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In one swift motion, he pulls me against his chest, his mouth landing softly on mine.

We kiss in the middle of the Common on the sunniest day of the year so far, clutching at each other like we’ve given up on gravity. I think you might be it for me, too, I tell him with every sigh against his lips.

“You’re still wearing this,” he says, one hand buried in the hoodie fabric. A kiss lands on my cheekbone. The tip of my nose.

“Of course. How else was I supposed to make sure you came back for me?”

When we pull away, I taste salt and realize I’ve started crying. I rub at my eyes, fingertips coming away streaked with black.

“My makeup is probably all over my face, isn’t it?”

He steps closer, licking the pad of his thumb before gently swiping it beneath my eyes, his other fingertips delicately balanced on my cheek. It is such a small, kind gesture that it renders me speechless for a moment, and I think I might start crying again. It’s starting to seem likely that one day I’ll run out of words to describe how much I love him.

“There,” he says, and kisses my forehead. “There actually is one more clue, by the way.” He shakes out the sheet of paper, which he shoved into his pocket while we were kissing, and makes a show of repositioning his glasses as he squints down at it. “Sorry, it’s a bit risqué, and it was probably a little optimistic at the time—”

This time, I snatch the paper out of his hands. “ ‘The place where we make passionate love the rest of the day, depending on our emotional states and general energy levels.’ That’s got to be the Boston Tea Party Museum, yeah? Or maybe right in the middle of Fenway Park?” A snap of my fingers. “I’ve got it. Up against the statue of Paul Revere.”

He laughs this pure and joyous sound, his arms settling around my waist. “Lead the way.”

A REVISED LIST OF NEIL MCNAIR’S FAVORITE WORDS

desenrascar: the act of figuring things out (Portuguese)

tîeow: to wander in a carefree way (Thai)

firgun: the act of taking genuine and sincere pride in someone else’s accomplishment (Hebrew)

amygdala: the brain’s processing center for emotions (Latin)

collective unconscious: a part of the mind that contains universal memories and impulses (English)

Vorfreude: the joyful anticipation that comes from imagining a future pleasure; pre-joy (German)

26

ROWAN

“I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s really over.”

Paulina and I survey what was once our room, bare beds and plain white ceilings and a distinct scent of all-purpose cleaner.

“You’ll see me again in August,” she says. We’ve decided to room together again. “Much more of me than this year, I hope.” Then she grimaces. “And… I’ll try to be a little cleaner. If you can believe it, my room at home is so much worse. With so many more penguins.”

I fake a gasp. “Going to need photographic proof of that.”

“As soon as I get back to Sacramento.”

I take one final look at the room, this place where I studied and sobbed and slept. It was a good first home away from home, I decide. I’ll miss it.

Finals went well—I didn’t end the year with a perfect 4.0, which I thought might be devastating, but I got close. After the year it’s been, that’s more than good enough for me. Then Miranda pulled me aside after our last class and said she’s thinking about taking on a research assistant in the fall for her next book. She’s been focusing on teaching for a while, but she’s finally ready to start writing again.

“I would love to,” I said quickly, before realizing that she hadn’t asked me yet.

“Great, because I was wondering if you might be interested.” Then she wrapped me in a hug. “Have a wonderful summer, Rowan.”

The rest of my goodbyes aren’t too bittersweet, mostly because so many of them feel like beginnings, too. I submitted an article to the student magazine about long-distance relationships, which will run in their back-to-school issue, and my creative writing cohort had another Gazebo Night that left all of us in tears, stomachs aching from laughter.

I love it here, but I’m ready to go home.