Chapter 17 Andie
Seventeen
Andie
The bell above the door jingles when we step in.
Noah’s hand is firmly perched on the small of my back as he guides me to a vacant booth.
He takes a seat in front of me after making sure I’m comfortable. As I pick up the menu and browse through it, I still feel the phantom touch of his big hand on my back, long after it’s gone, sending tingles through my spine.
How is it that this man has so much power over me, so much control over my emotions, without any intention?
It’s scary to think that someone could have a say over how I feel, and after everything I’ve had to go through, I don’t think I’m ready for any emotional entanglement yet. Not that Noah wants it.
I’m glad everything between us is just physical.
Liar.
I shut out my brain, not really wanting to unpack anything at the moment, not when I had such an intense sexual experience and an emotional breakdown.
God! I totally forgot about that.
The thought of losing my crap when I almost had him in my mouth sends a wave of embarrassment coursing through me.
Thankfully, the waitress doesn’t let me drown in my misery for too long when she appears to take our order.
Martha, her name tag reads, is probably in her sixties. She has her gray hair in a neat bun, an apron attached to her hips, and a notepad and pen in hand with the warmest smile anyone could offer.
Her presence instantly brings a distinct kind of calm that a person could bask in when they end up here in the middle of the night.
“What can I get for you young folks?” she asks, with a southern twang in her accent, and I suddenly wish I could discover everything about her and how she ended up in this part of the world.
She doesn’t even give a second glance at Noah, nothing to indicate that she recognizes him. Maybe she doesn’t, or maybe she does, but is kind enough not to bring it up. Either way, Noah’s shoulders drop just a tiny bit, and I didn’t even realize they were tight with tension until they did.
Without being mindful, I order the smallest portion of veggie omelet. Noah cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t comment. He follows with his order, asking for double of everything.
Soon, she’s gone after placing two glasses of water for us, leaving us in silence. It’s not the uncomfortable kind, though. Just the kind that says I know how you taste.
I take in the diner for the first time since we entered. It looks typical for a diner, with red booths lining the floor, and neon lights flickering outside. There’s an old jukebox stacked in one corner—it has surely weathered many seasons. I’m surprised it’s still working.
There aren’t any patrons either, except for a couple of guys on the opposite end of the diner from us.
It’s late, and with that comes a sense of solace that’s hard to find during the days that mostly stretch too long. That same calm washes over me when I spot the moon hanging in the sky from the glass window as my elbows rest on the table, chin in hand.
Yet, I can’t sit still. All because I can feel the heat of Noah’s gaze on me, burrowing under my skin, not in the way that bothers me, but in the way that makes me aware of the way our knees and feet touch under the table, and how neither of us attempts to detach.
I lose myself in absorbing this rare moment of silence and peace when Noah’s voice catches my attention—not that he has to do anything ever to gain that.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” he questions, his arms crossed as he scratches his beard.
I nod without thinking. “Sure.” I pick up the glass and take a sip of water.
“What did you mean when you said that you haven’t been to a diner in a long time?” he asks, not an ounce of hesitation on his face. I don’t think this man ever second-guesses himself.
I should’ve seen this coming. Noah’s perceptive and undeterred. If he wants something, he goes after it and rests only when he has acquired it. It’s hard not to be the way he is when he’s a goalie. In fact, he’s so successful because he is the way he is.
Therefore, I know dodging or redirecting this conversation would get me nowhere. So, I square my shoulders and prepare myself for the onslaught of some of my worst years.
What I appreciate is that he doesn’t rush me after asking what’s on his mind, silently giving me the space to answer if I choose to.
So, with a deep breath, I explain. “These past few months haven’t been…” I drawl, looking for the right word—one that wouldn’t make him pity me, “the best,” I end up saying.
His brows furrow, quietly asking me to elaborate.
“After I started gaining weight in college, people changed; my so-called friends didn’t want to be seen with me.” I shrug as if the drastic shift in their attitude didn’t cut me open inside. “Who would want to be associated with someone who looks like me?” A hollow laugh escapes me.
Unable to look at him anymore, my eyes drift outside to the stillness of the night. Not wanting to drag the topic either, I cut my sentences short. “So, yeah, I haven’t been to a diner since college.”
My palms rub my thighs, getting sweaty when he doesn’t say a word, and I don’t know what he’s thinking because I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“My friends stopped asking me to join them anywhere, and it wasn’t fun doing things alone,” I exhale, my breath stuttering as I feel the calm I was feeling moments ago receding.
My eyes stay glued to my hands now, as I fist the hem of his hoodie I’m wearing, hoping it could offer me some sort of support to tide me through this vulnerable moment.
The silence seems to stretch on for eternity until Noah breaks it. “I understand,” he mutters.
My eyes screw shut of their own accord as I feel a fissure form in my heart, the ache blooming. Of course, he understands. Of course, he relates to what my friends did. After all, he’s one of the best goalies and the most eligible bachelor of the Boston Bandits.
This man could have anyone, and of all the women he has ever been spotted with, none of them ever looked like me—fat, curvy in all the places I shouldn’t be.
What was I thinking? That he’d side with me. That he’d think that I’m beautiful just because he has agreed to sleep with me.
Noah’s voice again stampedes on the inner monologue, and the shame I had been feeling. “I understand that your friends were fucking idiots for choosing to ignore what’s right in front of them,” he spits, making my eyes fly open as they land on him while I try to make sense of what he means.
He continues, his jaw clenched and eyes burning, “The people who were supposed to be your friends were too immature and bigoted to realize that they were letting a gem go.”
A gasp gets stuck in my throat, too moved to say anything to him. But he doesn’t need me to say anything because he’s not finished.
“They were prejudiced assholes, and too cowardly to take a stand for what’s right,” his voice rough as if he’s barely hanging on to his anger. The bill of his cap barely hiding the emotions etched across his sharp face. “They were stupid enough to let you go.”
He uncrosses his arms, sets them on the table and leans forward, His eyes boring right into mine as if peering into my soul. “I’m not, Andie,” he rasps, his face too close that my eyes flick to his lips.
The second he clocks that small movement, his eyes darken—not with anger but with something else entirely.
My heart thunders as my eyes widen, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words while I find myself locked within his mesmerizing, heated eyes. I feel myself leaning forward, and I’m unable to stop.
His eyes triangulate between my eyes, lips and back to my eyes as a vein in his jaw feathers.
Will he kiss me? Do I want him to?
Before I can get answers to either of my questions, Martha strolls right to our table, her voice washing over us like a bucket of cold water that has us both pulling back.
“Here’s your food. I hope you enjoy, darlin’.” With that, she’s gone as if she didn’t just stop her diner from catching fire.
Her diner might be safe, but my shorts—his shorts—are an entirely different story as I feel the telltale of wetness between my legs.
We both clear our throats and reach for the glass of water on the table, drowning it in one go.
We dig into our food, not saying a word.
Regardless, my heart warms up as the weight of his words settles between my ribs, the fissure that formed filling with gratitude and warmth.
* * *
“You have to put yourself out there, Andie,” Dr. Laura emphasizes without making me feel inadequate about myself.
That’s why I love her. She doesn’t let our sessions seem like professional therapy, though you gain all the benefits and outcomes of it. Talking with her once a week is like catching up with a friend.
I know as a therapist it’s practically her job to create a safe environment for people to open up to her so that she can dissect and help us through the rough patches in our lives.
But the thing is, she doesn’t make me feel like I’m a patient with a problem; with her, it feels like venting and not having judgment or criticism thrown back in your face.
She truly cares, and it shows with the way she treats me, her kindness and warmth barreling toward me even though she’s sitting behind her laptop screen, with glasses perched on her nose.
Dr. Laura, or as she asks me to call her, Nancy, looks at me over the rim of her glasses, jotting down notes. Her dark hair with strands of gray neatly cut into a bob, giving her an edge. This woman looks smart, and she knows it.
I wish I could be more like her—confident in myself. But that’s what I’m here for.
When Nancy quirks an eyebrow at me through the screen, I remember that she said something about putting myself out there before.
Now, the thing is, she doesn’t know about the deal between Noah and me.
No one does as per our agreement. So, she now believes that after that ruined date with Sean—which led to everything between Noah and me after I got wasted and asked him to teach me things in the bedroom—I haven’t gone out with anyone else.
I play along with the ruse. “I don’t want to, Nancy. Boys are stupid. I’d have better luck finding a partner if I were into women,” I sigh, with a roll of my eyes as I lean back on my couch, the laptop perched on the table.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I ignore that voice in my mind that confronts me and reminds me of Noah Miller. It’s been a week since we last saw each other. Both of us are busy with our hectic schedule—he with the playoffs and me with the year-end function at school.
“You need to let go of the past, Andie. As much as I hate to say it—and trust me, I really do—some people will never get over themselves or accept that they’re wrong.
They’d do everything but let go of their prejudices and outdated mindset, no matter how much they hurt others,” she states matter-of-factly, and all the nights I cried myself to sleep flash before my eyes, rattling me up inside.
I sober up at her straightforwardness, absorbing what she’s saying even if it seems heavy for a Friday evening as I lounge in my shorts and Noah’s hoodie—yeah, I didn’t give it back, nor did he ask me to.
Nancy continues as her arms rest comfortably in front of her, “That doesn’t mean that you stop living your life, Andie.
There are good people out there, too—people who would appreciate your beauty and kindness, both inside and out.
You’re far too young to shut people out.
Don’t do that and live, Andie. Or one day, you might end up regretting it. ”
Her words echo in my head long after I’m in bed for the night, or at school the next Monday, or having my lunch the next day.
I wonder if there’s anyone out there who’ll accept me just as I am. No matter how much I try not to, my mind only conjures up one face again and again.
A bearded face with eyes so green, you feel alive when you look into them. The last words he said to me imprinted in my heart.
‘They were stupid enough to let you go. I’m not, Andie.’
And for the rest of the week, as I work myself to the bone, I keep wondering one thing and only one thing.
Did he truly mean it? Do I dare hope?