Chapter 17
Lily
Tires screech as Noah yanks the wheel to the right. Gravel sprays up onto the side of his truck while he fights to keep the car under control and slides into the soft shoulder of the road.
Holy hell! My stomach bottoms out as the pickup finally stops. The semi roars past, its horn echoing as it escapes behind us.
My hand grips the dash above the glove box, and I pant, glancing toward Noah who’s wide-eyed and grips the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him together. I don’t miss the tremble in his arms. He shakes, his eyes scan me and look in the rearview at Max, who’s laid down, anxious.
I swallow the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I bit my cheek when he swerved, yet it could’ve been so much worse.
My heart won’t stop racing—not only from the near accident, but the words I admitted to him.
I hadn’t told anyone since the police station.
Since the day it happened. I thought the female deputy I talked to was caring.
She listened to my story, was sympathetic even.
I sat there, cold and violated, at a steel table on a hard chair recounting my story, and the only thing she did was go get the sheriff. His father.
“Lily.” Noah’s voice is hoarse, but it’s above a whisper and urgent. “Are you okay?”
My mouth opens, then closes again. I don’t know—I search for something that sounds like an answer, but nothing comes. Physically I’m fine, but the fact I just told Noah I was … Now he’ll only see me as broken. Used. Washed up and weak.
My chest rises and falls in time with the truck’s humming engine, and I can’t quite catch my breath.
Guilt washes out Noah’s expression, and terrified, he brushes my forearm, gently shaking it. “Lily! Please, talk to me. Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I finally say. Why does he care so much?
His eyes sweep over me, roaming—like he’s unconvinced and searching for the lie. Both his hands interlock over his head, and he lets out a shaky sigh. “God, Lily, I almost—”
His voice cracks, and I ignore the desire to climb into his lap, to wrap my arms around him.
“You didn’t,” I reassure him. I wince at the pained looked on his face and snatch his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You didn’t.”
“If anything happened to you …” His words trail off, and my mind fills them in.
If anything happened to me, you’d be better off. Rid of the thorn in your side. I don’t know why you’re wasting time with me, especially after I just told you my darkest secret.
Why did I blurt that out? Some part of me wants him to know, and I’m not sure why. I’ve never wanted to tell anyone before. My family doesn’t know—will never know.
His fingers close over mine, in a way I don’t deserve, and I realize, right then, I trust Noah with my life.
I push the smoothie across the kitchen table and slap a ten-dollar bill down. “Ten bucks says you won’t drink this.”
Ms. Sullivan looks at me, her weak eyebrows twitching slowly. She lifts the spinach, strawberry, and banana smoothie I made this morning to her mouth, taking a tentative sip.
It’s been two and half weeks since Noah and I went to the garage and the subsequent events that happened afterward.
After the almost accident, he drove me to his mother’s house and helped me carry the groceries up the pathway from the truck.
He stayed for dinner but was quiet most of the night.
I didn’t feel like saying much either. What was there to say?
He’s been great the past couple of weeks, carving out time from his own schedule to take me to the diner.
It almost makes me mad. He’s acting like we didn’t just have a couple-sized fight, despite the fact we aren’t a couple, and he’s clearly walking on eggshells around me now.
He drops me off for work, says little, and barely sets foot inside once we’re home.
He’s more ghost than presence these days.
I knew he’d look at me differently—I even wrote about it.
Moreover, and I never thought I’d say this, I miss Max.
Oddly, the desire to speak with my mom about it weighs on me. I’m guessing she’d be just as shocked as I am that I miss a dog.
“It tastes like shit.” Ms. Sullivan breaks me from my thoughts.
Well, hell.
Still, she sucks back the green goop that honestly looks a bit brown at this point, and I’m happy. The change has been subtle yet undeniable. Each day, another piece of her strength is stripped away, leaving behind a woman frailer and less herself.
The glass clinks as it hits the table, empty, and when her tremoring hand reaches out for the cash, I smile, watching her pocket the crumpled bill down her simple black T-shirt with a smirk on her face.
She grips the arms of the chair and pushes to stand.
I attempt to help, but she weakly swats at me as she’s come to do in the past week anytime I offer assistance.
It’s purely through sheer willpower that she moves away from the table and shuffles to the living room, her oxygen tank trailing behind.
I snatch the glass off the table, placing it in the sink full of soapy water currently soaking the top part of the blender and do up the dishes.
Water splashes out onto the black hoodie I wrangled from my car that’s still in the shop awaiting parts, and I fiddle with the hem, pulling it up.
It revolts. That’s the only explanation for why it’s clinging to my head, refusing to let go.
The fabric is twisted, tangling with my unruly hair, and my arms flail, as if in a straitjacket.
Yank it off. Cool air brushes against my stomach, and of course my shirt has ridden up. “C’mon, seriously?” I grunt out, my mouth half muffled by the suffocating fabric.
As I struggle, the ding of the midday game shows comes on from the living room and Ms. Sullivan curses at the TV. “Idiot! Even I got that. Where do they find these contestants?”
I smirk.
“Lily?”
I freeze at Noah’s voice, hoodie covering my face and my shirt tucked up under it exposing my entire midsection.
Panic rushes through me, heating my cheeks as I grapple harder.
“Are you stuck?”
“Nope,” I say, but it comes out like a peep.
Noah’s footsteps approach, and though I can’t see him, I somehow know he’s gotten closer. The heat of his frame hits me, and a subtle shadow flickers off the kitchen floor. The sensation sends my senses spiraling. My skin prickles—he’s close. Closer than I’d expect.
“Need a hand?” His low voice makes me jerk toward it.
No matter how hard I pull, the hoodie’s still stubbornly bunched around my arms and head. My hair is caught somewhere in the mess, tugging painfully, and I can feel the hem of my shirt getting dangerously higher and higher. “I’ve got it. I think.”
He chuckles again, and I want to die, but then a warm hand gently touches my waist to steady me. Tingles rush up my spine as the rough pads of Noah’s fingertips glide up the side of my ribs, and my breath catches. I’m too afraid to move, but instinctively my body leans into his touch.
“Hold still,” he says, and I swear the timbre of his voice lowers. His fingertips linger and the small baby hair on my arms raises into goose bumps. Warmth spreads low in my belly but quickly turns into a burning as his hands work to untangle the hoodie, careful not to pull my hair.
The cool air hits my face when I come free, and I dare a glance up at him, worried he might notice the red flooding my cheeks.
He’s dressed casually in jeans and a dark green long sleeve that clings to his muscular frame, the fabric taut across his chest yet tapering to his waist. It isn’t flashy, just simple and fitted, but on him—he makes it impossible to look away.
His grin is maddening, charming, and I liquify when his tongue darts out to trace his lower lip, like he’s trying not to laugh outright.
“Thanks,” I mumble, tugging my shirt down and looking anywhere else but him. My eyes land on a giant turkey sitting on the table. “What’s that for?”
His grin falls, and he tilts his head, confused. “Thanksgiving. Did you forget?”
I rack my brain for today’s date but come up short. These last couple of weeks have been a blur between working and hanging out with Ms. Sullivan, and I completely lost track.
“It’s tomorrow,” Noah deadpans.
“Oh. So, you’re like doing the entire Thanksgiving thing then?”
He smiles. “Yeah, and so are you. I need help with all the cooking. Usually my mom and I do it all, but this year I’m not so sure she’s up for it and since you’re here …”
I narrow my eyes at him.
His smile breaks out even wider. “Don’t worry. It’s just the three of us. Always just been my mom and me.”
The way his face falls when he says the last part creates an ache in my chest. That’s one thing I was always grateful for growing up—my parents were together, still are, and they made sure to show me and my brothers how happy they were.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I lower my voice to a whisper. Even though Ms. Sullivan is shouting expletives at the family currently missing each question on Family Feud, I still don’t want her to hear.
Noah glances at me, hesitant, but says, “Depends on what it is.”
“Your dad … I’ve never heard your mom mention him.”
He pauses, his jaw tightening slightly. “There’s not much to say.
It’s always just been my mom and me. She got pregnant with me in her mid-thirties, and it turns out he didn’t want much to do with us.
She was a single mom, working three jobs just to provide for us.
Though she always made sure I had what I wanted.
If I wanted to play in the fancy travel baseball league, she’d work the overtime to make it happen. ”
I force a smile, although I want to frown.