by Natasha Deen
My heart stutters when Noah comes out the exit. I smile, move faster, but he’s got his head down, and he doesn’t see me. He turns and heads back inside. I stop, unsure of what it is about his posture that tells me to hang back.
He comes out a few seconds later, but he’s not alone. He’s got his arm around a guy, supporting him as they walk. The guy is an older version of him. He leans on Noah, says something to him. Noah doesn’t respond, and his face is empty of emotion.
The restaurant is forgotten. I trail behind them. Then I stop. Maybe this is wrong. If I was supposed to know any of this, Noah would’ve told me. This secret he’s carried alone. Who am I to take it from him? Just as I decide to step back, Noah’s dad stumbles and goes down. I run, grab him before he falls, and hurt both of them.
“Thanks, but I got this.” Noah’s focus turns from his dad to me. His eyes widen when he realizes the person on the other side isn’t a stranger, but me.
“Let’s get him in the car,” I say before he can dismiss me, and I start moving before he can argue.
“The underground garage.” They’re the only words Noah speaks during the ordeal to get his father across the lobby and down the corridor. Common sense says it only takes us a couple of minutes, but the quiet humiliation of Noah, the drunken obliviousness of his dad, and the stares of the strangers along our path make it feel like an eternity.
We go to the elevator and ride it down. His dad hums a tune without melody and smiles my way. I don’t look at Noah, but my peripheral says he doesn’t do anything but stare straight ahead.
The doors open and Noah leads us through the maze of cars to a silver SUV. It chirps open.
“Do you want him in the back seat?” I ask.
“I need him in the front.” He’s still not looking at me. “In case he starts vomiting.”
There’s no good response to that.
Noah opens the door, and we pour his dad into the front passenger.
“I’ll make it up to you.” His dad tries to put his hand on Noah’s shoulder, misses, tries again, and again, then makes contact the fourth time. “Acapulco.”
“We’ve been.”
“Costa Rico.” He slurs the words, rolls the r, and gives me a fuzzy smile.
“Costa Rica. That was last year.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He burps and grins like a well-fed baby as Noah belts him in. The door clicks shut, and the SUV chirps as Noah locks in his dad.
Noah traces the handle with his finger. “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t—”
I grip his fingers. “I won’t.”
“He’s not always like this.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He flashes me a smile in the window’s reflection. “Open up to the Super Spy? It took forever to find out you played the trumpet. Telling you about my dad—”
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand. “I was ashamed.” It all feels so stupid and trivial now.
“Me too.” He threads his fingers through mine.
Memory spins, thinking of how often Noah goes away with his dad, putting together his dad’s offer for another trip. “Three times a year, or so, your dad… has a moment?”
“I never know when it’s going to happen. Everything’s fine, and it’s fine, then he’s gone for a day, maybe two. The good moments are like today when he’s still sober enough to call me.” The words sound heavy, and Noah’s exhaustion is a physical thing I can touch.
He looks my way. It’s not like I’m seeing him for the first time, but there’s a layer and a texture to him that I’ve never noticed. The faint lines around his eyes, the tiredness that rims his mouth. And I feel like such a schmuck. He’s hurting, tired, embarrassed, and I want to be a good friend and comfort him. But I also want to dive into him, into all the layers and lines that make him, him.
“We’re in therapy. It’s not all bad.”
I squeeze his fingers. “You’re still better off than me. My parents will have me in therapy till I die.”
He smiles, grateful for the understanding. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“My dad doesn’t believe in therapy, so I’ll have to wait until he’s dead. In the meantime, I comfort myself by imagining the nursing homes I’ll put them in. You’d be amazed how cathartic it can be.”
“You got visions of Nurse Ratched?” He grins.
“More like an overly sympathetic, caring nurse who constantly asks him how he’s feeling, forces him into therapy, and spoon-feeds him Jell-O. The green kind. He hates the green kind.”
Noah laughs. “Super Spy. I should have figured there was a dark side to you.”
Our gazes drift to his father. His hands are up, and he seems to be conducting an orchestra only he can hear.
“He doesn’t seem to be an angry drunk.” I don’t know what else to do, and I don’t want to leave Noah like this.
“Mom died—that’s when it started. When he misses her too much, he drinks. He says she comes to him when he’s drunk.”
“Do you believe him?”
Noah blinks fast. “I still dream about her.” He glances at me and smiles as though he’s talking too much but can’t stop himself. “She loved to travel.”
“The holidays are his way of saying sorry, aren’t they?”
“His way of saying sorry,” Noah repeats. “Yeah, they are, not that his sorries mean much, anymore.” He tosses me another faint smile.
“I’m sorry.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
Noah turns toward me. “You are, aren’t you?”
I shrug, not trusting myself to speak.
Something changes in the way he’s holding my hand. Maybe it’s the soft turn so our palms meet, maybe it’s the way he’s twined his fingers in mine. “You really are the sweetest person I know.”
Then he’s kissing me. Kissing me. Kissing me. I’m lost in the scent and feel of him, lost in the taste of my first kiss.
The bang of the glass wrenches me away. His dad taps the glass again, grins, and gives us both a thumbs-up. Noah sighs and shakes his head.
I touch my lips. They tingle from the kiss; they feel seared by his touch.
Noah catches my movement. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head. “No, I—” I don’t know what to say, don’t want to say the wrong thing. But when panic and worry tinge Noah’s eyes, I blurt out, “I really liked it.”
He grins with relief. “Me too.”
“But should I have done this?”
“Kiss me? Yes. You should’ve. You should keep doing it.” He puts his hands on my hips and moves me back, away from his dad.
“But you’re in an emotional—this, your dad—am I taking advantage of you?”
His laughter echoes along the cement walls. He traces the point where my hair and forehead meet, tracing the line to my ear, and my skin lights up.
“How sweet can you possibly be?” He leans in and kisses me, again.
I’m drowning, I’m flying. I’m rooted so deep into the earth, I feel the heat of its core on my feet. I’m unanchored, floating among the stars and comets. Noah is music, he’s a melody I don’t want to stop playing.
Deep in the recess of my brain, I hear the ping. Farah. And I pull away. “Noah—” I tremble and give myself to the moment when he touches my lips. Then I take his hand. “Farah.”
His eyebrows pull together. “What about Farah?”
“She likes you—and you like her—”
He stares at me for a too-long second, then his eyes go wide, and he laughs. “Yeah, I like Farah, and Farah likes me, but we don’t like each other like that.” His head tilts to the side. “It’s always been you, Nira. Didn’t you know that?”
I shake my head.
“That’s what Farah said,” he murmurs. “She said to be patient with you because, for all your smarts, you can be a—” He stops.
I fill in the blank. “A ninny?”
“Moronic ninny were
her exact words.”
“Yeah, that’s Farah.” God, I’m such an idiot. She must have known Noah liked me, must have known the whole time, and I was the moron who went off on her because I was jealous. “I really am a ninny.” I press my forehead into the welcome strength of his chest. “You were spending so much time together, texting, and—”
“And you thought I liked her.”
I look up, and his eyes are full of smoke and fire.
“And the whole time you liked me.”
I nod and take a breath. “Yes, I like you, very much.”
He smiles, then twitches and looks at the passenger side, his energy that of a parent who knows every sound their baby makes. “I should go.”
“Do you want me to come with you? Do you need help?”
He presses his mouth to mine and murmurs, “Nira. So sweet, so good.” Noah pulls away. “No, I’m good. Dad and I have a rhythm.” He tilts his head. “Why are you here? At the hotel?”
“Oh! We’ll talk later.” I back away before the temptation to throw myself into his arms and feel the heat of him overwhelms me. “We’ll talk later, promise.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“I have to do something here.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay, Super Spy, keep your secrets. I’ll text you later.” He comes toward me. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the elevator.”
“What about your dad?”
He peers into the window. “He’ll be fine for a couple of minutes.” Noah holds out his hand.
I smile and take it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
REJECTION IS A VELVET COAT
I get off the elevator, but I’m too wound up to go to the restaurant. I want to talk to Farah, but I feel like a grade-A moron for the stupid fight, and I need time to figure out how to start our conversation. Emily lives a couple of blocks from here. I text her to see if she’s around. No answer. Maybe she’s not around; maybe she’s misplaced her phone again. Maybe she doesn’t want to answer me.
I debate for a second. No, it can’t be the last one. Things have been decent between us. Maybe it’s time for us to stop being decent to each other and start being best friends again. I text my mom and tell her I’m going to Emily’s house.
A couple of seconds later, she replies, saying to let her know if I need a ride home.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and head out. The entire walk, I’m lost in the change between Noah and me. Lost in the cluelessness of his feelings to me, lost in the multihued prism of what might be with us.
The doorman at Emily’s building smiles at me in recognition and opens the door. I smile back and go inside, my ears and face grateful for the warmth. The concierge knows me, too. “Good evening, miss. Chilly out tonight, isn’t it?” he says as he swivels the sign-in book my way.
We chat for a second. I ask about his dog, and he tells me all is well. I hand the pen back to him, then take the elevator to Emily’s floor. Excitement is bubbling inside me. Yeah, we’ve been distant, and yeah, she’s been odd, but this is Emily and me. This is Noah and me. She’s going to want to hear about it, including the news about Jerry’s job offer.
I knock on the door and wait.
Noise on the other side, then the door swings open to McKenzie’s voice, “You better watch yourself, because I’m coming for you.” There’s a teasing note in her words, and Emily’s laughter follows.
McKenzie steps out from behind the door, her focus on the money in her hand. “I think this is what we owe you—” She looks up. The happiness in her face shatters into horror as she sees me. “Nira.” My name is a mangled syllable on her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
I’m irritated at the suggestion I don’t belong. The accusatory tone of her voice inflames me. My memory adds fire, as well. In the back of my mind is Emily’s text about not feeling good. She didn’t have time for me, but she had it for McKenzie. “Emily’s my friend—” What a lie.
“What’s going on?” Emily’s words are distant and growing closer. “Can’t you do the math, Mac?” She opens the door even wider, sees me. Her expression mirrors McKenzie’s horror. “Oh. Um—” She and McKenzie exchange a miserable look. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t have an answer. My last words were “Emily’s my friend,” but everything in her posture, her words, her expression says the opposite. “Uh, nothing, never mind.”
She forces a fake smile, and my heart shatters. “Come on in. We were waiting for the pizza delivery.” A brittle laugh follows. “But you’re sure no pizza guy.”
“I’m good. Uh, have a good night. We’ll talk later.” I turn, flee for the elevator, and leave the confetti of my broken heart scattering in my wake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HOSTILITY HAS QUILLS
I run up the stairs and into the house.
Mom finds me as I’m hanging my coat up. “Home so early? I thought you’d want me to pick you up.”
I stare at the threads on my coat, trying to get a grip on the high-low of the past few hours. I’m trying to figure out if we only get so much happiness in the world, and once we reach that level, the gods pull us back by taking away some of the things we love most.
“Nira?”
I try to hide it, and I try to hide it, but my shoulders start shaking, and suddenly, I’m sobbing into my jacket.
Mom grabs me and turns me around, into her embrace. “Shh, shh.” She smooths my hair. “It’s okay.”
I can’t find words; I just keep crying on her shoulder. We stand like that until I have no more tears left. When I pull away from her, babbling an apology about the giant wet spot on her shoulder, I see Grandma standing to the side.
“I’ve made tea. You come and tell me all about it.” She gives Mom the eye.
Mom’s lips press together, then she nods, smiles, kisses me, and moves away.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it, not yet.”
“Come. The tea is getting cold.” Grandma takes me by the hand and leads me into the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I don’t want to eat anything.”
“Okay, I’ll get you some meat pie and cheese straw.”
“I don’t want to eat.”
“You just cried out your body weight.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.”
“Later.” I sit down. “But not yet.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands. “Just the cheese straws.” She fixes the tea and gives it to me.
I take a sip. “There’s hardly any sugar. Doesn’t that violate some cardinal rule about sugar in tea solving all the problems.”
“Sugar doesn’t solve problems. Sugar is there to help with the shock and helps steel you for the strength you need to tackle the problem. The more sugar, the more power you need.”
“Just a bit of sugar because—?”
“I don’t know what happened. Until I know, I can’t give you sugar.” She sits beside me. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
She looks over her shoulder, then leans in. “Is it about Georgia and the playing?”
I shake my head.
“Okay.” She pats my knee. “I wanted to ask before I let Safiya into the kitchen.” She takes my cup, rises, and calls for my mom.
“What is it? What happened?”
And it comes pouring out. Emily, McKenzie, the breakup of the friendship. Through it all, Mom rubs my shoulders, Grandma hands me tissues, and I drink the tea. I reach for more sugar, but Grandma pushes my hand away. “You don’t need it.”
When it’s all over, I go to my room. I’m wrung out. There’s no energy to give to Georgia. I check my phone. Nothing from Emily or Mac. I text Noah but don’t get anything in return. Farah would text back, but I still don’t know how to talk to her about Noah. I’m alone in my misery and regret, and not even the happiness of Noah and m
e is enough to dispel the darkness.
I cover my head with my pillow and lie, star-shaped, on the bed. I’m not sure how long I’m there, unmoving, when the door slams open. I jerk upright, the pillow falling from my face.
Farah stands in the doorway. “You’re such a ninny. Your life is falling apart, and you can’t text? I have to hear about it from Grandma?”
I crumple, she swears, slams the door, and runs to me. “What happened?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid.”
“Don’t apologize for that. I’ve always known you’re stupid.”
I laugh through my tears and punch her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be at home getting another A so Uncle Raj can gloat?”
She rolls her eyes. “Him. I told them I’m sleeping over.”
“On a school night? They let you?”
“What’re they going to do? I’m with family.”
I take her hand. “Thanks. Thanks for coming over.”
“Grandma’s too old to deal with your nonsense.” She smiles as she speaks. “What are you sorry for?”
“I’m apologizing for Noah.”
“You already did.”
I tell her about what happened in the hotel, but I don’t tell her about his dad. My reason for being there is the job offer, and I say I just happened to run into Noah.
“Oh my god, you had someone ask you to play? As a job? Nira!” She hugs me hard.
I pry myself from her. We’ll talk about that later.” Then I tell her about the kiss, and the other kiss, and the other kiss.
“I’m still lost. Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I was jealous and stupid—”
“Right, and you said sorry.”
“But the whole time you knew he liked me, and you never told.”
Farah looks at me like I’m a moron. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“I know, and that’s what makes it even worse. You were honoring Noah, and I acted like such a—”
“Ninny?”