Chapter 21
I WOKE WITH WHAT I COULD ASSUME was the same smile I had fallen asleep with the night before. Glancing toward my window, I was greeted with the morning sky, clear and pure and bright—very on-brand for Colorado in December. I snuggled deeper into my duvet, my mind fixing on two wonderful things.
First, my manuscript was finally sitting in an important person’s inbox, and the possibilities from there were endless.
I pictured my novel transforming from a Word doc to a real, three-dimensional book that I could hold in my hands, with hundreds of pages filled with my words and my name printed on the front.
Second, on the docket for my day was my date with Noah.
And while I’d deny it if ever questioned, the reality was that I would need the entire day to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for it—more so than any other date I’d ever been on.
I needed to do young Jane proud, after all.
Anxiety gathered in my chest. What had I gotten myself into?
The heavenly aroma of bacon pulled me out of my cozy haven and into the kitchen, where my parents were serving up scrambled eggs and pouring cups of coffee.
“Morning, sweetie,” Mom beamed. We fell into our normal formation at the table.
I did my best to focus on the piping hot slice of buttered toast in front of me, but I couldn’t ignore the jitters coursing through my limbs.
When I dropped the saltshaker, my parents looked over in surprise.
But after I knocked over my coffee, their eyes narrowed.
“How much have you had to drink this morning, ma’am?” Dad joked, putting on his best serious cop voice.
“Are you okay, hon?” Mom asked, wiping up the puddle I’d made.
“Sorry, I’m fine. Just sort of preoccupied.”
Soon enough, Dad departed for work at Dawson’s Market, and Mom took off for a day out to Ponderosa Springs, a bigger nearby town cluttered with outlet malls, with Sue and Evelyn.
“You’re welcome to join,” she’d offered with hopeful eyes.
I’d declined, explaining that I needed to get a jump-start on my book for Liv—which was true.
But it was only half of the real reason.
And then I was left alone with my nerves.
A few hours of dedicated focus on writing proved to be more of a challenge than it normally was.
The right words typically poured out of me without too much effort, but today I couldn’t stop anxiously checking the time, which either passed in slow motion or zipped by at triple speed.
What made it even more difficult to make significant progress on my work was Noah’s text in the afternoon.
Hey :) So, I just realized I don’t have your address. Mind sending that over?
Was the five-minute rule that Agnes had informed me about in freshman year applicable to this situation? I decided to wait three.
6860 Moonshadow Road.
I pressed send. It dawned on me that Noah hadn’t told me where we were going—just the time he’d be turning up in my driveway, an image that I still couldn’t believe would be real later this evening.
Any specific dress code I should know about?
He replied less than a minute later: Do you have a ball gown on hand?
I chortled and flung myself across the living room couch, plotting a pithy reply.
If only you’d asked earlier! It’s at the cleaners. Was that funny? It was, right? I questioned my response immediately after pressing send. But the laughing emoji that Noah sent moments later instantly quieted my worries.
Then something more subdued, perhaps jeans and a sweater, will do. I’ll leave my tails at home so you won’t feel too underdressed.
Again, he got a giggle out of me. I reread our conversation. Butterflies slowly replaced the anxiety that had been nestled in the pit of my stomach. Maybe tonight would be fun.
As I was applying the finishing swipe of mascara, I heard the front door open. I’d completely forgotten to not only tell my parents that I wouldn’t be home for dinner but why I wouldn’t be.
“Jane?” Dad’s voice.
“We’re home!” Mom declared. I haphazardly gathered the palettes and tubes and brushes splayed out all over the bathroom counter, shoving them into a drawer and sprinting down the hallway.
“Hey, guys,” I said sheepishly.
“Well, don’t you look nice. That’s a lovely lip color on you.” Mom looked me up and down. I adjusted my sleek black turtleneck, smoothing it over the top of my dark wash jeans.
“What’s the occasion?” Dad asked.
“I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I’m, uh, getting dinner out tonight.” I’d already assumed my parents would have questions, but the flutter in my voice and the way I stumbled over my words solidified their curiosity.
“What do you mean, dinner out?” Mom inquired, folding her coat over her arms.
“With a friend.”
“Which friend?” Dad asked with enough confusion that I would have been offended had it not been entirely warranted. There weren’t any old high school friends I’d kept in touch with, no one in town I spoke to aside from the two of them and Edith. There was no choice but to come right out and say it.
“Uh . . . Noah Elliot?” Even my most earnest attempt at a casual tone of voice wasn’t half convincing.
“Noah Elliot? You mean the worship leader from Saint David’s?” Dad clarified.
“The boy from your high school?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” I rasped, out of breath for some reason. “It’s a funny story—well, not that funny, I guess. We ran into each other the other day and decided to grab some dinner.”
They exchanged a look, Dad hiding his smile and Mom letting out an “aah.” Moments later, a stream of headlights flooded the living room as a car drove up and parked in the driveway. Noah was here, and my parents were too, which wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined this moment.
“Grab some dinner, huh?” Dad repeated. My face grew hot.
“Yeah, you know, just to catch up, talk about . . . life. I’ll head out now.” I snatched up my purse and bolted for the front door when the bell rang. Shoot.
I stood frozen in place, my hand on the doorknob. There goes my chance at a getaway.
“Are you going to get that?” Dad asked, not even making an effort to hide his grin.
I threw open the front door. Noah stood on the front porch clad in his signature smile, a dark denim fleece-lined jacket, a simple white tee, and black fitted jeans, one side of his honey hair tucked behind his ear. His bright eyes darted from me to my parents and back to me again.
“Noah, hi,” I blurted out.
“Hey . . . uh, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. Pleasure to see you both.” He reached out to take Dad’s hand.
“Evening, Noah. Nice to see you too.” Dad stepped closer.
“Very nice,” Mom echoed as he shook hers. A few moments of awkward silence followed.
“Mmhmm, all very nice. Well, we’ll be on our way now,” I announced, stepping out.
“Don’t forget your coat,” Mom said.
Will this moment ever end? After a quick inner debate, I spun around. “Right.” They all watched me as I yanked my coat off the hook by the door and continued out. Noah turned to follow me down the driveway when Dad’s voice rang out behind us.
“Have her home by eleven.”
“Absolutely, sir.” Noah said.
“Oh, Steven. Have fun, you two,” Mom called out before closing the door.
Noah’s eyes found mine as we approached the passenger side of the car, a flicker of his stifled laugh coming through. I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or hide. He opened the door and waited for me.
“Thank you,” I said as I slid into the green Chevy I’d only ever seen the exterior of—the old car Noah had always driven that I had always noticed. Here I was, sitting in it. He hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Sorry about all that. They can be a little much,” I muttered with a bashful smile as the engine roared to life.
Noah glanced over at me, a playful glimmer in his eye. “No need to be.”
A soft, familiar indie voice accompanied by guitar riffs filled the car. Aria Winters, the singer-songwriter I’d listened to on my drive into the mountains a few days ago. Based on the Nomadic Cherubs’ classic rock set list, I wouldn’t have guessed Noah would listen to something so understated.
We pulled out of the driveway and started down the mountain toward town.
“So, where exactly are we headed that both a ball gown and a sweater would be on the list of acceptable attire?”
Noah let out a deep, musical laugh. “I thought we’d go to 231 Third.”
His words unlocked a chest of memories that I’d forgotten all about.
231 Third, of course, wasn’t the name of an establishment.
Instead, it was the address of an old bungalow that had been converted into a restaurant—well, actually, over a dozen different failed restaurants throughout my years in Avila Falls.
So many that keeping track of the names became more of a hassle than anything else, so the town had started simply referring to any business there as 231 Third.
From a vegan comfort food place to a microbrewery and deconstructed burger joint to an Asian fusion steakhouse, that little bungalow had seen it all.
But the one thing each business had in common was that they were all a new iteration of a restaurateur trying a little too hard to be creative.
Every new place attempted to be fancier than Jack’s, more imaginative than Los Caballeros.
But much to the owners’ chagrin, the townsfolk of Avila Falls were perfectly happy going to Jack’s and Los Caballeros.
“What’s at 231 these days?” I asked.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”