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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.”
