, why would we suddenly get along tonight?”

  I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry for what I said about your dad. I didn’t mean it. You shared so much personal stuff with me today, and I should have treated that with more respect.”

  “You should have. I agree.”

  I take a step back, trying to give him space. “I want to be friends.”

  He snorts. “Why the hell would you want that? You made it pretty clear earlier that’s not what we are.”

  “You’re right. I did.” I take a deep breath. “Look… you’ve been a huge pain in my ass for the past four years, but you’re also all these things I didn’t know until today. You’re an excellent dancer. You love children’s books. You care about your family. And you’re Jewish, and, well… it’s nice to know another one.”

  “You’ll meet plenty of other Jewish kids in Boston.”

  “You’re making it really hard for me to compliment you.”

  He gives me a sheepish smile, and at that I finally feel myself relax. We can be okay. We have to be. “I’m sorry about what I said, too,” he says. “About you sabotaging yourself. That was… completely out of line. You were incredible at that open mic, and—and I should have given you more credit for that.”

  “You weren’t entirely wrong, though.” I lean against the railing, a couple feet from him, testing our boundaries. “I’m a bit of a dreamer, and I stand in my own way. Sometimes it feels like competing with you is the only thing that’s grounded me.” I pause, then: “I called my parents. I told them about my book.”

  His eyes light up. It’s a crime that I’ve never noticed how lovely they are. “And? How did it feel?”

  “Terrifying. Fantastic,” I say. But I’m not done apologizing yet. I haven’t been fully honest with him tonight. Every time I said something wrong, I was trying to stick to a plan that no longer feels like mine. I wonder how it would feel to let go of that completely. “Neil. I keep saying these horrible things to you, these things I don’t mean. Not just what I said about your dad, either. Like when you asked me to sign your yearbook. It’s like my natural instinct is to fight with you, and I’m trying really hard to override it, but I’ve messed up a few times. And I’m so sorry.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “My instinct is to brush it off and tell you it’s fine, but… thank you for saying that.”

  “What I said in the library, when we were dancing…” When I exhale, it’s shaky. The way he spilled his heart on my yearbook page, he might be braver than I’ve ever been. He makes me want to try harder. “I wasn’t imagining anyone else.”

  This drags a smile out of him. “Yeah?” he says, and I nod.

  “I really did have fun with you today.” Slowly, I inch closer to him, watching his face carefully. His brows twitch, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s swaying slightly in my direction. One and a half more steps and we’d be chest to chest, hip to hip.

  “Was that so hard to admit?” he asks, his smile deepening into a smirk.

  I am in love with you, Rowan Roth.

  I fist a hand in my hair and let out a strangled, frustrated sound. “God, you are so infuriating.” It doesn’t come out cruel, though. Teasing, maybe, but not cruel.

  “But you like it.” It’s possibly the boldest thing he’s said all day, and when he takes a step forward, I can feel the heat radiating off him. No wonder he was fine parting with his hoodie—the boy is a human sauna. “You like being infuriated. By me.”

  I do. I like it so much.

  My breath hitches. He must be able to hear it, because one side of his mouth slants up, and he runs his h
and along the railing until it almost but not quite touches mine. There’s so little space between our bodies now. His scent is earthy and heady, making me ache for something I didn’t know I wanted.

  The fantasy: that my perfect high school boyfriend would be the epitome of romance.

  The reality: Neil McNair has been here all along.

  “Passive voice?” I challenge, sounding much huskier than I’m used to hearing. “Westview taught you better than that.”

  It doesn’t make him laugh the way I hoped. Instead, he gives me this look that’s half amused and half serious, one that turns me electric. His gaze is steady, and I have a view of the gorgeous angles of his throat as he swallows hard.

  “No,” he says, so close to me that I can almost hear his heart beat in time with mine. “You did.”

  And that’s what pushes me over the edge. Before I can overthink it, before I spend forever dreaming up the perfect moment, I lunge forward, pinning him against the railing and covering his mouth with mine.

  HOWL STANDINGS

  TOP 5

  Neil McNair: 14

  Rowan Roth: 14

  Brady Becker: 14

  Mara Pompetti: 13

  Carolyn Gao: 10

  PLAYERS REMAINING: 11

  ARE WE CLOSE TO A WINNER? HURRY AND GOOD LUCK!

  1:21 a.m.

  NEIL MCNAIR IS kissing me back. There’s no hesitation, not like when we hugged earlier with shy, uncertain limbs. This time, he lets himself fall.

  His lips press hard against mine as I wrap my arms around his neck, sinking into him. It’s a fast, desperate kind of kiss, and God, he feels good. His hands get lost in my hair, and that plus his mouth plus this sound he makes deep in his throat turn my blood to fire. I part my lips, tasting a lingering sweetness from the cinnamon roll we shared. My imagination wouldn’t have been able to do him justice.

  When he smiles against my mouth, I can feel it.

  “Rowan?” he says as he pulls back, his voice a mix of surprise and awe. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are beautiful and heavy-lidded, those long lashes fluttering against the lenses of his glasses. Maybe it’s drowsiness, or maybe he’s just as drunk on this feeling as I am. “What’s… happening?”