by R.S. Grey
When it comes down to it, I really have no choice.
It’s the little red dress or nothing.
I slip it on and do the school dress code test with my fingers. Yikes. I’d definitely be sent home.
I don’t have a full-length mirror in my room, which is for the best. I think if I could see myself, I’d chicken out. When I check my phone and realize I’m a few minutes late, there’s no more time to second-guess myself. I grab a sweater to throw on—just in case I happen to pass a student on my way out—and then I run out the door.
Chapter Twenty
Noah’s sitting at a little table against a wall at the restaurant. He wipes his hands on his jeans then adjusts the collar of his shirt. Peers furtively over his shoulder then takes a long swig of his water.
I realize I’ve never seen him nervous before. Not like this.
The restaurant is tiny and everything is clustered together—the tables and the people. Waiters weave between chairs carrying trays laden with food. Amidst the hustle and bustle, Noah doesn’t spot me until I’m there, standing beside the table.
He pushes himself up to stand immediately, coming around to help me with my chair.
“I was scared for a second you wouldn’t show.”
“I was scared for a second I’d arrive to an empty table.”
I slip my sweater off my shoulders, no longer in need of it since the restaurant is warm enough. It’s a travesty that Noah is standing behind me because I don’t get the pleasure of seeing his face the first moment he sees me in the dress. I do catch his sharp intake of breath though and stifle a smirk. Definitely worth the thirty-five euros.
I sit down and he pushes my chair in for me.
“What do you have there?” he asks, pointing to the manila envelope I’ve brought with me.
“Oh. A bit of pre-dinner paperwork.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
A waiter appears at Noah’s side after he takes his seat.
“Wine for the table?” he asks.
“We’ll each have a glass of the house red, please,” Noah answers for me.
When the waiter walks away, I lean forward. “How do you know I don’t want white?”
He rolls his eyes. “Because I know. Now are you going to get on with that or not?” He squints, reading the front of the envelope I’m still holding. “Did you really title it ‘Legal Document’?”
“Shut up. Yes.” I tug the single page out of the envelope and flatten it out on the table. “Are you ready?”
“I doubt I’ll ever be. Just read it.”
I clear my throat and lower my voice, changing my demeanor to play the role of Consummate Professional. Something I have never been and will never be.
“Ahem. The undersigned Audrey Cohen hereby attests to having total and complete knowledge—”
“Total and complete is redundant.”
I glare at him until silence is restored. “I will have order in this courtroom.”
He pinches his eyes closed, probably already regretting asking me out on this date. I continue anyway.
“…total and complete knowledge of the attempted prank(s) to be perpetrated by Noah Peterson, hereafter referred to as Dumb-Dumb #1 (DD1).
“DD1 has in no way accomplished his predetermined goals, listed below:
1) Tricking her into thinking he is genuinely interested in her
2) Fooling around with her
3) Making her fall in love with him and then publicly breaking her heart
It is heretofore acknowledged on this day, July 17th, at eight o’clock.”
I look up and Noah is grinning. He’s loving this.
“I tried to get a notary, but it was too short of notice. Do you want to review it before you sign? You can take as much time as you need.”
“You’re something else, you know that? Just hand me a pen.”
I pass him one from my little clutch. It was the most official-looking writing utensil I could find.
“Sign here.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“And here,” I say, pointing. “Here. Again here. And initials only here.”
When he’s done, he drops the pen and leans back in his chair, trying to look unamused. I take the document and blow on the ink to ensure it’s all dried before slipping it back into the manila envelope and sealing it up.
The waiter returns with our wine and Noah and I clink our glasses, holding eye contact while we do it.
“I’m not going to break your heart,” he says, sounding absolutely sure. “This isn’t some huge premeditated scheme I’ve had in the works for years.”
“My friends still think it is.”
“Your friends. Right, I suppose it’ll be tough to win them over at first.”
I nod. “They’re very loyal. I doubt they’ll ever like you.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“My parents too. I mean, I think my mom has a little crush on you since you talked to her on the phone, but my dad’s only heard horror stories.”
He’s undeterred. “I’m great with parents. Parents love me.”
“Are we insane for trying this?” I ask him.
“I don’t see another way forward. I can’t get you out of my head. The girl who calls me a dumb-dumb is apparently the one for me.” He shakes his head in disbelief as the waiter comes back with a basket of bread. I immediately attack it.
We peruse the menu and I suggest we split a few dishes. In true Noah and Audrey fashion, we can’t agree on what they should be. In the end, we tell the waiter to bring us his favorites and leave it at that.
“What are we supposed to talk about now?” I ask, sipping my wine. We haven’t stopped talking, bickering, and teasing each other since I sat down.
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he jokes.
“How about this: Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Oh, interview style—I like it. Let’s keep things saucy.” He mulls my question over for a second. “Am I supposed to give you an ambitious answer or the truth?”
“Both.”
“Okay. Ambitious? I’m the CEO of Google and I fold my laundry right away instead of letting it pile up in my dryer. I just broke it off with Margot Robbie and now I’m dating Gal Gadot. With Daniel Craig’s retirement from the 007 franchise, Hollywood is looking to me to fill the role.”
“Wow. That is ambitious. But plausible,” I say, sounding as if his goals are completely reasonable.
Then he shrugs. “The truth, I’d like to be settled down, married, starting a family.” When I look alarmed, he adds. “In five years. Relax over there. Also, I think it’d be cool to get a dog. My landlord doesn’t allow pets.”
“Mine does,” I say, realizing how that sounds a moment after the words leave my mouth. Want a dog? Come live with me!
Noah smiles. “Good to know. But yeah, career-wise? I like teaching at Lindale. I don’t see myself doing anything else.”
I hold out my hand in a pseudo-handshake. “Well, Mr. Peterson, we still need to review your CV, but between you and me, I think you definitely got the job.”
He laughs. “What about you?”
I look down at my wine glass, running my finger along the stem. “Oh, yeah, same, actually. Kids are…something I want for sure. At least two.”
“At least two. Yeah.”
I smile playfully. “Three could be fun?”
“Definitely. Three.” He’s absolutely sure of this.
“Four?”
He looks unimpressed. “I don’t know…by then, you might as well shoot for five and get a full basketball team.”
“Hadn’t thought about that. Solid reasoning. Five for sure. Although…my mild OCD would never allow me to have an uneven number of kids.”
“Six it is.”
We’re still teasing each other when the waiter comes over to deliver our antipasto dish: crostini with strawberry and honey, topped with goat cheese. Everything is delicious but not over
ly pretentious. The restaurant Noah found is run by a husband-and-wife duo who’ve been operating the place for close to forty years. They go around to every table and greet diners as they eat. When they come over to us, they kiss our cheeks and go on and on in Italian about what a cute couple we are. We only know because we look it up on Google translate after they leave. Bella coppia! The food is fresh and in season, the prices are reasonable, and the wine is too tempting to pass up. We finish a bottle and the owners send over a second one on the house. We don’t let a single drop go to waste.
Noah and I are both mildly drunk by the time we leave.
For no reason whatsoever, neither one of us can stop laughing. We walk home hissing at each other to keep it down.
“Shh! It’s late. We’re going to wake up the neighborhood.”
We’re not in danger of that. Not even close. We’re in Rome on a Saturday night in July—the streets are flooded with people.
We’re almost back to the school when I think of a brilliant idea. I grab Noah’s hand and tug him back.
“Oh! Oh! Should we get another—”
I’m about to say a word when it completely evaporates from my head.
“Another what?” Noah asks.
“The dessert we had last night.” I snap my fingers. “What was that called?”
Noah acts completely confused. He likes seeing me flustered.
“It was the thing with the ricotta cheese! Oh my god! Are you kidding me? OH! CANNOLI!”
“Cannoli!” some dude on the street echoes back at me, like we’re playing a game.
Noah can’t quite remember where the bakery was located. We go down a multitude of wrong streets, laughing like it’s the most hilarious thing that’s ever happened to us, and by the time we find it, the place is closed.
I press my face and hands against the glass, looking for any signs of life inside the dark building.
“Are you crying?” Noah asks me.
I sniff. “No.”
He grabs my shoulders with his hands and reroutes me down the street.
“I’ve just never tasted something so good in my entire life.”
“That’s what you said about the lasagna at dinner.”
“And I meant it then too.”
What’s so hard to understand about that?
He laughs and keeps prodding me along, probably worried that if he lets go of me, I’ll turn back and run for the bakery. He’s not wrong. A part of me wants to camp out on their doorstep until sunrise. I’d get the first cannoli of the day.
When we finally make it to St. Cecilia’s, we’re drunker than skunks, thirsty, and tired. The whole place is dark, which doesn’t worry me all that much until Noah tries the gate and it’s locked.
Worst-case scenarios run wild in my alcohol-addled brain.
They’ve forgotten about us!
We’ll have to sleep on the street!
We’ll die!
I’m spiraling. Meanwhile, Noah buzzes a little intercom button half-hidden behind the overgrown bougainvillea. Apparently, it connects to a walkie talkie Enzo, the security guard, carries.
Noah follows my panicked “HELP US! PLEASE!” with a calm “Hey Enzo, it’s Noah and Audrey. Could you come unlock the gate for us please?”
When Enzo comes to let us in, we thank him profusely.
“Non c’è problema,” he assures us.
We tiptoe through the school so we don’t wake up the kids or the other chaperones. The lights are still on out in the halls, but it still takes me ten tries to fit my key into the lock on my door. Noah leans against the wall and gives commentary.
“Close. Ooh, just overshot it.”
Turns out, it wasn’t my door anyway.
My room is one over.
“See now? That would have helped.”
I feel like a world-class locksmith when I finally succeed in opening my door. I step inside and toss my sweater and clutch into the air. I think I meant for them to land on a surface, any surface, but they just crash to the ground.
“Wow, you must be drunk. No perfect pile or neat arrangement?”
“Oh shoot!”
I quickly grab my sweater and hang it up in my closet, place my clutch on my dresser so it’s tidy and next to my other bags, and then put my shoes back in my closet, in their assigned spot. When I turn back to Noah, he’s standing on the threshold, studying me.
“Much better.”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“You coming in or not?” I tease. “You made it all the way to my door, might as well step inside.”
“Only for a bit. To help you get ready for bed.”
Does he think I can’t do that on my own? I only sat down on the floor to rest my legs for one second, but now that I’m down here, I realize it’s really not so bad. I could sleep here just fine.
“The second bottle of wine might have been a bad idea,” he says, heading toward my dresser. “Where are your pajamas?”
“Second drawer from the top. Don’t look at my panties. Noah, Noah—don’t you dare look at my panties.”
A second later, he drops my pajamas on my chest.
“Here, put them on. I’m going to go get your toothbrush.”
True to his word, he’s back in a second with my toothbrush in hand, but that’s not all. He brings me everything I need to get ready for bed. A warm washcloth to wash my face, a little towel to dry it off. Some water to help ease my hangover in the morning.
Then he draws down the blankets on my bed so I can crawl underneath them.
“You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,” I say, meaning it. “I’m going to tell everyone. Everyone. They won’t believe me. I think I had too much wine.”
“So did I.”
“Why are you the one putting me to bed then? I should be helping you.” I try to sit up.
“Here, lie back.”
“You could sleep in here.”
“I…don’t think that’d be the best idea.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not of sound mind. I can’t be trusted to make good decisions.”
“Pfft. Decisions shmuh-shisions. Who cares.”
He leans down to kiss my forehead. “Good night, Audrey.”
He leaves me in bed and walks to the door. He looks back just for a moment and I give him a little wave like I’m a toddler he’s babysitting.
When he’s gone, I stare up at the ceiling and sulk.
What a waste of a perfectly good evening.
Next Saturday night we’ll be back in the States. Life will be normal and boring again. No Noah right across the hall from me. No scandalous opportunities right at my fingertips.
I whip my blanket off and open my door to find Noah walking out of his room too. He’s changed into shorts but he’s not wearing a shirt anymore. He’s had a change of heart about going to his room; I see it all over his face.
“On second thought—”
“Actually—”
We speak at the same time, assuring each other that this is a good idea. We’ll have a friendly sleepover in my room, but we’ll be very responsible and chaste. Not even one kiss. We shake on it.
I take his hand and tug him into my room, and we fall onto my bed together.
To our credit, it’s platonic at first. We’re lying down facing each other. My eyes rove over every inch of him. His hands stay planted firmly at my waist, no wandering.
“We’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
I do. For exactly half a second, and then I squint one eye open to see he’s doing the same.
Well, well, well…looks like neither one of us is to be trusted.
We cut the crap and open our eyes.
I scoot a little closer. He tilts his head down.
“We should really sleep,” I tell him, arching my head until our lips are almost aligned.
“Shhh. I am asleep,” he says, tugging me toward him until our bodies are flush.
It’
d be impossible to say who initiated the kiss.
We meet exactly in the middle.
Two lovers who can’t be held off a moment longer.
His fingers tangle in my hair. My hand flattens against his chest. What starts out as innocent fun turns wicked almost immediately. The kiss is scorching and reminiscent of the one we shared at the club last week. All that pent-up longing…it has to come out somehow, and I see that now. I feel the way Noah wants me and it emboldens me. I start to press up onto my elbow so I can crawl on top of him and Noah breaks the kiss, breathing hard, dragging a hand down his face.
“We should stop. I should stop.”
He’s worried about taking advantage of me.
Hilarious! He should be worried for his own safety. I’m about to take advantage of him, poor guy.
“Stop? No no. We can’t.” I crawl on top of him and sit up. “I want this. I want this so badly. I’ll write it on that contract for you if you need me to. The defendant Audrey Cohen is of sound mind and will testify that she’s absolutely 100% okay with Noah putting his hands on or around her breastal region and in her panties too. Something like that. I’ll sign it and everything.”
“Breastal,” he repeats, tickled.
I point back and forth to my breasts. “Exhibit A.”
Even in moments like this, we’re unable to be completely serious. We can’t just look at each other and say the god’s honest truth: Noah, if you don’t kiss me and touch me and undress me out of these pajamas, I feel like I might spontaneously combust. I want you—god, can’t you see that? Haven’t you always seen that?
He smiles like a confident superhero who’s just saved a whole city from destruction and mayhem.
“Thank you.”
Oops. That was supposed to be internal monologue.
He grabs my waist, rocking me backward just a hair, enough for me to feel how much he wants this too.
“We might regret this in the morning.”
It’s his last-ditch effort to talk some sense into us, but I can already tell he’s losing steam with his argument. His eyes are eating up every inch of my body. He’s toying with my shirt, lifting it up so his hand can slip underneath it, grazing the bottom of my ribs. He keeps bucking and adjusting his hips beneath me like he’s desperate for me to move and grind on him.