Chapter 15 #3
“I think I always felt guilty when he’d show up at school with a few bruises because I had baseball practice or my mom wanted me home that night. I felt guilty I wasn’t there for him.”
I shake my head, irritated for Tommy and annoyed I’d judged the state of his shop when he’s clearly made something of himself.
“What happened?”
“His father started getting hooked on hard drugs and he eventually put Tommy’s mom in the hospital. A restraining order was granted, and she filed for divorce. Tommy’s dad eventually left. I don’t think he’s heard from him in over ten years.”
I tug on my shirt, pulling the hem over to trace the bottom stitching with my thumb. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, but I keep my gaze on my hands in front of me.
I’m not sure I’ve met anyone like Noah—the type of person who truly gives with zero expectation in return. His heart is pure gold. Or at least I hope it is. He doesn’t expect anything from me … right?
Out of the corner of my eye, he relaxes against the seat, head pressed to the headrest behind him, completely unaware of the havoc these small stories of him are wreaking on my heart.
He worries his lip between his teeth.
“It’s not your fault, you know.” I don’t know why I say it. He’s not stupid. He knows it’s not his fault Tommy was abused by his father, but somewhere deep down in my flipping stomach I need to tell him.
He doesn’t look at me, only shrugs. “I know. Still doesn’t sit well, though.”
The silence in the truck stretches on while only the engine hum and Max’s scratching drift through.
A quiet laugh escapes Noah’s lips, and I force myself to look at anything else—the dangling tree branch over the power line, the traffic steadily rolling behind us, the ripped fingernails I chewed off last night. Not him. I can’t look at him—I’m unsure I’ll have the willpower to look away again.
The bell chimes as I exit the back door to the diner, two grilled cheeses in hand and a sad paycheck tucked between my lips.
After the garage we came straight here, despite the audible growling from Noah’s belly. He didn’t mention anything about lunch, and I was too embarrassed to ask out of fear he may think I was coercing a date out of him. That’s dumb, right?
Figured two grilled cheeses from the diner wouldn’t come off as weird. Plus, they were free, and I really don’t want Noah feeling like he has to pay for me if we go to lunch.
Damn. I’m seriously overthinking this.
Noah sits in his idling truck as I walk toward it and when he sees me, he leans over the center console to pop open the door. “Get what you need?”
Yes. No. I got my schedule for the next two weeks and the meager paycheck that won’t even touch an hour’s worth of labor at the garage. Mitch wasn’t in the best mood, which is why I bypassed him and went straight to the cook and asked for two grilled cheeses to go.
I really wanted to talk with Mitch about my car issues, perhaps see if he could front me the money or move my schedule around so that Noah didn’t have to take me to work.
Honestly, it baffles me he’d waste what I’m sure is limited vacation time on driving me.
With Mitch in his foul disposition, I opted out, grabbing my two sandwiches and getting out of there, content to stay away until I have to work the next day.
“I guess,” I say, climbing in and handing him one of the to-go boxes.
Noah opens the boxes and smiles. “Grilled cheese. Haven’t had one of these in a really long time.”
“I eat several a week.” I laugh.
He lifts it from the container and brings half to his mouth.
How a sandwich can be both crisp and gooey is an anomaly, but I’m here for it.
Add in how Noah eats, and this is an utterly new experience.
He delicately holds the grilled cheese between his fingers, yet when he bites into it, the golden crumbs poof off the crunchy crust and sprinkle all over his lap.
I stifle a smile. The melted cheese, a combination of sharp cheddar and Gruyère, stretches before snapping and landing, stuck to the corner of his mouth.
I’m oddly mesmerized by the sight of his pure enjoyment of a simple sandwich.
It’s at this moment, I completely forget myself. My hand moves before my brain can protest. Tentatively, I lift my thumb to brush the cheese against the corner of his mouth. The tiniest amount of stubble is rough against the pad of my thumb, and my breath hitches when I realize what I’ve done.
Noah’s eyes lock on mine before I can move my hand away, and he stops chewing.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I stammer something incoherent while pulling my hand back. Heart thrashing in my ears, I grimace at my actions and dump the other sandwich box on the dash. “I, uh—I saw something I want to go look at. Meet you back here in twenty?” I ask.
Noah blinks, his mouth slowly remembering to chew the remaining bite. He wipes the spot I’d touched him and my stomach clenches.
Oh hell. What’s wrong with me?
“I’ll … I’ll stop by the grocery store quick to get a few things then,” Noah says.
Max whines, and that’s all I can handle.
I fumble with the door latch and practically fall out of the truck, dashing toward the front of the diner.
When I hit the sidewalk, I stop and look around, embarrassed.
I need to come up with something to occupy my time for the next twenty minutes.
Why the magic number twenty popped out of my mouth is beyond me, but here we are. Figures.
I scan the shops up and down both sides of Main Street. A few people mill about, but mostly it’s quiet today. It’s then I see it. A weathered wooden sign swinging in the direction of the breeze dangles above an array of rustic wooden furniture sitting outside a shop across the street.
With traffic clear, I dart across, slowing down just outside the shop which I can now see is called Handcrafted Porch.
Immediately, my mind wanders to Ms. Sullivan’s back porch.
Something like one of these outdoor chairs would be perfect.
Looking in the window, I notice rows and rows of Adirondack chairs, picnic tables, benches, and more.
The wind kicks up, rattling the chimes hanging from metal hooks beside the door.
It doesn’t hurt to look, right?
I push the door open, and a bell rings. As I walk inside, the air is warm, and the fresh smell of sawdust and cedar instantly makes it earthy.
There’s more than furniture, though. Shelves line the walls, displaying planter boxes, mailboxes, and small wooden signs.
Soft country music plays in the background and for a second, I’m transported to Ruin.
This would be like something I’d find back home.
I walk through the rows of chairs, testing out the rocking ones. I don’t see anyone around, but a craftsman’s workbench is visible in the back, scattered with chisels, sandpapers, and other tools next to a half-finished table.
Since there’s no one in the showroom, I take my time admiring the craftsmanship, fingers tracing over the knots in the wood or rubbing my hands over the slick varnish.
Maybe it’s the warm heat blowing from the vents, the relaxing music, or the fact I didn’t sleep much at all last night, but when I come across an extra-wide curved-back chair, I sink down into it and curl up.
This would be perfect. For writing and looking out over the pasture. Ms. Sullivan could also have a nice comfortable seat to lounge in and get some fresh air. For a wooden seat, it’s deliciously comfortable, and my eyelids bob, getting heavier and heavier.
I wake to the sound of knuckles rapping against wood. Groggy and successfully disoriented, I blink against the ceiling lights and squint to see a figure standing beside me.
Noah.
I scramble to sit up, wiping my mouth with my arm.
No. Not Noah. This person is taller, leaner.
The glint of a badge pinned on a tan uniform hits me first. A thick utility belt hangs off his narrow hips, and as my eyes adjust into focus, I piece together there’s a hard face carved with stern lines staring angrily down at me—the sheriff.