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“You can tell me anything.”

“I—I know that.” Then another wave of uncertainty passes over his face, and I’m frustrated I can’t immediately recognize it. “While we’re talking academics, I guess I’ve been… a little unsure of my major lately.”

“You don’t want to study linguistics?”

“I don’t know. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? It’s what I’ve been working toward for years. The language books, the AP classes, all the dictionaries…”

“But—you’ve always loved words,” I say dumbly. Neil was going to be a lexicographer one day, a person who compiles dictionaries—that was what he told me on the last day of school, and I was absolutely enchanted by it.

Maybe words have betrayed both of us.

“I still do,” he says. “I just… might like other things too.”

Then I collect myself. “That’s perfectly okay. Isn’t the whole point of college to figure that out? It’s okay if it’s not linguistics. It’s okay if you change your mind a dozen times.”

“I don’t know if my scholarships will quite cover that,” he says with a half smile. “I told you how much I loved my psych 101 class. The one I’m taking this semester is even better. We’re studying personality theory, and I suppose I never thought there might be researched, psychological theories to explain why we act the way we do. And that there would be so many different ones, to the point where even one major theory can’t cover every facet of personality. It almost feels limitless, the language we have to describe how our brains work.” The way he lights up while talking about it, his words almost tripping over each other—how could I have missed this joy, this new passion he has? “You know how much I love school. I’ve never felt this way about a class before. Not even linguistics.”

“Psychology,” I say, the pieces clicking together. “I can see it.”

“Yeah?”

“It makes sense that you’d want to understand… well, because of your dad.”

All at once, the energy in the room shifts.

Your dad.

Your dad.

Your dad.

I might as well have shouted it, given the stricken look on his face, the way his shoulders go stiff like a statue. He blinks a few times. Swallows hard.

“I mean—” I try, but then I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Shit shit shit. I’ve just made a colossal mistake.

Because we don’t talk about his dad. We haven’t, not since the afternoon of June 12, when we sat on his bed and he trusted me with a guarded piece of his history.

I’d always figured he’d tell me more when he was ready, but I wasn’t going to pressure him. Obviously a single conversation couldn’t account for all the trauma and heartbreak of his past, and I hate that now I’m wondering if there’s something wrong with me that he hasn’t shared more of it.

“That’s not—that’s not the only reason,” Neil finally says, not making eye contact.

“No, I know—”

“My dad—” He breaks off, and I’m struck with the realization that the way he says it is strangely foreign. A gap between those words, as though he’s not used to putting them together. “I think I need to get some air.”

I follow him down the stairs, gaze fixed on his back while my face flames. Wishing we could rewind to ten minutes ago. Hating that I brought it up. Every pound of my boots is a question: Why? Why? Why?

It takes an eternity to unwind ourselves from the Athenæum maze, weaving around tourists and tour guides and students. Once we’re outside, his exhales puff white into the freezing air. He’s breathing hard, the wind already turning his freckled cheeks pink and fighting with his hair. The collar of his peacoat is flipped upward, an extra barrier against the cold, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

All I want in this moment is for him to let me in.

“Sorry—I’m not mad at you,” he says, turning to face me. His dark eyes hold only concern. “I swear. I guess I was just… surprised to hear you make that connection. Wasn’t expecting it.”

I place a hand on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it in such a cavalier way. I’m sorry.” Maybe I didn’t know there were limits when it comes to talking about Neil’s family, because now it feels like he’s shut the door to some secret vault. “If you don’t want me to ever bring him up, just tell me. Okay?”

“No—you can. I’m fine. It’s fine.” He wraps me in a hug, leaving me more confused than ever. Because now I am definitely not going to bring him up again. “It’s fine,” he repeats, as though trying to convince us both.

I cling to him tighter than I usually do. “Maybe we were both due for a minor breakdown today,” I offer, wishing it felt more like I hadn’t just completely fucked up. He is my boyfriend, and I care about him more than I thought I could care about another human being, and whatever hurt he’s dealing with—I want him to be able to confide in me.