Chapter 19
Lily
Icouldn’t sleep last night. I tossed and turned replaying mine and Noah’s conversation over and over.
We’d spoken for hours. I drudged up stories from my childhood I’d forgotten, and he gave me insight into his younger years as well—though, I didn’t have the heart to tell him his mother has practically given me the film reel into it.
Lil.
When he said that after his goodnight, I braced for the nausea, for the sickening dread that nickname gurgles to the surface, but it didn’t come.
Two years ago, I had a co-worker who had a crush on me.
He worked behind the bar at Applebee’s, and he thought he was being cute using it.
I told him I didn’t like it, but he must’ve thought I didn’t really mean it, that I was being modest or something because he kept using it.
One day, it triggered me, and I spent my entire shift vomiting in the bathroom.
All because of a nickname that reminded me of the worst mistake and pain of my life.
Maybe it means I’m further into my healing than I was two years ago, or maybe it’s Noah using it. The grotesque wobbling that weakens my knees isn’t there when he says it.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and nervously I twist my nose ring.
I overdid it, didn’t I? I trail my gaze down the olive-green midi dress with a black lace-trimmed deep V-neck.
I grabbed it at the local thrift shop after my shift the other day.
It cinches in at the waist and a black silk-like bow decoratively ties in the back.
It flares enough to accentuate my waist, and I twirl with a smile on my face until I catch another glimpse of myself.
Damn it. How pathetic am I? I smack my forehead with my palm.
There’s no one to impress, so why am I going out of my way to wear the only dress I’ve owned in nearly four years? At least the material is lightweight and not constricting—helping cook won’t be an issue, and I’m secretly hoping I spill something on the dress forcing me to change.
I never understood my mother’s desire to dress up for my father after over thirty-two years of marriage.
He’d been there in the thick of childbirth or when she was covered in potting soil and sweat after working in her gardens all day.
However, as I dab on some blush and work mascara into my lashes, brightening my already loud eyes, I slowly come to terms with why.
Before my shower last night, I touched up my burgundy highlights and tied socks in my hair to form the wavy curls that volumize and bounce. Talk about messed up. Also, whoever said sleeping on anything to get heatless curls was painless, lied.
I rake my fingers through my hair, coaxing some more volume into it. Slow, deliberate motions, lifting the stands at the roots and fluffing them out like I have any clue what I’m doing.
I don’t, and I’ll blame my actions on the hug. That stupid hug I gave him.
I exit the bathroom, slinking down the hall toward the living room where the early morning sun slips through the slats of the drawn sliding glass door blinds, spilling across the living room floor in golden streaks.
Dust motes drift in the beams, waltzing lazily, while the soft glow floods the edges of furniture and walls.
I chuckle to myself thinking of The Lion King. “Everything the light touches …”
Wow. I need a life.
The room is still, quiet, and the recliner Ms. Sullivan typically sits in is empty with only the folded quilt tucked across the worn fabric.
I chew my lip, worrying the thin skin until I taste a metallic tang in my mouth. Should I start breakfast? Do I need to take the turkey out of the fridge? Suddenly, I feel really stupid for having gotten up at 6:00 a.m. prepared to tackle the day and overly ready like some sort of sucker.
Fortunately, I don’t have to contemplate too long.
The front door bursts open, and before Noah can bark out a command, Max bulldozes his way to me in three strides.
His sleek, yet powerful body twists and surges with combustible energy, his tail wagging so fast it’s blurred.
Ears perked high, his eyes lock with mine, brimming with excitement, and I can’t help the squeak that tumbles out of my mouth in a disturbing baby voice.
A deep, happy whine escapes from him as he skids to a stop just shy of crashing into me.
His tongue darts out, offering a sloppy kiss to my bare toes.
“Max!” Noah grounds out, his hand full of extra bags and a masculine-looking navy duffel that makes my throat constrict—the reminder he’s staying here for the next few nights swirling on overdrive in the back of my mind. “Sitz,” he commands.
Max stops and immediately sits, but still gives me those pleading eyes I can’t resist. Reaching out, I scratch his head, smiling and glancing up to find Noah staring at me. Cheeks red, he quickly averts his eyes, and I cringe at the thought he was wondering why I was in a dress.
Noah dressed as usual, like he would for any day off work. Blue jeans and a long-sleeve waffle shirt, a grayish-blue color that looks fancy except for the Carhart logo stitched into the shirt by his hip. After dumping his stuff on the table, he kicks off his boots and looks at me.
“What?” I ask. If I was feeling self-conscious a minute ago, now, my nerves are exceptionally frayed with his piercing gaze.
“You, uh, look nice.”
The corner of my mouth twitches even though heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks.”
He glances at Max, then at me. “Hey, mind if I try something?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I’d like to see something. Bear with me.”
I nod, and he issues a command to Max.
“Max. Pass auf.”
Immediately, Max stands, his sharp eyes scanning the room and the hallway beyond. Locked in and waiting, he shifts his weight subtly, muscles twitching and taut beneath his fur. I want to ask Noah what’s going on, but I also don’t want to disturb whatever he’s trying to “see.”
Max’s eyes dart again, toward the front door, and he sniffs the air once, his nostrils flaring.
Noah moves, slowly, hunched over, creeping oddly around one of the chairs.
Max snaps to my side, his body going perfectly still.
“Gib Laut.”
Max growls and lets out three consecutive barks that send a shiver up my spine, considering I had my hands near his mouth a second ago.
His rattling growl is dutiful to a fault, and the wheels turn in my head as Max mirrors Noah’s circling moves around the kitchen.
Every step Noah takes, Max plays the game, putting himself between Noah and me.
Max stays on guard until Noah issues out the command I know as down and tells him he’s a good dog, and then it’s over and he’s back wagging his tail at my feet rather than the menacing stare.
“Can I ask a question now?” I whisper.
Noah laughs and nods.
“What was that?”
“I was trying to gauge if Max would guard you at my behest.” He winks at me, and my knees get mushy.
“Do I need to be guarded from you?”
Oh. My. What the hell? The smile falls from my face, and deep down I know the answer.
“I’d never hurt you, Lily.”
I nod and busy myself looking out the sliding glass doors down to the pasture. The sun has finally crested higher in the sky and the dewy grass, glistening, ripples in the breeze along with the branches of the trees.
Noah clears his throat. “How about that turkey? Have you seen my mom this morning”
I shake my head. “I was just contemplating breakfast when you walked in.”
“No, no,” he says. “We don’t eat breakfast on Thanksgiving. We starve until dinner. Those are the rules.”
“And here I was thinking you were the golden boy of this town,” I quip just in time for Ms. Sullivan’s door to open.
She shuffles down the hall mumbling about Max’s barking and “shitty shenanigans.” She’s put on some wrinkled lounge pants and a brown crewneck that reads Leftovers are for Quitters. The sweatshirt isn’t oversized, so I have the sneaking suspicion she ordered it for this Thanksgiving.
Noah shakes his head, moving deeper into the kitchen. “Nice shirt, Mom.”
She grins at me, walking past and slipping something into my hand. I look down at a draw-four UNO card.
“Keep that,” she whispers, and I glance toward the kitchen, then back at her. “Put it in your pocket. Wait, you’re wearing a dress.” Her tired eyes scan me from head to toe, then she smirks. “He likes you in anything, you know.”
My eyes widen. “Uh, no, that’s not what—”
“But that dress is going to drive him wild. Good choice.” She hobbles off, patting Max on the head twice.
Then she moves to wrestle with the sliding glass door and steps onto the porch for the first time in a while since I’ve been here.
Max follows her out, staying by her side as she closes her eyes and sucks in as much air as her lungs will allow.
I need to find a way to get better seating out there.
Leaving her in peace, I stride into the kitchen. Noah has the turkey seasoned and poised for cooking. He dumps a bag of sweet potatoes in a strainer.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Feel like washing these?”
“Sure.” I move toward the sink where Noah hands me a bowl and turns on the water. He knocks my elbow with his.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Lil.”
Ms. Sullivan secretly hands me three more draw-four cards, two-draw two cards, and five skip cards—with zero explanation throughout the night. Honestly, at some point I begin to just accept them, tucking them securely behind the black bow tied around my waist like it’s my new normal.
We eat a spread of food: turkey, green beans, stuffing—which is different than the southern dressing my mom used to make—cranberry sauce, skillet sweet potatoes, rolls, and two pies for dessert—apple and pumpkin.