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“I know that.”
We start walking again. A few years ago, I’d have been utterly embarrassed by this conversation. While my friends and I have had these kinds of discussions—Kirby won’t miss an opportunity to rail on the patriarchy—I’ve never talked like this with a guy. Not Luke, not Spencer. Romance novels should have made me less afraid. I’ve read the words so many times. I should be able to say them out loud, but it hasn’t been easy when I can’t even admit I love those books in the first place. And here I am, finally saying what I want, and it’s with Neil of all people.
“You’ve…?” he says, letting me fill in the blank.
“Yeah, with Spencer. And Luke,” I say, and I appreciate that he doesn’t have a dramatic reaction to this. “I don’t know why it should be embarrassing when so many of us think about it so often. And yet it’s especially taboo for girls to talk about it.” This is another reason I love romance novels: the way they attempt to normalize these conversations. Not saying the world would be better if more people read romance novels, but… well, yeah. I am. “Masturbation is the worst double standard.”
The sky is nearly black, but a streetlamp slashes light across his extremely red face.
“I’m… familiar with the topic.”
I snort. “I’m sure you are. It’s just assumed that guys do it, so much so that guys can even joke about it. But for girls, it sometimes still feels like this dirty thing we’re not supposed to talk about, even though it’s perfectly healthy and plenty of us do it.”
“So you…”
“I mean, I’m not going to give you a play-by-play.”
He coughs again, and it turns into a choking fit. This is it. I have murdered Neil McNair.
He holds up a hand as though to assure me he’s okay. “I’ve learned a lot tonight.”
We’ve reached the senior parking lot on the edge of the library. I’m grateful to refocus on the reason we’re here, because truthfully, the conversation was making me a little feverish. And my brain won’t quit with the other things spiral, summoning a variety of helpful images to fill in the many, many options.
More likely, though, I’m anxious about the break-in. That would account for my increased heart rate.
“I’ll go check these windows,” McNair says, jogging several yards away, and once he leaves my general bubble, I let out a long, shaky breath and rearrange my bangs.
First I try the back library door. It doesn’t budge. “Back door’s locked,” I call to Neil. I push at a window. “Damn it. If anyone spots us here, do you think they’d rob us of our titles? I mean… we’re breaking and entering to return books. They wouldn’t call the police, would they? Since we go here? Or went here? All of these are stuck. There’s supposed to be something you can do with a credit card, right?”
I unearth a card from my backpack and locate a very helpful wikiHow. “It says to wedge the card into the gap between the door and the frame, and—Neil?”
I turn to Neil, who’s suddenly struggling to muffle a laugh. He fantastically fails, the laughter sputtering out.
“What? What’s so funny?”
He shakes his head, doubling over as he clutches his stomach. I get the sense he’s laughing at me.
“Neil McNair. I demand you explain yourself.”
He holds up a finger and digs into his pocket, revealing a key ring. “I—I work here,” he manages to say around a laugh. “Or—worked here. I should probably turn this thing in while we’re here.”
“Seriously? This whole time?” I reach for them, but he holds them out of my grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me you still had a key?” But I’m laughing too. A little bit.
“I wanted to see if you’d actually try to do it. I didn’t think it would go thi
s far. I thought you’d give up sooner.”
“You are the worst,” I say, shoving his shoulder.
Still howling with laughter, he turns the key in the lock, and then we’re in.
* * *
We use the light from our phones to guide us to the circulation desk.
“It’s kind of eerie in here,” I say.
He must sense I’m nervous, because he says in a soft voice, “It’s just us, Artoo.”
