by Frankie Rose
*****
Noah wasn’t kidding when he said he’d grab us some snacks. I rock up just in time to catch the box of milk duds he’s trying to balance on top of the biggest bucket of popcorn ever.
“Whoa, nice catch!”
“Thanks.” I manage a smile and stuff the box into my pocket.
“Hey, I saw that!” Noah shakes his head, grinning. “I don’t know…been acquaintances for all of five minutes and she’s already stealing my confectionary.”
My smile grows a fraction bigger. I silently hope he’ll think the redness of my cheeks has a lot to do with the biting cold outside instead of suspecting I had to fight tears the whole walk over through the Upper East Side. Noah’s cheeks are a little rosy, themselves; he probably isn’t going to notice. He’s wearing another beanie—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without one. He’s gone for a smarter version of his casual dress: a thin black sweater over a button down shirt, and stone washed jeans. The sweater looks like it’s that really soft kind that feels amazing on your skin.
Noah cracks a smirk. “I got us tickets. Are you okay? You look a little dazed.”
Great. I’m a nervous wreck from watching the trailer already, and now I’m staring mindlessly at the guy I am on a ‘maybe’ date with. “Uh, what? No, I ahh...I’m fine. Shall we go in?” It would have been nice to think that the larger portion of my scrambled brain has to do with how good Noah looks, which he really does, but unfortunately I am still obsessing over Dad and Way Out Of Wyoming. What if the movie directors caught wind of Mayor Bright’s accusations while they were planning the film? Did they use my dad’s name in it? Do they call the Wyoming Ripper Maxwell Breslin in the newest box office hit? I force the ghost of a smile onto my face, feeling hideous, and follow Noah into the movie theatre, only half conscious of the fact that he’s going to be giving a lot away with his choice of seating.
He picks out a couple of seats three quarters of the way back from the screen—not exactly far enough from the back row to suggest he wasn’t thinking about sitting there. He lets me in first and sits down, offering me the popcorn. “You wanna steal this, too, seeing as you’ve already confiscated my Milk Duds?
“I thought they were our Milk Duds?”
Noah’s face changes a little, shadowed in the dim light of the theatre. “I like the sound of that,” he says quietly.
I frown. “Like the sound of what?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He smirks, shaking the popcorn under my nose until I take some. “What are you doing for Christmas, Miss Patterson? Heading back to…where are you from?”
“Idaho,” I lie.
“Idaho…” Noah narrows his eyes as he gazes off into the distance. “I know nothing about Idaho.”
Neither do I, so please don’t ask me about it, I think. I shove a handful of popcorn into my mouth and shrug. When I’ve finished slowly chewing, the curtains have parted and the screen flickers into life. “Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?” I whisper.
His grey eyes glint in the dark. He leans closer so I can hear him. “Belfast, but I spent a lot of time in London when I was a kid.”
“Oh. I didn’t think the Irish liked the English very much?”
A slow smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Some of us don’t. Some of us don’t care anymore. Me ma sent me there back towards the end of the nineties to get an education. She didn’t want me growing up around all those guns.”
I shoot him a startled look. “Is there still a lot of gun crime in Ireland?”
Noah nearly blows coke out of his nose. He coughs so violently that the lady in front of us turns to give us an irritated look.
“Oh, calm yourself, woman, it’s the adverts!” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “Did you just ask me if there’s a lot of gun crime in Ireland?”
I blush under the incredulous stare he’s giving me. “Yeah? I thought things were peaceful there now.” I get the impression I should be feeling pretty stupid.
“Oh, boy.” He takes a deep breath. “Yes, there’s a fair bit o’ gun crime, especially where I’m from in Northern Ireland. Not as much now as there used to be, though. I guess, in your defense, we’re not making the news every night anymore. There was a lot of conflict when I was growing up. The Loyalists and the Republicans, the Protestants and the Catholics…every one had a finger on a trigger in one way or another. My family thought I was better off out of it.”
“And you…what are you?”
Noah’s eyes narrow again. “What do you mean?”
“Are you a Loyalist or a Republican?”
“Do I have to be either?”
I tip my head to one side, studying him. “Most people are something when they grow up in an environment like that.”
“I’m just me,” he says lightly, but there’s a guarded look in his eye. “Me mother and father are Catholic, though you won’t find me frequenting the house of God on the weekends.”
I don’t get chance to ask him anything else. The movie starts, and after a warning glance from the woman in front of us we settle into silence to watch the film. Noah laughs long and hard through the next hour and half, and I manage a few splutters of my own, even through everything else crowding my mind. We’ve polished off half the popcorn and the Milk Duds by the time the credits roll, but my stomach feels oddly hollow. Noah dumps the trash on the way out, and we blink as we emerge into the lit foyer. The place is buzzing with people queuing for tickets to the late night showing.
“These guys all get to see the murder flick. You owe me,” Noah complains, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket so he can guide me through the sea of people, chattering and jostling each other to get ahead in line. The cold is startling when he tugs me outside. It’s snowing again, this time much heavier than the flurries the city has experienced over the previous weeks. The traffic on 2nd is bad as usual, the cab drivers leaning on their horns despite the fact it never gets them anywhere any quicker.
The curled ends of Noah’s hair catch flakes of snow as they descended. The rest land on his beanie, melting almost instantly. He becomes suddenly shy, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “So, I’m aware I touted this as a movie only deal, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to up the ante and grab some food as well? I know a place close by where they have good live music?”
My stomach growls right on cue, letting both me and Noah in on the fact that I’m hardly full. I glance up and down the street, realizing that we’re surrounded by normal people. People who probably haven’t heard a thing about some new movie. They’re just out for dinner, enjoying the holidays together. I’m suddenly incredibly jealous of them with their simple, uncomplicated lives. I look back at Noah to find him wearing a hopeful expression.
“Come on,” he said, smiling, “No turkey, I promise.”
“No turkey, huh? That is a big promise.” I sigh. “You know what? All right. Let’s grab some food.”
Noah doesn’t do much to hide how pleased he is. He offers me his arm and I hesitate a second before linking my own through it. There is a small smile playing over his lips as we make our way down 2nd Avenue, and I catch him look at me out the corner of his eye.
We walk one block over and cross onto 1st, where Noah directs me to the doors of a bar aptly named O’Flanagan’s. “You’re kidding, right?”
He’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin ever. “Hey, I’m Irish okay. I get homesick.” He guides me inside and we’re met with applause and whoops from at least a hundred people all pressed tight inside the bar. Their backs are to us, watching someone in the far corner strumming an instrument by the bar. Goodness knows what all the fuss is about but the place smells amazing. My stomach growls again, making Noah chuckle. “Sit here, darlin’. I’ll grab us some bar menus.” He points me over to the only empty booth in the place. I shuck off my jacket and scarf, rubbing my hands together to try and warm them.
“Last song! Let’s grab some water for our parched musician,” a voice announces over the spe
aker system. A series of moans and boos are chanted by the crowd.
“Screw the water, get him a beer!” a woman yells.
Another woman cat calls, “Tequila body shots!”
Whoever is up there is causing quite a stir. I laugh to myself, looking over my shoulder to find Noah. He’s leaning over the bar, talking to the bartender who just so happens to be a smoking hot chick with a ridiculously low cut top. She’s biting her lip, an openly slutty indication that she’s interested in more than just his drinks order. Her eye catches mine, a smug grin on her face, as she removes the caps off two beers and leans over unnecessarily far to place them in front of Noah. He pays her and is smiling when he turns around and makes his way back to the booth.
“Forget the menus?” I ask as he places a beer in front of me.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I just ordered you a veggie burger. You said you were vegetarian, right?”
I burst out laughing, picking up my beer bottle. “Very funny.” We seriously talked about my addiction to rare steak only minutes ago as we walked over here, so I know he’s joking. Only when I take a drink from my bottle and put it down, I see that he’s not. He’s not joking at all. There’s an awkward look on his face.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. You’re gonna think I’m such a dick now aren’t you?”
Man, the bartender’s rack must have really distracted him. I give him a smile—an it’s no big deal kind of thing even though it sort of is. “It’s okay. I’ll just go ask to change the order.”
Noah flinches. “Sorry, Avery. I’ll go.”
“No, seriously. It’s fine.” I get up, beer bottle in hand, and head over to the bar. There are way more people waiting for service now that the musician’s taking a break, and a group of five college girls stand at the end of the bar placing tequila shots and sliced up lime wedges onto a small tray. They really weren’t kidding about the body shots.
“What can I get ya?” the woman asks me, still smirking, like she thinks I’ve come over here to give her a piece of my mind about flirting with my man. Another perfect opportunity for an eye roll, but instead I smile sweetly. No point in being a bitch when Noah isn’t my man at all, and this woman is in charge of whether the chef spits in my food. I’ll be nice as pie. If she doesn’t want to be nice back, then that’s her problem.
“My friend just ordered me a veggie burger. Could you please see if there’s any chance I could change it to a regular hamburger?”
The bartender looks puzzled. She clearly expected something else out of me. She pouts, her lip-gloss a completely over the top shade of pink. “Order’s already gone into the kitchen, sweetheart. Boyfriend obviously doesn’t know you that well, huh?”
I don’t rise to the bait. “Yeah, actually we’re just friends. And no, we don’t know each other all that well.”
“Well, either way, there’s nothing I can do about it now. As soon as the order’s put in, that’s it.”
“Claire, surely you can stick your head through the door and change the order.”
I start at the familiar voice beside me. Luke Reid tips a bottle of water to his lips, sweat beading on his forehead. My knees buckle like someone just took a sledge hammer to them. His dark hair is damp and messy, ruffled in that I don’t give a fuck style only a few guys can pull off convincingly.
“Luke?”
He screws his mouth up to one side, raising his eyebrows. How the hell does he make that rued look so…so…
“Hey, Beautiful.” He sets the bottle down on the bar and frowns at Claire, evil slut bartender from hell. “Greg’s not even in the kitchen right now.” He points over to a tall guy in a motorhead t-shirt, talking to a group of girls, legs clad in checkered pants, the kind only chefs wear. Claire tucks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, thrusting her chest out. She twists her torso from side to side, pouting like a little girl.
“I was only playing, Luke. Of course it’s no problem.”
My mouth falls open as she literally skips over to Greg the chef. I turn to Luke, who is he rubbing a green guitar pick furiously in between the pad of his thumb and his bent index finger. “Um, thanks? I didn’t know you played here.” I feel the need to clarify that, just to make sure he knows I’m not stalking him or something.
“Yeah. I sometimes play here before a night shift starts. Amps me up. The twelve hour shifts can drain you sometimes.” He nods over to Noah, still sitting behind me. “You on a date?”
“No. No, of course not.” Of course not? What am I, some kind of virginal nun? I can be on a date if I want to be. I pull my shoulders back, standing a little straighter. “Well kind of. It might be. I’m not really sure.”
Luke, still staring at Noah, frowns. His expression is a dark one. “Haven’t defined the relationship, huh?”
“No, it’s not a relationship. We don’t have…” I’m floundering. Wow, this is terrible. Luke bends the guitar pick in his hand so hard the green plastic turns white. He tosses it onto the bar.
“Okay, well good luck with it, whatever it is. I gotta go. I have one last song to play.”
“Sure.”
He tips his head to one side and half-closes his eyes, staring at me intently. “Sorry about the thanksgiving text, Ave. I meant it, though. If you need anything just holler. Especially if you need anyone’s kneecaps breaking…” he shoots Noah a pointed glance when he says that. I haven’t told him people call me Ave now. It just falls out of his mouth like it’s obvious. He backs away, taking four steps before he turns around and disappears back into the crowd. The people part for him like he’s freaking Jeff Buckley reincarnated or something.
“Who was that?” Noah stands behind me, propping himself up against the bar by one elbow. He’s smiling, but his forehead is furrowed.
“Just a friend,” I tell him.
Claire walks back behind the bar, shooting daggers at me as the crowd erupts into cheers and whistles. From this position, I can just about see the top half of Luke’s upper body as he climbs onto what must be a small stage in the corner. He places a guitar strap over his head and sits down—I’m assuming there’s a stool there.
“What are the chances, huh? You know the guy who plays here,” Noah says, leaning close so he can speak directly into my ear. His breath skims across my neck, hot, and I have to fight the urge to take a step back. It’s not that it isn’t nice. It is…but, I don’t know. Something’s stopping me from enjoying his proximity as much as I might have done twenty minutes ago. I’m not stupid enough to pretend I don’t know what that something is. Or who. I just refuse to admit it.
“Thanks for being so welcoming tonight,” Luke says softly into the mic. His voice is sombre, and a hush falls over the sea of people between the bar and the stage. People whisper to each other, like it’s imperative they hear every last word out of his mouth. “I only have one more song to play tonight. It’s not one of mine, it’s a classic. This song means a great deal to me, so I hope you enjoy it.”
Luke strums a few chords out on his guitar, staring down at the frets, even though I’m a hundred percent positive he doesn’t need to look to find exactly where each of his fingertips should be. It takes a moment before I recognize the slow progression of the chords he strums out, and when his foot starts tapping out a familiar rhythm against the stage my throat begins to close up. It’s Blackbird. Blackbird by the Beatles. The only song my father knew how to play—his favourite. Luke’s brows pull together and upwards as he starts to sing, and my stomach lurches. Oh God. His voice is beautiful. Rough and perfect and full of emotion. He sings like it’s his heart that’s on the floor right now, not mine. The words—about fixing broken things, broken hearts and broken wings, learning to fly—each one of them punches through me until I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Can we…do you mind if we sit down again?”
Noah nods and gives me his trademark smile, guiding me back to the booth. It’s a short song so I only have to struggle through two more minutes of
Blackbird before it’s finally over and the screaming college girls are doing what they do best again: screaming.
“He’s good,” Noah says, slugging back some of his beer. The words themselves are complimentary but his tone doesn’t necessarily marry up with them.
“Yeah. He is.” He really is. But why…why did he have to play that song?
“Encore! Encore!” The body shot girls have clearly had at least one more round of tequila and they don’t seem keen to let Luke off the stage without another song.
Noah laughs, watching the scene play out with bemusement. “What is this, fricken’ Madison Square Garden or something?”
I risk a look behind me and Luke is holding up his hands, doing his best to navigate his way off the stage without offending anybody. Doesn’t look like he’s going to be successful, however. The girls bar his way, high-heeled feet tapping with expectation. Luke drops his hands, resignation settling in on his face. He sits back down on his stool. “All right, all right. One more song. Make it a cover, though. You guys decide.”
“What can you play?” someone shouts close by.
Luke smiles, his teeth flashing in a genuine smile. “Anything you got.”
“Radioactive!” the same guy calls.
“Yeah, Radioactive!”
“Radioactive!”
Luke just nods his head. This time he doesn’t look down at his guitar. He lets his eyes roam over the bustling bodies in front of him as he starts to slam out a bluesy, raspy version of the popular Imagine Dragons song. This performance is so different to the one I just witnessed. That one was filled with tangible pain, while this one is playful and electric. I get goose bumps when he mimics the part where Dan Reynolds sings, ‘breathing in the chemicals’.
“Food’s here,” Noah says, drawing my attention back to the booth. Wow. I’ve been staring at Luke and completely ignoring the guy who brought me here.
“Sorry, I’ve just never seen him sing before,” I apologize, as Claire drops our burgers off at the table. She doesn’t spare either of us a glance—Noah’s entirely forgotten. She’s too busy ogling Luke.
“You known him long?” Noah asks, picking up his burger.
“We grew up together,” I say. “He’s older though, we never really hung out or anything.”
“Hmmm. Another Ohio local in the big bad city.”
“Huh?” I’m inches away from blowing my cover completely when I begin to ask him what he means. I remember just in time. I’m from Ohio now, which means Luke now has to be from Ohio, too. Man, this is getting complicated. We eat our food as the whole bar sings along to the chorus of the song. When it’s done, people disperse and talk in groups, ordering more drinks and food from the bar. I feel the intense pressure of Luke’s gaze as he packs up his guitar and walks silently out of O’Flanagan’s. He doesn’t even say goodbye.
The awkward moment between Noah and I passes as soon as we leave the bar, and he insists on walking me back to the apartment. He doesn’t hang around for an invitation inside; he just leans forward and carefully tucks a strand of hair gently behind my ear.
“You know,” he says, “if I didn’t like you, now would be the time that I tried to kiss you.”
“What?” I can’t help but laugh, especially because of the fake serious look he has trained on his face.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I’d be all over that if I didn’t like you. Kissing, lip biting, hands everywhere, the works.” He wiggles his fingers at me and winks.
“That’s…that makes absolutely no sense,” I laugh.
“It totally does,” he disagrees. “If I didn’t think you looked like some kind a’ angel with all that blonde hair and your ridiculously cute nose, I’d definitely be trying to sleep with you right now. But as it stands, my hands and my lips are going to behave themselves tonight. I want more than one shot at giving them what they want.”
I blush and tuck my chin into my jacket, knowing he’ll still be able to figure out that I’m grinning by the way my eyes are crinkled at the corners. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“What?”
“That you think my nose is cute.”
Noah tips his head back and laughs, attracting the attention of a couple walking by on the street. They smile at us when they pass and Noah holds his hand out. “Wait up a second, can I ask you guys a question? Don’t you just think this girl has the cutest nose? I’ve told her twice now but I think we need an outside opinion.”
The man and woman, both rugged up in thick coats, laugh. “It’s cute all right,” the woman agrees.
“See?” Noah thanks the couple by giving them a low bow, which is hilarious, and they go on their way, their boots crunching in the snow. Noah takes a step toward me and suddenly there’s no more space between us.
“I thought you weren’t going to kiss me,” I mumble, suddenly panicked and awkward again, my breath catching in my throat.
Noah purses his lips, staring down at me for a second. He really is tall. I freeze when he reaches up and gently brushes my hair back again, this time with both hands. His fingertips graze my jaw on either side when he lets them fall.
“I’m not.” He touches his index finger to the tip of my nose and smiles, backing away. “Might do soon, though.”
“If I let you.”
A dangerous smile spreads across his face. “If you let me.”
I pace up the steps and open the door to the apartment building, and the whole time Noah backs away down the street, watching me with that same mischievous look on his face. I’m single, and so is Noah, which means I am allowed to enjoy him flirting with me, teasing me with the promise of future kisses to come. So then why does it feel so wrong? I head inside with Luke’s greeting from earlier ringing in my ears:
Hello, Beautiful.