I also doubt he actually believes my issue is that I don’t want him in my space—that I might not want him around.
I mean, who wouldn’t want him around?
I sigh inwardly. I just don’t want him to feel as if his presence—his protection—is necessary. Like I need a guardian. Like I’m some kind of incompetent, helpless little girl. A burden.
That is the absolute last way I want Noah Reed to see me.
I’m eighteen years old, same as Noah, and I wish there was a way for him to know that what happened tonight with Jonah was the exception, not the rule. That I can take care of myself.
Most of the time.
“Just go back to the party, Noah. You’ve done your duty; you can keep your superhero status. I can make it from here,” I snark.
I’m surprised by Noah’s light-hearted chuckle. “Oh, I know you can.”
But he doesn’t turn back to the direction of the party. In fact, he keeps following behind those ten feet of distance, as if he wants to prove he respects my boundaries, even if I’m not the one who actually set them. It softens my heart more than I’d like to admit.
I stop walking.
Noah stops, too, holding his position like some kind of sentinel.
I blow out a deep breath of air, releasing, with it, at least some of the stress of the night.
“Well,” I concede, gesturing to the sand beside me, “if you’re going to walk with me anyway, I guess I rather you not stare at my ass the entire time.”
It’s as much an invitation as I can muster. Not for much, just to walk with me rather than behind me. But it’s all I’ve got right now.
Noah laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. One that soothes away even more of the evening’s unprecedented violence, the persisting soreness.
“Well, I wasn’t complaining...” His eyes linger on my behind a moment longer than he seems to intend, before his eyes shutter, seemingly shaking something off. “But...”
He takes just a few long steps, which is all his six-foot-two frame needs to make up the space between us. He chews his bottom lip before lifting it into that same playful half-smirk I caught a glimpse of earlier. “I think I will take you up on that.” He shrugs. “I definitely look less creepy this way.”
My laugh hides my internal thoughts, about the irony of Noah appearing creepy, while Jonah has everyone fooled.
Noah and I walk in stride, saying nothing of substance, until we reach my family home.
He knows which one it is. He has since we were kids.
I shoot Noah a half-hearted smile—which, despite my sincere gratitude, is all I can muster—before starting up the walk, and around to the side door.
Noah doesn’t say a word. But he doesn’t just leave either. He waits until he sees me securely inside, and I watch surreptitiously from the side window as he turns and heads west, which is most decidedly not in the direction of Jillian’s party. I’m careful not to disturb my mom, even if I know she’s surely waiting up.
5
I stay in bed for three days.
Fortunately, my mom has been swamped at work, and hasn’t had a free moment to question my story about a particularly rough summer cold.
I feign sleep when she gets home in the evenings and comes into my bedroom to check on me. But I don’t have to do much acting, anyway.
My throat is sore and hoarse. My head hurts, too, my scalp still tender and aching. But the small, dark scratches from Jonah’s fingernails digging into my arm—the bruises from that very same, merciless grip that have barely begun to fade—are far more difficult to conceal. Especially in the summer heat.
But, under my bedcovers, I can hide everything. I can hide my mortifying injuries.
Although, intelligently, I know that Jonah is the only person to blame for what happened the other night, I can’t stop obsessing over how I could have prevented it. Over all of the warning signs, even the vaguest ‘red flags’ that, in retrospect, shine as bright and vivid as the blood spilled that night.
Mostly Jonah’s blood, I recall.
Thanks to Noah Reed.
Ah, Noah, the other thing I haven’t been able to stop myself from thinking about obsessively. So much so, that, at the risk of sounding borderline delusional—minus the borderline—I actually convinced myself I saw him walk past my front yard the day before yesterday. Which would make absolutely no geographical sense. It appears my stressed-out brain must be conjuring him anywhere I glimpse a similarly-aged, similarly-built guy who happens to pass me by.
I roll myself out of bed, determined to at least make it to the bathtub, where I can soak and soothe my still-smarting wounds, including, God-willing, the critical one to my soul. To the innocence that’s always, inevitably lost when we’re betrayed by someone we trusted. The permanent, devastating scar that makes it that much harder to trust the next time around.
Logically, I know I can’t hide from reality forever. But, at the same time, I still can’t figure out how to face it, either.
I try and try again to find the conviction to tell myself that the events of the other night were no big deal.
But deep down I know they were. They were the biggest deal.
I haven’t responded to a single one of Jonah’s text messages, and I haven’t taken any of his many calls, either. We’ve never actually talked on the phone before; we’ve been exclusive texters since middle school, so why he’d think I’d suddenly want to talk to him now, I can’t possibly fathom.
The second I got home from Jillian’s party that night, I texted Jonah’s best friend, Brock, to let him know where to find his buddy, giving him little to no further information. I figured he could take it from there, and apparently, he did.
Jonah probably didn’t deserve even that much, as far as I’m concerned.
I expected he’d come up with some story that made him look less like the douchebag he turned out to be, and when Jillian texted me about some big, bad bar fight Jonah got into after her party. I replied that I didn’t give a fuck what he did.
She probably thinks we’re just in another fight. She has no idea. And I’m not quite sure how to tell her.
I’m not sure how to tell anyone.
No police have been called, and while I find myself second-guessing that decision almost constantly, when I consider filing a report—detailing what happened to complete strangers—and all of the inevitable fallout... It just feels like more than I can handle right now.
There is another reason I don’t plan to involve the authorities.
Noah.
Jonah more than deserves whatever repercussions might have been for in store for his abhorrent behavior, but what about Noah’s role that night? His undeniable overkill when it came to subduing Jonah? Jill did mention Jonah’s bar fight injuries—that they were worse than those of his typical brawls.
I owe Noah more than that. At the very least, more than being the reason he could get sucked into a situation that could have serious legal ramifications to his future. That would certainly be one way to repay him for coming to my rescue.
I brush my teeth, taking stock of my own injuries, and am surprised to find that my formerly dark purple bruises have faded to lighter greens and yellows. It’s strange, to watch the physical reminders of Jonah’s abuse heal, while my psyche seems to be stuck at a standstill.
Well, fuck that.
I wash my hair for the first time in days, going through the motions of shaving my legs, as if it’s just a normal morning. And I suppose it is. It’s Jonah that’s all fucked up.
And suddenly my resentment erupts into anger.
I am supposed to be enjoying my last carefree summer before I leave for college in just a few short weeks. Not...whatever the hell this pathetic existence is.
I miss the beach, and my friends. But the last thing I want is to run into Jonah anytime soon—or ever, frankly—even if rationally I know I will have to face him at some point.
A shiver rolls down my spine at the mere thought, and I
resent that even more.
How dare Jonah cause me this kind of anxiety?
But there’s no one I’m more pissed at than myself. I should never have allowed Jonah Berry into my life at all—should never have given him the opportunity to hurt me in the first place.
Foolishly, I believed that by not investing my heart, the risk of pain would be limited. I never considered the issue of physical pain. But then, I shouldn’t have had to.
Still, while I may not have known exactly what Jonah was capable of, I knew he wasn’t right for me. That our dating couldn’t possibly lead to any kind of meaningful relationship, and likely wouldn’t end well, despite how hard he tried to convince me otherwise.
I let my damp hair fall in its usual loose waves around my shoulders, used to the summer sun drying it for me. Of course, that would require me to actually go outside.
I’m still in just a bath towel when the doorbell rings, and I blink in confusion.
My mother is at work as always, and while it was common practice for friends to just show up unannounced at one another’s houses back when we were kids, since the time we were old enough to have cell phones, texting has been king.
Jillian is probably the only person who would just show up, and I expected she’d eventually question my “summer cold” story. Looks like the jig is up.
Another ring has me rushing down the stairs, and I brace myself to face the truth. After all, lying in a text is one thing, but to my best friend’s face? Not a chance.
“Coming!” I shout as I fling the front door open.
I stop in my tracks, having to scramble to keep my towel in place as I see that it is, in fact, not my bestie at the door.
Noah Reed stands freshly shower, his hair almost as damp as mine, in board shorts and a tank, his sculpted arms at his side as if they’re just nothing special.
I shake my head, forcing away my surprise, and subtly check my mouth for drool.
“Um...hi?” I clutch my towel tighter around me, awkwardly lifting and lowering it in an attempt to get it to adequately cover both my breasts and ass. It barely does the trick
I don’t miss his hazel eyes widen in interest for the briefest moment before he blinks, and focuses purposefully, intently on my face.
“You haven’t been around,” he says simply.
I don’t know what to say, so I simply shrug, the move forcing me to frantically adjust my towel, yet again.
“I haven’t been feeling well, I guess,” I murmur uncertainly. It isn’t untrue, but face-to-face with the one person who knows it has nothing to do with the sniffles, I feel more naked than if my towel had accidentally dropped to the ground.
Noah nods thoughtfully. “Figured.”
What does that mean?
“Not sure you should be holed up alone, though. Jill said you had a cold.”
He asked about me?
My mouth opens, then closes, not sure what to say.
Noah’s brows furrow in a contemplative, worried way that makes him look utterly adorable. Not for the first time, I wish he wasn’t so good-looking. That he didn’t affect me in this strange, unfathomable way. It’s been that way long before he showed up this summer.
“I just, uh, needed some time, I guess,” I half-explain.
“He hasn’t been around,” Noah says. “Berry.”
As if I needed him to explain who he’d meant.
“And you shouldn’t have to avoid him, anyway. He’s in the wrong, not you.” His eyes are suddenly fierce, adamant. He’s never liked Jonah, but his current expression reads more as utter hatred than dislike, and it almost frightens me. Almost.
“I’m not avoiding him, I just...” I trail off. That’s exactly what I’m doing, and Noah knows it. He’s the only one besides Jonah who knows it.
I shake my head, trying to get ahold of myself. “Look, do you want to come in? I need to get dressed real quick.”
The slightest, barely-there half-smile appears on his perfect face before he buries it back under his concern. He doesn’t answer with words, but opens the screen door wider to let himself in, and I back up into the modest entrance hall, inviting him into my space.
It feels strange. Like he’s too big for my small, cozy house. It’s been just my mom and me here for a couple of years now, and I’ve almost never had Jonah over here. And even when I did, Jonah has always seemed like a boy. Noah is all man, and the last time a man was here, it was my father.
I shake off the uninvited wave of melancholy and grief, and gesture to the old sofa in the living room. “Do you want something to, like, drink?” I offer, playing hostess.
Jonah stifles a smile, like he doesn’t think this is the time or place despite himself, and declines. “Nah, Liza. I was just hoping we could talk a bit.”
Talk?
Okay. I can talk.
“Just give me a minute.” I gesture to my towel in explanation, and Noah’s eyes follow, his gaze darkening in a way that I feel travel down my spine, and lower.
He catches himself quickly though, coughing unconvincingly and averting his gaze like some kind of gentleman. It’s quite novel considering the last guy I dated.
You’re not dating Noah Reed! My mood-killer brain reminds me. And of course I’m not. He’s just stopped by to check that I’m okay after what he witnessed the other night. What he saved me from. He probably just pities me.
As much as that sentiment makes me want to prove that I can take care of myself, I realize it’s a moot point right now, and I’m still way too naked under this towel.
I hurry upstairs and throw on my favorite red bikini, pathetically trying to convince myself it isn’t for Noah. I throw on a worn pair of cutoff jean shorts and my Dad’s old NYU tank top—my favorite—over it, and forcibly refrain from checking myself in the mirror before heading back downstairs. Noah doesn’t care how I look. He probably just feels responsible for me or something—like I need him to protect me from Jonah. The thought is nearly nauseating.
Noah stands when I return, looking me up and down as if he’s pleased with the view. I hate the way my cheeks redden so blatantly. Such is the struggle of the natural red-head.
I dip my face, as if trying to hide from him, and I don’t understand why. I don’t hide from anyone.
Noah approaches me, and before I know what’s happening, his hand is on my cheek. I meet his gaze in near-shock, confused by the emotion in his own. I barely stifle my gasp.
“Liza...”
I swallow audibly, too stunned by our closeness, by our eye contact to compose myself.
But Noah has no trouble, and with one deep breath, he’s back to his cool, aloof affectation, and he takes a single deliberate step back. We’re still so close, though, and his mere proximity effects my senses in ways I’d rather not admit, even to myself.
But whether he tries to hide it or not, Noah appears to be grappling with something he hesitates to articulate, but I can’t imagine what it might be.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him, concerned.
Noah nods to himself, as if to work up some kind of unfathomable courage. He has no qualms about charging into a fight with Jonah, but, somehow, words are too much for him?
“I just...” he chews the inside of his cheek.
I frown. I sincerely can’t fathom the thoughts might be plaguing him behind that vehement look in his eyes.
“Have you spoken to him? Berry. Just tell me. Are you back together?”
My gasp flies from my lips before I can even process.
Seriously? For some reason, I find I’m deeply offended by the question, as if it were more of an accusation. And maybe it was.
But I have no real right to offense, I suppose. Noah barely knows me, not anymore, and he knows nothing about my and Jonah’s relationship. For all he knows, Jonah has been physically abusing me for God only knows how long. And he thinks I’m going to take him back.
Fat fucking chance.
“Are you crazy?” I spit, my indignation more ob
vious than I intend.
I take several steps back, desperate to extricate myself from Noah’s spell so I can at least form a coherent thought, let alone communicate it. I avert my gaze for that express purpose.
Noah grits his teeth, as if he’s struggling with a thought that affects him more than it has any right to, and secretly, just the idea that I can affect him at all—that he cares enough about me and my fucked-up life to give a shit—reaches deep into my chest and touches my heart in ways he can’t possibly comprehend.
I meet his gaze, as defiant as ever. “No fucking way,” I swear, as if I have something to prove. And maybe I do. Not to Noah, though, so much as myself. “I never should have been with him in the first place, but... No. The other night was a one time-thing.”
Noah watches me skeptically.
“One time, only,” I qualify.
Noah’s perfectly straight nose flares, as if he’s looking for another fight or something. “He’s never put his hands on you like that before? Because I swear to fucking God—”
“No,” I promise him, shaking my head adamantly to drive home the point.
We stare at each other for a full minute, Noah trying to sort me out—deciding if I’m telling the truth or not—and me trying to convey that I am not a fucking victim. That I would never stay with a guy who treated me that way.
I sigh. “Look, Jonah’s not all bad, I swear. I don’t know what got into him the other night, but at this point, I don’t really care. I sure as hell won’t be giving him an opportunity to do it a second time, that’s for sure.
Noah nods slowly, before blowing out a long, pent-up breath. “Good.”
“Is that why you came by? To make sure I don’t take Jonah back?”
“Sure,” he says unconvincingly. “And, besides, you were on my way to the beach.” Noah shrugs.
But I’m not on the way. His family’s beach house is over on Utah Street. I’m out of his way, and he knows it. I can’t help my small smirk. “I’m at least a half-mile out of your way, actually. I think you just wanted to see me.” I quip, unsure where this flirtatious bravery is even coming from.
One Hot Summer Page 32