“Hey, Katie.”
Even with pillow creases on her face, the familiar girl was absolutely stunning. She looked as otherworldly standing there in a camisole and shorts set as she had in her fairy getup. Without the costume and the pulsing lights in the club, it was obvious that she shared Noah’s extraterrestrial beauty. Her hair was the same dark honey brown color as his, only longer; the ends skimmed the lace bottom of her camisole. Her blue eyes widened in surprise as they met mine.
“I didn’t know you had company,” she said to Noah, suppressing a smile.
He shot her a look, then turned to me. “Mara, my sister Katie.”
“Kate,” she corrected him, then gave me a knowing glance. “Morning.”
I couldn’t manage much more than a nod. At that moment, a perky, blond cheerleader was doing cartwheels in my vena cava. His sister. His sister!
“It’s almost noon, now, actually,” Noah said.
Kate shrugged and yawned. “Well, nice meeting you, Mara,” she said, and winked at me before heading down the stairs.
“You too,” I managed to breathe. My heart rioted in my chest.
Noah opened the door all the way and I tried to compose myself. This changed nothing. Nothing at all. Noah Shaw was still a whore, still an asshole, and still painfully out of my league. This was my inner mantra, the one I repeated on a loop until Noah tilted his head and spoke.
“Are you coming in?”
Yes. Yes I was.
28
nOAH’S ROOM WAS STARTLING. A LOW, MODERN platform bed dominated the center of it but otherwise, there was no furniture except for a long desk that blended inconspicuously into an alcove. There were no posters. No laundry. Just a guitar leaning against the side of the bed. And the books.
Rows upon rows of books, lining built-in shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Sunlight spilled through the enormous windows that overlooked Biscayne Bay.
I never imagined what Noah’s room would look like, but if I had, I wouldn’t have imagined this. It was gorgeous, definitely. But so … bare. Unlived in. I circled the room, trailing my fingers along some of the spines as I went.
“Welcome to the private collection of Noah Shaw,” he said. I stared at all of the titles. “You have not read all of these.” “Not yet.”
I cracked a smile. “So it’s a tail-chasing tactic.”
“Pardon?” I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Vanity books,” I said without looking at him. “You don’t actually read them, they’re just here to impress your … guests.”
“You’re a mean girl, Mara Dyer,” he said, standing in the middle of his room. I felt his eyes on me, and I liked it.
“I’m wrong?” I asked.
“You are wrong.”
“All right,” I said, and pulled a random book from the shelf. “Maurice, by E.M. Forster. What’s it about? Go.”
Noah told me about the gay protagonist who attended Cambridge in turn-of-the-century Britain. I didn’t believe him, but I hadn’t read it so I moved on.
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man?”
Noah belly-flopped on to his bed, affecting a bored tone as he rattled off another synopsis. My eyes followed the thousand-mile stretch of his back and my feet itched with the confusing impulse to walk over and join him. Instead, I pulled out another book without reading the spine first.
“Ulysses,” I called out.
Noah shook his head, his face buried in the pillow.
Satisfied, I smiled to myself, put the book back on the shelf and reached for another. The dust jacket was missing, so I read the title from the cover. “The Joy of … crap.” I read the rest of the full title of the thick, nondescript volume to myself and felt myself redden.
Noah turned over on to his side and said with mock seriousness, “I have never read The Joy of Crap. Sounds disgusting.” I blushed deeper. “I have, however, read The Joy of Sex,” he continued, a mischievous smile transforming his face. “Not in a while, but I think it’s one of those classics you can come back to again … and again.”
“I don’t like this game anymore,” I said as I placed the book back on its shelf.
Noah reached over to the floor next to his bed, near the acoustic guitar that was propped up against a sticker-covered case. He jangled the keys. “Well, we can go now. You can come back and grill me on the library’s contents later,” he said, his grin still in place. “You hungry?”
I was, actually, and nodded. Noah walked to a well-disguised intercom and pressed his finger on the call button.
“If you order some servant to bring food, I’m leaving.”
“I was going to make sure Albert hadn’t moved the car.”
“Oh, right. Albert the butler.”
“He’s a valet, actually.”
“You are not helping yourself.”
Noah ignored me and glanced at the clock by his bed. “We really ought to have been there by now; I want you to have time to get the full experience. But we can stop at Mireya’s on the way.”
“Another friend?”
“A restaurant. Cuban. The best.”
When we reached the car, Albert smiled as Noah opened my door for me. After the mansion was out of sight, I screwed up the courage to attack Noah with the questions that plagued me since learning of his assets. The financial sort.
“So who are you people?” I asked.
“You people?” He slipped on his sunglasses.
“Cute. Your family. Supposedly, the only people who live here are basketball players and has-been pop singers.”
“My father owns a company.”
“Okaaay,” I said. “What kind of company?”
“Biotechnology.”
“So where was Daddy Warbucks this morning?”
Noah’s face was curiously blank. “Don’t know, don’t care,” he said easily. He stared straight ahead. “We’re not … close,” Noah added.
“Clearly.” I waited for him to elaborate, but he lifted his sunglasses and hid his eyes instead. Time to change the subject. “So why doesn’t your mother have a British accent?”
“She doesn’t have an English accent because she’s American.”
“Oh my God, really?” I mocked. I saw Noah’s smile in profile. He paused before continuing.
“She’s from Massachusetts. And she is not actually my biological mother.” He looked at me sideways, gauging my reaction. I kept my face even. I didn’t know much about Noah, aside from his rumored extracurricular activities. But I realized then that I wanted to. I had no idea what to expect this morning when he picked me up, and to an extent, I still didn’t. But I no longer thought it would be some nefarious plot, and that made me curious.
“My mother died when I was five and Katie was almost four.”
The revelation knocked me out of my thoughts. And made me feel like a jackass, after picking not one but two unpleasant topics of conversation. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“Thanks,” he said, staring at the bright road ahead of us. “It was a long time ago, I don’t really remember her,” he said, but his posture had stiffened. He didn’t speak for a minute, and I wondered if I was supposed to say something. But then I remembered everyone telling me how sorry they were when Rachel died, and how little I wanted to hear it. There was just nothing to say.
Noah surprised me by continuing. “Before my mother died, she and my dad and Ruth,” he tipped his head back toward the house, “were all really close. Ruth spent high school in England, so that’s how they met, and they stayed friends while at Cambridge, wreaking havoc and organizing protests.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Ruth told me my mother was the most … enthusiastic. Chaining herself to trees and breaking into university science departments and freeing lab animals and such,” Noah said, as he placed a cigarette between his lips. “The three of them ran around doing it together—incomprehensible, if you know my father—and somehow, he convinced my mother t
o marry him.” The cigarette dangled from his lips as he spoke, drawing my eyes like a magnet. “While they were still in college. Some ultimate act of rebellion or something.” He lit the cigarette, opened his window, and inhaled. His face was carefully impassive beneath the dark lenses as he spoke.
“My grandparents were unenthused. They’re old money, were not fans of my mother’s to start, and thought my father was ruining his prospects. Et cetera, et cetera. But they married anyway. My stepmother moved back to the U.S. for vet school, and my parents lived la vie bohème for a while. When they had kids, my grandparents were happy. Katie and I were so close together that I think they were hoping my mother would go on maternity leave from civil disobedience.” Noah fed the ash of his cigarette to the expanse of highway behind us. “But my mother didn’t slow down at all. She just took us with her wherever she went. Until she died. She was stabbed.”
Oh my God.
“At a protest.”
Jesus.
“She made my father stay home to watch Katie that day, but I was with her. I’d just turned five a few days before, but I don’t remember it. Or much of her at all, really. My father won’t even mention her name, and he loses it if anyone else does,” Noah said, without inflection.
I was speechless. Noah’s mother died—was murdered—and he was there when it happened.
Noah breathed smoke through his nose, and it billowed around him before escaping through the open window. It was a gorgeous day, blue and cloudless. But there could have been a hurricane outside for all I cared. In an instant, Noah became different to me. I was riveted.
“Ruth went back to England when she heard about my mother. A long time ago, she told me that after my mother died, my father was useless. Couldn’t take care of us, couldn’t take care of himself. Literally a disaster—this was, of course, before he sold his soul to the shareholders. And she stayed, and they got married, even though he doesn’t deserve her, even though he’d become someone else. And here we are now, one big happy family.”
His expression was inscrutable behind his sunglasses, and I wished I could see it. Did anyone at school know about his mother—about him? And then it occurred to me that Noah didn’t know about what happened to me. I looked at my lap, fidgeting with the shredded knee of my jeans. If I told him now, it might sound like I was comparing tragedies—like I thought losing a best friend was comparable to losing a parent, which I didn’t. But if I said nothing, what would he think?
“I just—” I started. “I don’t even—”
“Thanks,” he said, cutting me off coolly. “It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said plainly. Noah pushed his sunglasses up, but his face was still guarded. “However, there are benefits to having a corporate sellout of a father.”
He was flippant, so I was too. “Like getting a car on your sixteenth birthday?”
Noah’s grin was full of mischief. “Katie has a Maserati.”
I blinked. “She does not.”
“She does. She’s not even old enough to drive it legally.”
I raised my eyebrow. “And your car? Is it your brand of teenage rebellion or something?”
The corner of Noah’s mouth curved up into a slight smile. “Sad, isn’t it?” He said it lightly, but there was something haunted about his expression. His eyebrows drew together, and I wanted so badly to reach over and smooth them apart.
“I don’t think so,” I said instead. “I think it’s brave. There’s so much stuff you could buy with that much money. Not taking it is—it’s pretty moral.”
Noah feigned horror. “Did you just call me moral?”
“I believe I did.”
“Little does she know,” he said, and turned up the volume on his iPod.
“Death Cab?” I asked. “Really?” I asked.
“You sound surprised.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you liked them.”
“They’re one of the only modern bands I do like.”
“I’m going to have to broaden your musical tastes,” I said.
“It’s too early for threats,” Noah said as he turned on to a bustling, narrow road. It was alive with people out enjoying the weather. Noah parked on the street just as the song ended, and I let him open the door for me. I was starting to get used to it. We passed a small park where a handful of old men sat, playing dominoes. A large, colorful mural was painted on one wall, and striped tents covered the game tables. I’d never seen anything like it before.
“It doesn’t mean anything, you know,” Noah said out of nowhere.
“What doesn’t?”
“The money.”
I looked around, at the mostly shabby storefronts and cars parked on the street. Noah’s might have been the newest one. “I think your perspective is somewhat skewed because, you know, you actually have it.”
Noah stopped walking, and stared straight ahead. “It’s shut-up money,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice. “So my father doesn’t have to spend any time with us.” But then his tone lightened. “Even if he gave me nothing, there’s still the trust I come into when I turn eighteen.”
“Nice. When’s that?” I asked.
Noah started walking again. “December twenty-first.”
“I missed your birthday.” And that made me sad, for some reason.
“You did.”
“What do you think you’ll do with the money?”
Noah flashed a grin. “Convert it to gold coins and swim in it. But first,” he said, taking my hand, “lunch.”
29
MY BODY WARMED AT THE CONTACT AS Noah led the way into the bustling restaurant. I watched him in profile, talking to the host. Somehow, he didn’t look like the same person I’d met two weeks ago. He didn’t look like the same person who picked me up this morning. Noah—sarcastic, distant, untouchable Noah—cared. And that made him real.
I wondered if anyone else knew, but enjoyed a fleeting moment thinking that I might be the only one as we were led to a table by the window. But then Noah’s grip tightened on my hand. I looked up at him. The color had drained from his face.
“Noah?” His eyes were tightly shut, and I began to feel scared without knowing why. “Are you okay?”
“Give me a minute,” he said, not opening his eyes. He dropped my hand. “I’ll be right back.”
Noah threaded back the way we’d come in and disappeared out of the restaurant. A bit dazed, I sat down at the table and perused the menu. I was thirsty, though, and lifted my head to scan the restaurant for a waiter when I saw him.
Jude.
Staring at me from under the brim of his hat. In the middle of a throng of people waiting for a seat.
He started walking toward me.
I squeezed my eyes shut. He wasn’t real.
“How does it feel to be the most beautiful girl in the room?”
I jumped at the accented voice. Not Noah’s. And definitely not Jude’s. When I opened my eyes, a fair-skinned guy with blond hair and hazel eyes was standing next to the table with an earnest expression. He was cute.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked as he slipped into the seat across from me. Apparently he had no intention of waiting for my answer.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Actually, I’m here with someone,” I said. Where was Noah?
“Oh? A boyfriend?”
I paused before answering, “A friend.”
His grin widened. “He’s a fool.”
“What?”
“If he’s just a friend, he’s a fool. I don’t think I could stand being just your friend. I’m Alain, by the way.”
I snorted. Who was this guy? “Luckily, Alain,” I said, mispronouncing his name on purpose, “I don’t foresee that being a problem.”
“You don’t? Why’s that?”
“Because you were just leaving,” Noah said from behind me. I half-turned and looked up. Noah stood inches away, leaning over me just slightly. The tension wa
s evident in the set of his shoulders.
Alain stood, and fished for something in the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a pen. “In case you get tired of friends,” he said, scrawling something on a napkin, “here’s my number.” He slid it over the surface of the table in my direction. Noah’s hand reached over my shoulder and took it.
Alain’s eyes narrowed at Noah. “She can make her own decisions.”
Noah stood still for a second, staring at him. Then he relaxed, and a spark of amusement lit his eyes. “Of course she can,” he said, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Well?”
I stared at Alain. “That seat’s taken.”
Alain grinned. “It certainly is.”
Noah turned to him too casually and said something in French—I watched Alain’s expression grow increasingly anxious. “Still care to join us?” Noah asked him, but Alain was already leaving.
Noah slipped into the now-empty seat and smiled. “Tourists,” he said, shrugging lazily.
I glared at him, even though I wasn’t mad. I was calm, actually. Unusually so, for my post-hallucinatory state. I was glad Noah was back. But I couldn’t let him off so easily. “What did you say to him?”
Noah picked up the menu and spoke while studying it. “Enough.”
But I wasn’t having it. “If you’re not going to tell me, then give me his number.”
“I told him you were in high school,” he said, without looking up.
“That’s it?” I was skeptical.
A hint of a smile appeared on Noah’s lips. “Mostly. You look too old for your own good.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You’re one to talk.”
He grinned and placed the menu on the table. Then stared out the window. Distracted.
“What’s wrong?”
He glanced up at me and gave me a tight smile. “Nothing.”
I didn’t believe him.
The waiter appeared then, and Noah plucked the menu from my hands and handed it over, rushing off our order in Spanish. The waiter departed for the kitchen.
I shot him a dark look. “I hadn’t decided yet.”
“Trust me.”
“Guess I don’t have much of a choice.” A devious smile formed on his lips. I took a deep breath and, for the sake of peace, let it go. “So, Spanish and French?”
The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer Page 15