by R.S. Grey
Giuseppe watches them, amused, from his perch on an overstuffed armchair, bouncing the baby on his knee.
After the kitchen is clean, Eva and her daughter disappear to give the children their bath and put them to bed. Giuseppe helps Noah charge his phone so he can call Lorenzo. I feel bad we didn’t think to do it earlier, but there was a lot going on. Apparently, Lorenzo and the kids only made it back to Rome a little while ago. There was bad traffic the whole way. Lorenzo offers to drive one of the vans and come get us, but now that it’s so late, Noah tells him to just stay put, help Gabriella and Ashley with the kids. Once the tire is fixed on the Fiat in the morning, we’ll drive back.
After he hangs up, Giuseppe pulls out a worn domino set and I watch them play, sitting on the couch by a big oscillating fan, luxuriating in the breeze before my eyes grow tired.
They play one more game and then Eva hands Noah and me still-packaged toothbrushes and shows us where we can use the bathroom.
After waving good night to everyone, we climb the stairs to the small attic room one behind the other. The fatigue I felt while sitting on the couch a little while ago burns off the moment we’re alone again together.
Once the doors shut behind us, the only light comes from a small lamp near the bed.
I have no idea what to do with myself. No idea what to say. Apparently, Noah doesn’t either because we’re both quiet.
Without the fans from downstairs, it’s much warmer in here than the rest of the house. Now that the rain has finally stopped, Noah cracks the window, but it’s just as muggy and hot outside, so he pulls it closed again.
Though I’d love to strip down to nothing, I stubbornly keep my sweater on. We still haven’t worked out the kinks with the sleeping arrangement, so I busy myself with tasks. I check my cover-up and bathing suit—both are still wet. Then, because I feel anxious and weird, I do what I always do.
I’m aware of Noah watching me from his seat on the edge of the bed, but for a little while, he lets me work in peace.
Then, finally, he can’t help himself.
“You have a real problem, you know that?”
“Hardly. You know who has real problems? Meth addicts. Murderers. People who like to collect stamps.”
“What exactly is your goal here?”
“What does it look like my goal is?”
I’m tidying up their attic. Though it’s hard to manage in the low light, I’m arranging their pile of books into alphabetical order. I’m making it so they can easily access the boxes of old pictures and albums if they so choose. If I have enough time, I plan to rearrange the various pieces of furniture so it’s all neat and orderly, either in ascending order by size or, possibly, by function.
“Have you ever thought you might use cleaning as a way to run from your problems?”
“What an interesting thought. Would you help me with this box? It’s heavy.”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Fine,” I grunt as I try to lift it. “I’ll do it myself.”
I’m surely about to throw out my back, but Noah doesn’t run to my aid.
“We could use this opportunity to talk.”
“Okay, talk,” I say, not bothering to look back at him. I’m too busy for idle chitchat. Sprucing up this attic will take me all night, and that’s if I work fast.
He sighs and lies back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head on the pillow. His attention is up on the ceiling as he begins, “So, shrink, it all started a few years ago when I took a job at Lindale Middle School.”
I set the box down and then freeze, curious as to where he’s going with this.
“The teacher in the classroom next door to mine? She’s a real piece of work.”
“She’s polite and generous and most certainly isn’t the problem,” I say, sounding prissy.
“She was abrasive from the start. Like I said, a real piece of work.”
“And what about you? Were you Prince Charming?”
“No,” he admits. “I don’t have it in me.”
Wrong.
So wrong.
Look at everything you’ve done today.
Instead of pointing that out, I keep my mouth shut.
“We were destined to hate each other from the get-go. I can’t remember what exactly set her against me, but does it even matter?”
I’m fully facing him now, invested. “I think it does. For historical accuracy. Future generations will want to know whose bullet started World War III.”
He chuckles and my heart balloons in my chest. He’s the person whose opinion I cherish most. A laugh from him is more valuable than gold.
“I remember once, early on, there was an all-staff meeting. I was new and wanted to be funny and liked. I probably made a bad joke about the overzealous person who took the time to organize the coffee station in the corner. It looked like someone had laid out the croissants with a ruler. They were in such a straight line. Turns out, it was the teacher next door. I think her feelings were hurt. Maybe it all went downhill from there.”
“She didn’t care about that.”
In truth, I don’t even remember that moment. That’s how much has transpired between Noah and me over the years. At this point it’s all a blur.
“But here’s the crazy thing, Doc. Can I call you Doc?”
“I prefer Doctor.”
“Somewhere along the way…in spite of the fighting and the antics and the bad blood…I started to develop real feelings for her.”
Chapter Seventeen
My stomach flips upside down.
I hold my breath, curious to see if he’ll continue. When he doesn’t, I have no choice but to play along.
I cross my arm over my chest, rest my elbow on my hand, and tap, tap, tap my chin—fully in character now. When I talk, I affect my best clinician voice. “These feelings…do they come and go?”
“No. In fact, they’ve only gotten progressively worse. Completely impossible to ignore. They’ve taken over my life here lately.”
I hum like this is deeply concerning. “Troublesome. Any other symptoms?”
“Butterflies. Sweaty hands. Flustered speech.”
“Sounds terminal.”
I step closer and hold out my hand to feel his forehead.
“Burning up.”
“Really?”
“’Fraid so. Cough for me.”
He does.
“Yes, just as I suspected. I give you one, two weeks max.”
We both descend into peals of laughter.
I start to step back, but he catches my hand, holds it like a delicate flower, inspects it on all sides. I stand perfectly frozen, letting him do it.
I’m a rare animal he’s never encountered before. He traces my fingers on that hand, every one of them, up, down, up again, until he reaches the bottom of my thumb and drags the pad of his pointer finger down to my pulse. It leaps and he feels it.
His gaze catches mine.
“Audrey, do you ever think—”
“No. I never think. Not if I can help it.”
He laughs and sits up, releasing my hand.
Exasperated, he tugs his own through his hair. It air-dried in the hours since we’ve been in the rain, and now it’s springy and soft. When he has children one day, I hope they get his hair.
He’s part agitated, part amused when he speaks again. “God. You’re…you’re…I don’t know! I’ve never met anyone like you. I was right on the beach, you know—you really are a coward. You’ll run from this forever, won’t you? If I don’t force this conversation, it’ll never happen.”
Now that he’s on the edge of the bed, we’re almost at eye level now, too close for comfort, but I don’t take a step back. He just called me a coward. I want to prove to him that I’m not.
“So the kiss…”
He sighs, relieved I’m bringing it up.
“The kiss was real. I kissed you because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for years.”
Whoa.
&n
bsp; How’s that for honesty?
“I know you feel the same. I don’t think this is one-sided.” His eyes grow wide with panic. “Jesus, tell me it’s not one-sided. I’ll die right now if it is.”
My brain is so set in its ways, pre-programmed to be at odds with Noah, that even when I’m confronted with irrefutable evidence proving his words to be true, I still have to ask, “You swear this isn’t some elaborate prank you’ve meticulously planned in which you convince me to fall in love with you and then subsequently break my heart and brag to everyone about it? That sort of thing?”
“Oddly enough, no, I’m not trying to reenact the plot of an early-2000s teen movie. I’m telling the truth.”
Wow.
This is wild.
Almost…too wild.
I narrow my eyes, trying to see through the bullshit.
“What exactly are you suggesting here, Noah?”
“A ceasefire.”
“Interesting. For how long?”
He fights back a smile. “Forever, Audrey.”
I think he can tell I’m still not convinced.
“Let me prove I mean what I say. Give me a week. No mean tricks. No dipping your hair in my inkwell. No poking you with a stick at recess. Next Saturday, you let me take you out on a date.”
“Why?”
He tosses his hands in the air and shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s what normal people do. I’m supposed to buy you food. We might kiss at the end of it.”
A shiver shoots down my spine.
Still, I make him wait. I want beads of sweat rolling down his face. I want him nervous with anticipation. If this is all real…
The possibilities are endless.
“Fine.”
I hold out my hand for him to shake before I lose my nerve.
“Fine,” he repeats back to me.
We shake hands, up and down, over and over, as our smiles grow in tandem.
Then I sigh, sounding perfectly content. “Well, now that that’s sorted, I need you to help me clear out this attic. If we work together, we might actually finish before morning.”
He groans under his breath, reaches out to grab me around the waist, and hauls me up onto the bed with him.
“We’re going to sleep,” he insists, driving home his point by turning off the lamp. We’re plunged into darkness.
“We can’t both fit on this bed.”
Our limbs are a tangled mess.
“We can and we will. Shove as close to the wall as you can.”
“My cheek is literally squashed against it. I’m suffocating.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
He shifts us so we’re both lying on our sides, facing the wall with the window. I’m the little spoon and he’s the big spoon. We’re touching everywhere. My back is pressed against his chest. His arm is draped over my waist. Our knees are bent and our legs are molded together. My butt is nestled right against his groin. Oo la la. I should have known he was packing heat all these years. Poor Noah. If he’s truly as into me as he says he is, this is akin to torture.
“Just…ignore it. It’ll go away.”
He shifts and tries to adjust himself down there, but it doesn’t help.
I’m wearing a devious little smile in the dark.
Apparently old habits die hard because I like knowing I affect him like that. Knowing I hold all the power. And if I wiggle my hips just a little…
He grips my waist. “Stop for the love of god.”
“Sorry. Just trying to get comfortable.”
He curses under his breath, and my smile grows.
But my victory is short-lived because the longer I lie there, the stuffier the room gets. I’m starting to sweat. I forgot to take my sweater off before bed. That on top of the poor airflow up here and the body heat Noah’s putting off means I’m literally panting.
I see no other way around it.
“Hold on a second,” I say, sitting up so I can yank off my sweater.
Thank god it’s dark or he’d be getting an eyeful of my cleavage in this dress.
I reach around him to drop the sweater onto the bedside table and then lie back down. If my boobs brush against him in the process, hey, it’s a small bed. I can only do so much.
Noah is rock hard when I get back into my little spoon position and nestle against him. Admittedly, I’m provoking him.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I tell him. “It happens to plenty of guys. If it doesn’t subside in a few hours, we’ll just rush you off to the hospital.”
Apparently, I’ve pushed him too far, because in a flash he’s got me rolled over onto my back as he leans over me. I’m helpless. He has his knee wedged between my legs and his hands on either side of my head, propping himself up off me.
I stifle my yelp, not wanting to worry Giuseppe’s family. That’s just what we need, all of them rushing in here to beat Noah off me.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warns.
I can barely make out his face in the dark, but I can imagine it looks sinister.
“You’ve proved your point,” I tell him, sounding slightly breathless. But even still, I can’t help myself. I lift my hand and run it up under the bottom of his shirt, flattening my palm against the abs I’ve been dying to touch all day. It’s a treat to say the least.
“Audrey.”
It sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. I really need to stop.
Fine.
I hold up my hands and wave the white flag.
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”
I assume he’ll roll off me then, satisfied with my apology, but instead, he lowers himself gently until I feel his delicious weight just barely pinning me down onto the mattress. He feels huge and menacing positioned on top of me. His knee grinds between my legs, doing his dirty work. Somehow, he knows exactly where to rub, and I gasp. He chuckles. His mouth presses against the side of my neck, just under my ear.
“It happens to plenty of girls,” he tells me, teasing. “If it doesn’t subside in a few hours, we’ll just rush you off to the hospital.”
So this is how it’s going to go.
We might talk about a ceasefire and some things in our relationship might change, but I doubt Noah and I will ever be able to truly live in peace. A tiger can’t change his stripes, and we love this too much. Tit for tat is our favorite game.
Satisfied that he’s elicited a reaction from me, he moves up and off me and we rearrange ourselves back into our original position.
“Try to get some sleep,” he says, brushing my hair back in an impossibly tender show of affection. It’s the first instance where I know I’m utterly doomed. If Noah shows me kindness, I’ll fall. Instantly.
I know as soon as I close my eyes and try to relax that I won’t be sleeping a single wink. I might as well get up now and save myself the trouble, but it feels too good to lie here snuggled against Noah. Weird, yes. Foreign, most definitely. But good too. Nice. Safe. When’s the last time I’ve felt this way? Jeff never made me feel safe. He wasn’t a cuddler, said it made him uncomfortable.
I’ve never imagined what sharing a bed with Noah would be like. He’s thoughtful about it. He gives me as much space as he can without toppling over the edge himself. He shifts and settles behind me, and when his breathing calms into a pattern and he falls asleep, I relax a little more knowing he can’t cause me any more trouble now that he’s unconscious.
I almost grow used to the weight of his arm on my waist, but there’s still a lot to process after the day I’ve had.
Now that I’m alone with my thoughts—horrifying—I replay every minute detail of my interactions with Noah from the beach to the car to this room, and when I’m done and I still don’t feel tired, I do it all over again.
A date!
I agreed to a date!
Next Saturday!
I panic, then calm down, then find something new to panic about. It feels never-ending, but my brain must eventually conk itself
out because the next thing I know it’s morning. Pale light streams in through the window. A rooster shatters the peace and quiet. I’m on my stomach, half on top of Noah. My leg is sprawled over his, claiming him. My cheek is on his chest. Drool dribbles onto his t-shirt. His hand has a lazy grip on my butt.
Whoa.
I push up and off him and he stirs, catching on to where his hand is pretty quickly. He moves it and clears his throat, trying to hide the slight tinge of color at the top of his cheeks. Noah blushing! I never thought I’d see the day.
I decide rather ingeniously to play it safe and skip any chatter about last night on the off chance I’ve hallucinated it all. I’ve been known to have vivid dreams, and Noah having feelings for me is rather hard to believe in the light of day.
I keep the topic of conversation purely platonic as I stand up and stretch my sore limbs.
Sleep okay?
Did I snore?
Oh, I was a blanket hog? Ha ha. Oops!
Noah swings his legs over the side of the bed and I think he’s going to stand and get going for the day, but he sits there for a moment, leaned forward, looking me over curiously.
I instinctively touch my head. “Is my hair all crazy? Yours is.”
Adorably so.
“Hair’s fine,” he tells me with a voice that’s still filled with sleep. Why is that so attractive?
I go for my face, wiping up and down. I could have missed some drool.
“Your face is fine too. I’m just trying to decide if you’re planning on backing out of the ceasefire or not. Knowing you, you stayed up all night talking yourself out of it.”
The part that kills me about Noah is when he says “knowing you”, his caricatured observations are always annoyingly accurate.
Knowing you, you spent your weekend watching true-crime documentaries.
Knowing you, your drawers are filled with pens organized in order of ROYGBIV.
Knowing you, you’re already planning the cookies you’ll bring to the next all-staff meeting.