His brow knitted, hands waving uselessly. He didn’t know what to say, or where this was coming from. Confusion racked his brain. Unable to think, he shook his head, blurting, “What? Aly, no. Why-”
Staring at her feet, shecontinued, “Why is your brother in trouble for distorting an investigation?”
Did they seriously ruin this too?
“Aly, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Noah insisted, searching her eyes for some clue as to what was going on. She looked like he had tried to hit her with a bat, like someone had personally reached into her chest and ripped her heart out with a roaring laugh. He got the feeling that she was as bewildered as he was, and neither really understood what the other was saying. They both had walls up and no one was breaking through. He wanted to hold her, to make the problem disappear, to return to laughter and kisses. He wanted to kill whoever had hurt her and dared to put doubts in her head. Before he could construct the right words, irrelevant ones were running from his mouth. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly my brothers.”
“How would I know?” she demanded, ferocity missing from her voice. He felt her gravitating towards him, moving ahead and back again, swaying as though she could fall over a cliff– the side undecided. Stepping forward, he prepared to catch her.
“Aly, I would never do that to you.”
“You…” she covered her face, shaking her head.
She didn’t need to ask.
“I promise,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. She buried her face in his chest, crying. Part of him tried to stay confused, insisting he didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t true, though
– he knew pain. He practically inhaled it, sending it rushing through his bloodstream. He’d seen Sarah practically shatter, curled into fetal position in the corner of her bedroom floor or wedged under her bed. He’d seen grown men cry, from townie drunks to his best friends when they were so black and blue they looked like they belonged to a space alien nationality. Mary-Agnes did it daily, more avid with the sport than local hunters trying to feed their families. If that didn’t prepare him, Aly already had. She’d seen him the night Sarah was burned. It included all sorts of his worst. He felt like she was a piece of him, like they already knew each other better than he knew the kids he’d grown up with. He didn’t care if she cried or screamed or hit him harder than his father. He wanted her to be better. He would let the world end if it made her okay.
“They didn’t believe me.” She confessed, curling into his arms. He rested his chin on her head. Even sobbing, she was gentle and perfect, like lavender with vanilla. Noah felt her tremble.
Noah kissed her forehead. “It’s okay. If it’s not, it’s going to be.” Aly shook her head, pulling away. Wiping at her cheeks, she offered apologies, swearing she never acted like that, that she was stronger. Sprinting after her as she walked away, he grabbed her arm and encouraged her to face him. He didn’t care that they were in the middle of the street, or that the nearest neighbors were probably looking through the windows if they were sober enough to notice.
Aly was all that mattered. As he took her face in his hands, her fingers curled around his wrists. Brushing his thumbs below her eyes, Noah murmured, “Everyone cries, Aly. You’re already strong.”
She bit her lip, nodding as another wave of tears brimmed. They were silent for a moment. Hesitating, she continued, voice wavering, “My dad said he’d make me regret it if I ruined his job, that you were messing with my head. Noah, he forgot my mom was dead. When he remembered, he acted like… like it was funny. He just kept screaming.”
He felt something snap, and struggled to stifle it. His temper was writhing to surface, the rage eating at his roughest edges. Jaw set, he swore, “I’ll go down there right now. I’ll tell him everything. If he doesn’t believe you-” She looked up at him, her blue eyes filled with hurt. Noah growled, “Or I can just kill him. Actually, I prefer that plan.”
She laughed through the tears, burying her face. Against his chest, Aly murmured, “Can I ask a favor?”
“Name it,” he said, completely serious.
“Help me,” she begged, finding his gaze. “We could prove it.” He imagined his father’s response if he knew he’d gone into the woods again, nonetheless with Aly to run after the already disrespected wood beast.
Wincing, he began, “Aly-” “I have this really amazing motion camera. My mom bought it for me when I took a photography elective. It’d be perfect... Please Noah?” Aly pleaded, her hands knotted in his shirt. Analyzing his doubtful expression, her chilled fingers brushed his jaw, her palms rising to rest against his cheeks. He shuddered, leaning close. She mouthed, “Help me.”
“Anything,” he breathed.
“You promise?” Her words smashed through his head, followed by the infuriating echo of Greg’s threats. He never thought he’d call Alyson Glass desperate, but it certainly wasn’t for him. Aly needed this, to prove to her jerk-too-jerky that he was the nothing he’d labeled her as, that she was everything he wasn’t. It was no different than the evils of Lee, but Aly would never have to choose between using her fists or running. He could offer her what she offered him– a piece of happiness, like liberation from a father’s chains. Looking her in the eye, Noah knew he had to do this for her.
She could ask me to rip the moon from the sky and capture the sun thieves, and I’d die trying.
He swore, “I do.”
~
They had quarreled whether it was best to leave that night, though it became banter fast. Aly had been adamant that they get it over with. Noah argued that it was dangerous, but the fact that nighttime was terrible for photographs and she might have to face Greg if she went home to retrieve the camera were the end of it. He walked her to the main part of the diner, leaving her in a booth to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen.
The diner was dark except for the backlights. Someone had shut the front row off while he was outside, most likely hoping to conserve the wires from the brunt of the flickering. While he debated whether she’d be comfortable in the booths or to sneak her into his room, his best guess was that it would be a lot more difficult to explain a platonic pass-out if his parents decided to give a damn enough to check in. Despite feeling completely guilty, her exhaustion made her more than comfortable where she was, nearly asleep when he peaked through the round windows. He intended to stay downstairs, at her side.
Noah had positive, or at least neutral, memories of Yazzie’s before they had reopened. He and Sarah built blanket forts and played hide-and-seek beneath rundown tables. They would beg Mary-Agnes to permit mini-picnics, or to play Restaurant with borrowed pots and old aprons, even sneaking in to do homework at the counter. Most fondly, he remembered sleepovers with Luke, Owen, and Martin Lewis, back when their trio was a quartet – when Luke was the kindergarten giant and everyone called Owen 'Shorty' and 'Munchkin'.
The booths were better than mattresses when they were kids, back in the days were they traded dinosaur view-master cards and tried using purple gas station glow sticks to tell scary stories instead of flashlights. In those days, his classmates fought for his attention because he decided whether or not they could sled down the hill in the backyard on rusty pans.
Back then, a drunken Mary-Agnes meant Mommy was tired and an intoxicated Lee meant Daddy’s grumpy from a long day at work. Noah set his jaw, moving to her side. Yazzie’s didn’t have to have ghosts and skeletons, not without giggles and glow sticks. The booths were a rainbow of faux-suede reds and blues long before they were upholstered with gray and wipe-away plastic. Both had ripped with age, but at least the former didn’t have sharp corners and jagged edges along the tears. In Noah’s opinion, it was a lot better to fray.
Grabbing the nicest blankets from the foyer’s closet – thin fleeces still wrapped in ribbon and plastic, the family’s two-year-old Christmas gift from MaryAgnes’s resented well-off cousin from Anchorage, Noah returned to Aly’s side
after pulling them from a scissors hack-job on the wrap.
Draping colorful stripes across her shoulders, Noah prepared to explain the situation – and the elected arrangement for the night. Aly didn’t comment, instead grabbing his hand and pulling him down at her side.
As he stretched out an arm, she shifted sideways in the seat, pulling her legs up and resting her head on his knees. Subconsciously playing with a lock of her hair, he wondered how a long weekend managed to change his entire life. Noah didn’t know when they had transitioned from wondering if he could touch her hand to taking her into his arms on impulse. It felt natural, like it was ridiculous to question. He just looked at her, impressed and baffled. He found himself trying to etch every detail into his brain. Aly fought her smile, a dimple quirking. “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
She rolled her eyes, her expression playful. “Seriously… why are you looking at me like that?”
Perplexed, he professed, “You’re just… something, Aly Glass.”
“…of a kind.” She laughed. “Hmm. Have the squirrels been talking behind my back again?” “You know they sing your praises,” he teased. Aly smiled, eyes fluttering to a close. His fingertips trailed her skin, tracing a shamrock-shaped birthmark on her wrist, moving to brush across her cheek. “I can put in a good word, if you like.”
Amused, she prompted, “Like?”
Noah shook his head, as though it would clear.
Maybe it is clear, finally.
“I don’t know,” Noah murmured. “Something of a kind.” CHAPTER 15 | ALYSON Aly wasn’t sure what time she had woken. It seemed long before sunrise, the window at her back still covered with dew from the night’s chill. From where she sat, sunlight would have roused her in just a few hours.
Finding Noah’s blanket rolled under her head, she remembered being woken by a warm hand at her back, the other tucking curls behind her ear. He whispered something in her ear as he lifted her head to cushion it.
It felt like the first night in Ashland without night terrors, though she didn't recall much. They left a residue of happiness on her skin, like pink, the texture of art, the taste of Paris on her lips. In the wake of her dreams, she felt the sentiment of sweetness. Grasping for wisps of the images as they faded, she found herself unable to hold on.
Just something much brighter than Ashland. Sitting up, Aly smoothed her hair, though the protest in her spine suggested she hadn’t moved much. A flicker brought her attention to the counter. An old television mounted in the corner flashed with the news, its volume faint. The aroma of strong coffee penetrated the odors of the diner, one steaming culprit brewing while another resting in his hands. Clean-shaven in fresh clothes, his hair was still wet from a shower.
Curious, she crossed the room without a sound. Melting into his offered embrace, she waved off his quiet apologies for not having a more comfortable place to spend the night. Aly shifted his jacket from where it draped across the seat to the counter, sitting beside him.
Her eyes widened, noticing the array of creamers peeled and drained on the plate beside his mug. A brow raised, she inquired, “Insomnia?”
“Something like that,” he replied, shrugging. The glow of the television cast blue and purple light across him, the white of his shirt looking radioactive. She watched the patterns, like breathing tattoos, as the swirls danced across his skin. Between the wafting hazelnut and the low thuds of Noah's knee against the counter, the moment was the weird kind of perfect – her favorite kind, like something she just might dare to capture on the canvas.
Guilt nudged her with the spasm of nerves. She could feel it in her chest, in the same way longing swells. Noah didn't owe her anything– yet she still coerced him into helping her, though he obviously had strong feelings against it.
It was the same situation as when he dropped her off the night before– he didn't want to, even as far as to warn against it, relaying a distinct bad feeling. She ignored it and got burned, her expectations crushed.
The fact of the matter was, Aly didn't understand his hesitations. Maybe he was bluffing about his former disbelief, perhaps he was afraid, or worse, he would get in trouble, or was suspicious someone else fabricated a hoax. She couldn't tell. He wasn't being straightforward, and the gamble was a guess was as good as any.
He has family obligations– maybe I'm interfering again.
Biting her lip, she continued, “You know, if you’re not up for it, we don’t have to go. I was really upset... I shouldn’t have asked.” He shook his head. “Honestly, it's not a problem. As in, no worries – at all. I’m good.” As though he noticed his mug for the first time, he smiled into it, standing to refill. “Coffee?”
Aly rubbed the glaze of sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”
Frowning, Noah peered into the dark, eyes focused on the clock across the diner. “Just after four, I think.” At all hours of the night, she could wade barefoot into the little kitchen of her mother’s condo and find the woman pouring over papers – bills, textbooks, some too-sexy pocket paperback – and chugging the brew.
She smiled, surprised the memory didn’t pang. Realizing he was waiting for a response, waving an empty mug that matched his, she said, “Thank you, but not yet.”
He nodded to himself, chewing his cheek. Finally, he set everything down, looking up. Voice low and intent, he explained, “My dad, my brothers… they’ll all be getting up for the docks soon.”
“We should leave, then, right?”
He halfsmiled, raising an eyebrow. “Is the jerky-jerk at work?”
Rolling her shoulders, Aly said, “He is.”
“Are you ready, then?”
She grinned. “I am.”
CHAPTER 16 | NOAH Aly’s house was a culture shock. Where his parent’s place was claustrophobic, stuffed with thrift-store junk and old carpeting, the Glass home had cathedral ceilings and hardwood. Alongside massive windows, the furniture was few and far between. It smelled unlived in and childless, like the walls didn't know laughter, crayons, or the smell of lasagna. Everything was stifled, covered in solid white oppression. In spite of its simplicity, the place was overwhelming. In the short walk through the downstairs, he hadn’t been able to take much in. Their footsteps echoed as she lead him to the stairs by the hand.
After a short agreement, Aly disappeared to take a shower, leaving him to wander her bedroom. He'd never thought to wonder where she slept, but this wasn't something he'd picture. It would make sense, since he never thought she fit well with a soulless ice man like Greg. Everything she owned seemed to peel away from the walls, as though Aly herself repelled from the house. A bed and a dresser, summed up the majority of her room. Pardoning an overpacked bookshelf, the space seemed devoid of her personality. As though she was still resisting the order to move in, Aly condemned her possessions to wallflowers. It was the walls themselves that he found fascinating. It was like visiting the tunnels.
The paintings were amazing – as individuals, as a collection. He wouldn't even know what to call them if everything wasn't labeled. Amongst vintage portraits, still-life pastry displays, apocalyptic landscapes, and wide-eyed deer frozen in confrontation, there were the cities – Paris, London, New York, Dublin, Moscow. Aly ran across the world with a brush.
It was a gallery if he'd ever seen one, the shades arranged to leave an ombre across her walls. Floral cards stapled to the corner of each canvas listed dates and mediums, a hint that they had been organized chronologically and group clustered by colors. From what he could tell, only one had been completed in the past year. It held his attention, evoking something he couldn't seem to name.
The woman was obviously sick, emaciated and naked, tangled head-to-toe in dark hair. Curled in fetal position, she barely fit within the vintage bird cage. Hung by chains attached to a dipping branch of a bleeding birch, she was suspended above a clone of Aly. The replica was covered in cuts and vines, muscles taut in an attempt to pull herself from a bubbling tar pit.
At a glance, it was disturbing. In hues of jaundice, the feeling reminded Noah of having a depressing song stuck in his head. Trying to somehow grasp whatever metaphor she was going for, he backed away, dropping into an over-fluffed chair. Leaning back, his elbow nudged her bedside table. With a clatter, a framed photograph fell to the ground. As he lifted it, he noticed the crack – a small line, cutting a corner. Face flushed with embarrassment, he found himself staring behind the glass.
Their smiles matched, both eyes excited – though the contrast of green and blue irises, one sunken and bloodshot, was significant. They both seemed cheerful, dressed for frigid weather, but it was obvious her mother's health had gotten worse since the picture from her phone was taken. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the caged woman from the painting.
Noah hadn’t realized a blow -drier was going until it grew quiet. A heartbeat later, a door clicked and slammed as Aly exited the bathroom. Showered and dressed, he was sure she’d broken a record. It was ten times faster than his sister could even dream of.
His gaze returned to the wall, glancing between Aly and the painting. It was almost difficult to imagine her having created something so dark. He wasn't sure she had any in her. As she leaned into his side, Noah blurted, “Feel like translating?”
Aly shrugged. “It belongs to the viewer.”
Chewing his cheek, he inquired, “Is that so?” “I must have taken it down and put it back up a hundred times,” she admitted. When he raised a brow expectantly, she continued, “I was… unsure. It felt artistically vulgar. Something weird happened with my stuff the first day I got here, and I wasn’t really clear on who was coming in and out. I didn’t know if it should be placed for anyone to see.”
“It’s… intense.” Palms up, his hands were open, seeking the words he didn’t have.
She smiled to herself, fingertips trailing the edge of the canvas. “Thanks… I guess.”
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