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“I may have had a breakthrough in creative writing,” she says between bites, and tells me about an epiphany sparked by her professor’s advice to write badly. I just blink at her for a few moments after she says this. “Is your overachiever brain short-circuiting? Because mine did when she first mentioned it.”

“A little, yes.”

“I swear to you, it works. It might be the best worst thing I’ve ever written,” she says. “But most importantly, I’m having fun with it.”

I’m happy for her—of course I am. She deserves to be optimistic about her writing, for it to bring her joy.

At the same time, I can’t deny there’s a shred of envy at seeing her so settled. At Emerson, with her major, in Boston. Maybe it’s a remnant from all our years of competition, or maybe it’s something entirely new, but whatever it is, it feels vile and deeply unwelcome.

“You’ll show me?” I ask, locking all of that in the box of things I cannot talk about, the one I wish had a tighter lid. The cloth napkin in my lap is a wrinkled wreck. “When you have something you’re ready to share?”

“I may be enlightened, but not enlightened enough to show you this garbage. Yet.” Still, she finds my hand again, brings it to her mouth to drop a kiss onto my knuckles. “Soon, though. Hopefully.”

* * *

As I reach for the check, Rowan suggests splitting it.

“You don’t have to be chivalrous,” she says. “You know I don’t care about that stuff.”

“I know. I just—we never go on dates like this.” I slide my credit card into the billfold, having prepared for this after what happened in the sushi restaurant. “I want to treat you.”

“Fine, but I’m getting it next time.”

The bookstore is a ten-minute walk away, and it’s an unseasonably warm evening. With each step, my body loosens up a bit more. A magnificent relief—I only want to be my best self when I’m with her.

“Imagine if we lived here,” I say, hand threaded with hers as we pass a quartet of musicians, a guy with a cello strapped to his back trailing three violinists. “If we could go back to our apartment at the end of the day and crawl into bed together. Not just once in a while like this, but every night.”

The way that vision aches. The times we’ve talked about the future, it’s always seemed so far away, with so many classes and exams and flights and train rides in between. But we’ve almost made it through this year. It’s impossible not to think ahead in a long-distance relationship—to the time you’ll finally be in the same place.

“Maybe we could. After graduation. Of course, the rent would be so astronomical that we’d never be able to afford a meal like this again.” She turns her face toward mine. “Speaking of… we really need to book those tickets. Flying into London and out of Rome, right?” That was what we discussed during our last call about it.

Two weeks ago. Before the letter arrived.

“I know, I know.” The anxiety starts its slow ascent up my spine again. “We will. Tomorrow.”

Because here is what I’ve decided: I don’t know if I can go on that trip.

I’ve saved up, and I still have a decent chunk of the Howl money. Truthfully, I can’t imagine anything else I’d rather spend it on. But that’s not the reason, even if it’s the one she’s likelier to understand.

Ever since that goddamn letter arrived, it’s been impossible to imagine the two of us traipsing around Europe, a vacation that should be joyful and illuminating and wildly romantic. I’d be this storm cloud following her around, a heavy weight on her back.

I wish I could picture myself happy there with her, and I don’t know what it means that I suddenly can’t.

Though he went to prison long before I showed any real interest in girls, somehow my thoughts take on my father’s voice.

What a fucking loser. Can’t even keep your girlfriend satisfied.

He is always there, a ghoulish reminder of the family I once had, the pain my mom tried to hide from the rest of us. I must be doomed never to move on when it’s what I want more than anything in the world.

“My parents looked through our itinerary,” Rowan continues, and I will myself to remain in the moment. “They thought we should spend one less night in Dublin so we could spend more time on the coast, but that should be easy enough when we book the hotels.”

“Right.” The single syllable sounds so foreign, I’m not even sure my mouth is moving. I’m about to disappoint her. Ruin her summer.

The sleeves of my suit are too tight, the collar of my shirt too stiff. These clothes are choking me, and suddenly it all feels like too much. A swirl of confusion and worry, all trying to yank me back to that dark place where I couldn’t get out of bed.

Another thought, entirely unbidden:

She deserves better.