Noah is serious.
I take a deep breath and accept the call. “Hello?”
Oh, well done, me! I sound so natural and casual, as if this could be anyone calling.
“It’s Noah.” Deep and gruff, those two words.
“Hi.” Okay, that was lame.
He clears his throat, just as I did moments ago, and says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I deadpan, feigning indifference.
“For lying.”
“It’s weird for me thinking of you as Noah right now. I’ve had—what’s your friend’s name? Buzz? In my mind since I met him.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Why didn’t you tell me when we were at Rent?” It would have been the perfect opportunity; he could have blamed alcohol. He could have blamed any number of things if he had spilled his guts and confessed right there.
Though I don’t remember his buddy coming clean either. Two liars turning me into a joke. Well ha ha, no one is laughing.
Noah is quiet and I practically hear the wheels churning in his mind as he racks his brain for an answer that won’t upset me. “I don’t know.”
Well. That’s not what I was expecting him to say. Thought he’d at least say something like I thought you’d be mad or I didn’t think it would matter since we’re not friends. Or even the standard I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.
Except he knew he was going to see me because I’m selling him my stash. Was going to sell him the stash—was. Past tense.
Instead he goes with another truth: I do not know.
Hmph. What the heck do I say now?
I say nothing.
“Are you mad?” His low voice sounds a bit tired.
“Why would you care?”
I mean, seriously—I don’t even know him.
“I’m not an asshole.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, I mean…I don’t want you to think this is the kind of thing I do—I don’t get off on embarrassing other people.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” He did, but just a little, not that I’d admit it.
“Okay.” He pauses. “Good.”
I hear the tenants in the apartment above mine flushing their toilet, one of the downsides of living in a place this old. Shiny, new high-rise apartments are nice, but not when you’re scrimping and saving every dime to start your own business.
Maybe I should move into my office and sleep under my desk… Jeez, just the thought gives me chills and not in a good way.
“If you’re calling because you thought you embarrassed me, you’re good—we are good. No worries.”
Tick, tock. The seconds go by quietly as we both decide what to say next.
“Was there anything else?” I wonder out loud, trying to urge this quiet guy into opening up. “Anything at all?”
Literally anything. Please just say something.
“What…” He stops. Groans. And I get the sense he’s struggling with his words. Maybe even at home right now, in whatever apartment he lives in—or condo, with all that money he has to burn—running a frustrated hand through his hair. Bet it’s sticking straight up, too, all wild and frantic.
I hate having to pry information out of people. If he has something to say, he shouldn’t be a pussy about it.
“Fuck. Tell me how you really feel.”
A hand flies to my mouth. “Shit. Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” Then. “Not sorry.”
We both laugh and the temperature warms a little, and I’m not talking about the temperature in my bedroom. The whole mood of the phone call shifts.
“I don’t picture you as the type of woman who curses.”
“Did you just call me a woman?” I smile.
“You’re not a girl, so what am I supposed to call you? Young lady?”
That sounds weird. “I don’t know. You probably could have just left that part out completely.”
We laugh again and I bite down on my bottom lip as I climb into bed and pull the comforter up over my lower half. Settling in, hoping for a long phone call. I’m bored, and lonely, and attracted to Noah.
Not the Buzz Noah—Noah Noah.
“You’re a sassy little thing—you weren’t this sarcastic this past weekend.”
“I was nervous this past weekend.”
“Nervous about what?”
I fiddle with the square corner of my white sheets, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. “Why do you think I was nervous?”
I mentally face-palm myself. Don’t be that girl Miranda! Guys hate guessing games and here you are sending him on a merry chase that’s going to end up going nowhere.
Well done.
“I…uh, have no idea. Too many people at the club?”
“It’s Chicago—every club has too many people.” Curious, I wonder, “Do you go out downtown very often? I remember you mentioning that you don’t live there.”
“I don’t. And no, I don’t usually. Sometimes? I don’t know, it depends. I have to be dragged out.”
“Did they have to drag you out on Saturday or did you go willingly?”
“Did you?” Noah bounces the question back into my court.
“No. I don’t think you met my friends Claire and Emily, but they live for the weekends.”
“And you don’t.” He seems to have a habit of making questions sound like statements. Matter-of-fact. Punctuated.
I like it.
“No. I’m a Monday kind of girl. I feel really unproductive on the weekends. How about you?” I’d twirl the cord of this phone if it had one like the phones did when I was younger before my parents let me have a cell phone. I would have to use the one in the kitchen so they could hear what I was talking about, and those times I talked to boys, I would wind that phone cord around and around until my mother couldn’t stand it anymore and gave me the universal sign for Cut it out!
Twirling cords. Flirty laughing. Nervous giggling.
“I had to be dragged out, too. I’m not a fan of crowds. My place has it all, so what reason do I have to leave?”
“So you live in one of those complexes with a pool and gym?” Must be nice.
Noah is silent. Then, “You could say that.”
That’s a weird way of putting it, but I’m quickly learning he is a man of few words.
Man. Woman.
That is how he sees us, not as a boy and a girl.
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you. Claire’s half-drunken words of wisdom echo in my head.
How the hell do I find out if he likes me or not? I can’t come out and ask the poor guy—he’d probably hang up on me the same way he bolted at the stupid club!And he is impossible to read!
If only he’d taken off his sunglasses during our conversation today. Then maybe it would have been easier to tell.
Or not.
He had one hell of a poker face.
“You’re not very talkative are you?” I finally ask him, the art of conversation and being polite more fleeting with every passing, awkward second.
“Not really.”
“So then…why did you call to clear the air if you don’t have anything to say?”