Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
NOAH
B ut first, pancakes,” Hannah says. Dressed in a hiking skirt and a blue tee shirt that says Abide No Hatred , she’s blowing through my kitchen like a hurricane. Her dark wavy hair is pulled back into a ponytail that swings wildly as she whisks that bowl of batter like it sassed her. After spooning the batter into the skillet, she moves on to manhandling my espresso machine as she attempts to froth milk to go along with the waiting espresso shots. Hannah only has two speeds: sweet, blinking sloth and cartoon Tasmanian devil.
Right now, we’re a million miles from sloth mode. She’s likely been up for two hours already, based on the disastrous state of my kitchen.
I take the coffee she thrusts toward me and sit down at the breakfast island, which is covered in printouts of apartment listings. She’s already gone at them with highlighter and red marker.
“Fuel up,” she says. “I thought we could go back over to the apartment and pack up the rest of my things while Jason’s at work. Then, we can check out some places that are in my price range. You up for that?”
She says that last part like it’s a question, but it’s not. These pancakes are a bribe, but I’m okay with it. Hannah needs her own space, and she wouldn’t stay here more than a few days even if I offered.
“I mapped out the top contenders so we can do this systematically and don’t drive all over creation,” she says. “We can bring all of my stuff back here and then take my car to scout these places. I’ll drive and you navigate.”
I wince as the coffee burns my tongue. “Deal.” I hadn’t planned to spend my day apartment hunting, but I can’t say no to Hannah and her Big Plan. Even after taking a shower hot enough to melt iron, my shoulders are tight with knots and my neck feels like a horse stomped on it. But that won’t stop me from helping her today.
She flips a few pancakes in the skillet and nods. Next to her is a plate of charred ones that look like hockey pucks. While she waits for golden brown, I open my laptop and check my email, hoping for a reply from Victoria.
But there isn’t one.
I swallow the lump in my throat and tell myself this doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s barely eight-thirty a.m. Vic likely spent last night at the institute, and she’s probably leaving soon to head home if she hasn’t hit the road already. Staff always have the option to stay one extra night, but they have to be out early. Probably, email is the last thing on her mind.
Still, my brain wants to go straight to catastrophizing. Spending the day with Hannah is the only way I can hope to keep my mind off Victoria and not obsessively check my inbox every three minutes.
“Bon appétit,” Hannah says, pushing a plate toward me. “And also, do you have bungee cords and rope? I think we can get all of my stuff into your truck, but there’s a non-zero chance that it could be a Beverly Hillbillies situation and we might need to strap things down creatively.”
By mid-afternoon, we’ve rescued all of Hannah’s belongings and ruled out five vacant apartments. Three were a hard pass based on the overwhelming population of college students and their distinct dorm vibes. The fourth smelled like an ashtray and the fifth was a garage apartment that almost definitely had a gas leak.
“This one isn’t horrible,” Hannah tells me as we poke around a third-floor walk-up with sticky floors and windows that are nailed shut. “But it does smell like cats and burnt cheese.”
“That bathroom is a crime scene,” I mutter, wincing as she surveys the tiny shower with its pink and yellow tile.
“Do you think that’s mold or just dirt?” she asks.
I turn off the light with my elbow as we go back into the bedroom. “You know you can stay with me as long as you want.”
“You’ll regret that after about a week,” she says, her nose wrinkling as she studies the carpet and its various stains.
“Let me make my storage room-slash-office into a spare bedroom.” I shove my hands into my pockets, determined not to touch anything else. “Give yourself a few weeks to find a place that hasn’t been set on fire or settled by raccoons.”
She frowns, heading toward the front door. Marla, the landlady, is waiting outside, smoking a cigarette while her Pomeranian is busy yapping at the neighbor’s cat.
“Thank you, Marla,” Hannah says, shutting the door behind us. “This is a little small for me, but I appreciate you taking the time to show us around.”
“Okay,” Marla says with a shrug, scooping the dog into her arms.
As we climb into Hannah’s car, she says, “There’s one other one out towards Folly Beach. It’s stupid expensive, but it’s the last one open right now.” She shows me the listing, sawing her bottom lip with her teeth.
“You know I’m going to be gone for the next two months, right?” I crank the air conditioning up as high as her old Accord can handle because my shirt’s already sticking to me, and I’m hopeful the moving air will blow off all remaining particles of mildew and cat pee. “I’ll be moving from one camp to another, with a day off between them if I’m lucky. You’d have the house to yourself.”
She sighs, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
“You’d be house-sitting. Doing me a favor.”
Her brow wrinkles as she chews on her lip. I’ve almost got her.
“Plus, you can keep my plants alive. I’d very much appreciate that. They’re already looking pitiful and the last time I asked my neighbor to water, she drowned my whole herb garden. You know how hard it is to kill mint?”
She snorts. “Okay, fine. I’ll baby your plants for you.”
“Thank you.”
As she pulls into the street, she shoots me a sideways glance that’s part teasing and all gratitude.
The next morning, I’m tidying up my spare room-slash-office while Hannah unloads the last of her belongings from my truck. It’s nearly ten a.m. when a delivery van pulls up with the package I’ve been waiting for—my phone.
The battery’s dead, so I plug it in to charge while I finish making more space for Hannah. I’ll be leaving in a few days to go to the next camp down in Beaufort, so she’ll only have to tolerate the sleeper sofa for a few more nights.
When my phone comes to life, I go straight to the text messages. Victoria still hasn’t replied to my email, but once I see her texts, I understand why.
First there are the breezy ones.
Hey, you. Hope the airport’s being nice to you.
Then: Did you get some decent coffee yet? My body is rejecting whatever’s in this hospital vending machine. This is criminal.
Then there’s the adorable photo of her with Layla and Priya. Big smiles all around, and all I can think is that she looks content, like she’s properly fit herself right into this role. This is the message I’d seen at the airport, the one I kept fumbling my response to.
The response I never sent.
Her next reads: Priya’s family is great. I was worried for nothing. I do that a lot, don’t I?
You doing all right out there? I’m heading back to camp now.
Hey, Sophie told me you had to go home early and help Hannah. I hope everything’s okay.
And the last one, from 10:46 p.m: I get that we’re in a weird place right now. I was hoping to talk about things before we left, and I know I haven’t been the best at explaining how I feel. I’m ready to talk if you are—but if you’re not interested, I understand.
I cringe as I reread that last message. No wonder she hasn’t gotten in touch again. She thinks I’ve changed my mind about us—because no person who was interested would let those last words go unanswered.
From across the kitchen island, Hannah says, “What’s happening?”
“Nothing.”
“Nice try. You look like you just learned a meteor’s about to strike and turn us all to dust.”
I sigh, turning my phone face-down on the counter. “I wrecked things with Victoria. Again.”
“What? Explain yourself.” She hops up on a barstool and rests her chin in her hand.
I start off with the broad strokes, and then end up spilling my guts and telling her every detail. Her brows shoot up to her hairline when I tell her about the night at the campground, and then she frowns when I get to the part about that last conversation we had after the dance. Hannah’s face goes through her entire range of expressions and by the time I get to the text messages, there’s a lump in my throat that feels like a rock.
“I should just call her, right?” I say. “Or text her back so she knows I’m not ignoring her.”
I reach for my phone, but she grabs my arm. “Okay, stop,” she says. “We can fix this.”
“We?” I ask.
“Obviously you need some pro tips here. You’re so lucky I’m around.”
“I think I know how to?—”
“Shush,” she says, holding her finger up to me. “This requires more than a text message or a phone call.” She taps her finger against her lip in that way that means she’s already five steps into a plan. She plucks Vic’s well-loved copy of Ready Player One from the counter and shoves it toward me. “Thank goodness for your shared interest in nerd-dom.”
“What does Ernest Cline have to do with anything?” Before the words are fully out of my mouth, I remember teasing Vic about the sticker she’d put on the back cover with her name and address, how she scoffed and said, I like to make it easy to have my things returned to me .
“That first chapter’s really good,” Hannah says. “I needed a palate cleanser after scouring apartment listings.”
I trace my fingers over the sticker, thinking of that moment in the bakery, when I caught a glimpse of what we could be like together when we didn’t have these silly camp rules getting in the way.
“We need more coffee,” Hannah says, opening her laptop. “It’s time for a big romantic gesture.”
Jasmine Falls is one of those small towns that’s just so dang cute it feels like it should be a movie set for the most heart-warming, feel-good film of the year. My GPS takes me straight down Main Street, where the town square’s all decked out for something called SummerFest that promises a cake-baking competition, pony rides, an art walk, and carnival-style games for the whole family—including the fur-babies.
Sitting at a traffic light lets me soak up all the details—pastel-colored storefronts, a tasty-looking cake shop, a gallery full of bright paintings. I’m curious to see more, but I lost an hour by stopping for fresh flowers, a bottle of shiraz, and two cupcakes from my favorite bakery in Summerville because Hannah insisted I not show up here empty-handed.
The GPS leads me past the outer edge of town, back into the rolling hills and pastureland. In a couple of miles, I turn onto a road that cuts through the forest and comes out by a sparkling lake. I drive past a more developed area, through a section that looks like a park, and come to a spot where the road ends right by two modest-looking bungalows that are side-by side. One’s painted white, the other yellow, and look like they could have been built at the same time. Two cars are parked by the white one, but the GPS directs me to the yellow one. When I see the number on the mailbox, I park by the garage and walk up to the front door, flowers in hand.
It’s easy to picture Victoria living here. A modest two-story Cape Cod-style house, it has big windows and a flagstone path. It’s cozy and welcoming, from the small porch with the blue front door to the flowering shrubs and irises along the split-rail fence by the garage.
I swallow hard as I walk up the steps and ring the doorbell. During the whole drive, I’ve been rehearsing what to say—and now all of those thoughts fall right out of my head.
After a few moments, I ring the bell again. When there’s still no answer, I pound on the big wooden door.
“She’s not here,” a voice says from behind me.
When I startle and turn toward the sound, I’m met by a woman who looks like a taller, curvier version of Victoria.
“Hi, Gwen,” I say. “It’s been a minute.”
“Noah Valentine.” She narrows her eyes and gives me a quick once-over. “It certainly has.”
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
Her brow lifts. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately.”
Based on her tone, that’s not a net-positive.
“I really need to see her,” I say. “It’s important.”
Gwen plants her hands on her hips and purses her lips, staring me down with a stormy-blue gaze just like Victoria’s. I’m definitely not her favorite person right now. Part of me wonders what Vic might have told her, what advice Gwen offered in return. Maybe it’s best I never know.
Because that stare says she’s calculating how far she’d have to drag my body into the swamp to make it disappear forever.
Based on our location? Not far.
“Slim chance of that,” Gwen says, that brow arching again. “Ghosting her isn’t winning you any points around here.”
“Please,” I beg. “This can’t wait. I need to talk to her.”
“Then I’d suggest trying the phone,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “Or have you forgotten how to use one?”
“This is an in-person conversation,” I offer. “I owe her a lot more than a phone call.”
That seems to get her attention.
“She’s upset with me, and I understand why,” I tell her. “But I swear, I didn’t ghost her. Not on purpose, anyway.” In the next breath, I become a human firehose, telling her all about Derrick and his identical phone, the ravenous pug and the bear claw, and my embarrassing wipe-out in the middle of airport security.
When I’m finished, she bites back a grin and says, “That’s quite a story.”
“Ridiculous, but true. I know she thinks I’m avoiding her, and I need to correct that. As soon as humanly possible.”
She nods, and I can tell she’s thinking about the last time this happened, when I left the country instead of correcting my mistake. Victoria and Gwen are as close as two sisters can be, and there’s no way Vic left out any relevant details—definitely not back in college, and most likely not today.
“Let me fix this,” I tell her. “Please.”
She stares at me for what feels like a full minute, her face like a storm cloud. “Come on,” she says finally. “It’s hot as blazes out here and you need all the help you can get.”
I follow her down the steps and across the lawn to her house, which indeed looks very similar to Vic’s—at least on the outside. When Gwen leads me inside, she takes me straight into the kitchen where a tall guy with reddish hair sits at the kitchen bar, studying his laptop.
“Logan,” she says, “This is Noah. The ghost.”
I cringe as Logan lifts a brow. He’s as big as an oak tree, but dressed in a tee shirt and tan pants that look tailor-made and likely cost more than everything in my closet combined.
“He’s here to make a big romantic gesture,” she tells him.
This time, I don’t argue. Victoria deserves all the big romantic gestures.
Logan’s brows shoot upward as he gives me a quick once-over. “Ah,” he says. “In that case, welcome. Can I get you a coffee? No offense, but you look like you could use one.” His lip ticks upward. Apparently he’s heard a couple of Noah stories, too.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’d appreciate it.” My heart’s still pounding with adrenaline from the rush of driving over to see Victoria.
“Is she coming back soon?” I ask Gwen, already planning where I might wait for her. In that cute bakery on Main Street, maybe. Or stretched out in that cozy hammock I glimpsed by the corner of her porch. Is it weird and stalker-ish to wait for her at her house? Probably. But what if I’m waiting with wine and cupcakes?
“No,” Gwen says, pulling her phone from her pocket. “She’ll be gone a while.”
My heart sinks. Florida. Did she take the job and head down there already? Have I missed my chance with her entirely?
No , I think. Because I’ll hop right back into my car and drive down to Florida, too. Pineola? Pensacola? Gwen will tell me, and I’ll fill myself with coffee and snacks and drive all night if I have to.
Because Victoria’s worth it. I should have made that clear to her a thousand times before. I hate that she left camp thinking that I was ignoring her—because of course that’s how she’d feel after three days of unanswered texts.
I turn back to Gwen. “Please tell me where I can find her. I know you barely know me, but I’m not some weirdo stalker. The last three weeks have made me see that I’m completely…I mean, your sister’s the only—” I pause, trying to still my racing heart and form a complete sentence that doesn’t sound hopeless and desperate. “She’s the person I love most in the world and I think I might actually die if I don’t see her again.”
Gwen and Logan exchange a look. So much for not sounding desperate.
“A wee bit dramatic,” Gwen says. “But I’ll allow it.”
“Ah, give the man a break, love,” Logan says, giving her a mischievous smile. “Imagine if I hadn’t flown back to you, that night you thought I was gone forever.” He gives her a devilish wink as he slips an arm around her waist.
She bites back a smile and ruffles his hair. “As if you could have stayed away from me.”
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Truth. Now imagine this lad’s feeling even a fraction of that.”
They hold another long look, and after a few raised brows and half-smiles that I hope are code for Let’s help this poor guy out , Gwen pulls her phone from her pocket and turns back to me.
“The only reason I’m doing this is because I know she’s nuts about you, too,” she says. “Has been forever.” She takes a step toward me, eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “But if you break my sister’s heart, I won’t think twice about leaving you in the swamp for gator bait.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything different,” I tell her.
“Good,” she chirps. “Now tell me your number so I can text you an address.”