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.
Being at odds for all these years has made it worth our while to pay careful attention to each other’s every move. Noah only likes chocolate cake? I make sure to order vanilla for Angie’s retirement party just to spite him. Fun, right? We’ve studied each other’s habits with determination and focus. We’ve figured out what makes the other person tick. I realize now, having an enemy is a lot like having a best friend.
Noah knows me better than anyone.
The realization brings forth a delirious little laugh.
I never saw this coming.
I still don’t actually see how it could possibly work, but I’m willing to try. In the light of day, I won’t shrink back into my turtle shell and give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower.
I walk right up to him, spread his legs with my hands so I fit perfectly between them, then lean down slowly so he gets an eye-full of cleavage. My lips brush his cheek and I kiss him gently against his stubble.
“Saturday.”
It’s a promise.
Chapter Eighteen
“Ms. Cohen! Are you listening? Our van almost went right off the road!” Alice says with wide eyes. “Lorenzo cussed so loud! It was in Italian but I still heard him!”
“We really did swerve, I swear. I screamed and grabbed Alice. The Trinity boys were laughing, they didn’t care, but I saw my life flash before my eyes!” Millie insists. “I thought we were going to DIE!”
It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m sandwiched smack-dab in the center of all the Lindale girls at a table in the dining hall. I didn’t plan it this way. Noah and I arrived back to the school just after lunch. Our morning was chaotic. Tow truck. Mechanic shop. Long drive back here to Rome. I came to the dining hall after a quick shower and change of clothes, eager to scrounge up something to eat, and my students found me, eager to give me back my phone they found amongst the towels.
“When we got back here, that’s when we heard something had happened to you!” Alice says, sounding genuinely worried.
“Where were you, anyway?” Kylie interrupts. “Someone said you and Mr. Peterson got into a car accident.”
“We were all so worried,” Millie adds.
“No car accident,” I assure them. “Just a flat tire.”
“That stinks,” Millie laments.
Meanwhile Kylie leans forward with her shrewd little stare.
“Where did you two spend the night?” she asks. “In the car?”
“A nice family took us in.”
“Did you have your own room?”
I don’t even hesitate before lying. “Yes.”
Kylie hums. “Interesting. The family had that much space? Must have been a big house…”
This girl is too smart for her own good. Nothing gets by her. If she doesn’t grow up to become a homicide detective, it’ll be a real travesty.
During her interrogation, she’s got me nervous for a second, wondering if she’ll discover the truth. Then I remember she’s a thirteen-year-old with braces and cystic acne scars. None of this matters.
“Yup. Huge.”
She narrows her eyes, trying to get me to crack.
I take a big ol’ bite of my sandwich and smile while I chew.
Lorenzo smartly cancels our planned excursion for Tuesday afternoon so everyone has a chance to recuperate from the insanity of Monday’s beach trip. Some of the kids are still swapping war stories. Most have completely moved on and are filming TikTok dances in the courtyard. Gabriella and Ashley set up a laptop in Ashley’s room and are binge-watching Selling Sunset. I use the opportunity to finish the rest of the puzzle I started last week, and then I lounge on my bed. Not to brag, but it’s something I’m really good at.
I keep my door propped open in case someone needs me.
Noah’s the only one who does. He finds me in the evening. I didn’t make it to dinner. I skipped it in favor of eating a cupcake and continuing my lounge sesh.
I’m lying on my bed under my covers, scrolling through social media and melting into my mattress when he knocks and takes a half-step into my room.
He has his phone and AirPods in hand. He’s wearing sporty sneakers, a Seattle Sounders FC t-shirt, and athletic shorts.
“Want to go for a run with me?”
I don’t even pretend to mull it over. “Never in my life. I would not go on a run with Brad freaking Pitt.”
He laughs.
I set my phone down. “Is that the sort of thing you’re after? A girl who’ll go on runs with you? Because if so, I can tell you right now, you’ve got the wrong gal. The last time I went to the gym, I accidentally broke one of the treadmills and a full-length mirror which WAS NOT MY FAULT so stop smiling. I was just trying to walk on the treadmill’s slowest setting while catching up on my Bravo shows. Y’know, gym stuff.”