Chapter 19 #2
Ms. Sullivan eats more than I’ve ever seen her eat, which still isn’t much, but I can tell by Noah’s hopeful expression he’s encouraged by it.
I’m worried she may end up demanding over fifty dollars for this meal, and I mentally count the cash I have on me.
Luckily, Noah pointed out I’d dropped a twenty in the truck the other day, so I’m doing better than I thought.
Our conversation throughout dinner mostly revolves around the food, him and I trading stories of our Thanksgivings growing up, and Ms. Sullivan telling me all about her younger years—when she was my age, attempting to make a name for herself on stage as a dancer.
She did a few gigs here and there but ultimately had to retire her dream.
My chest tightens as I listen with a mix of sadness and guilt. Perhaps guilt that she didn’t get to realize her dreams, and that despite the circumstances of my running away, I am.
Her gaze wanders toward the window, the thin blanket she had to grab halfway through our meal pulled up and over her shoulders. Part of me wonders if she’s thinking of Noah’s father, how different life might have been if he’d stayed in the picture.
Both Noah and I can’t look away from her. Her expression is so full of acceptance—my heart breaks.
Yet, in the middle of it all, her teasing words settle back into conversation, and the joy on her face returns with her and Noah bantering—it’s like an unspoken message, even if she doesn’t say it. She’d sacrifice her dreams all over again if it gave her Noah.
My mother’s watercolor painting flickers in my mind, and I’m grateful she’s been privileged to continue her dream of painting throughout motherhood when many moms end up sacrificing those hobbies.
It’s then, in that moment, something buried deep in me unfurls.
I don’t want to waste any more time or let life slip by.
I thought I was living my dream, hiking and traveling, living for myself and making time to sort through my issues, but maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe I’d actually like to have a life with someone, do life with someone.
I look down, focusing on the cranberry sauce as my vision blurs and tears threaten to spill. I blink hard, refusing them.
Conversation dips and forks scrape against plates as dinner stretches on, but when it’s over, Ms. Sullivan sits contemplatively at the table. Max is unable to sit still, sniffing every inch of the floor as Noah and I clean up.
“Mom? Where are the UNO cards?”
I pause, hands wrist deep in sudsy water. Did he ask where the UNO cards are?
“Oh, they’re in my room. Tossed them in there while I was tidying up yesterday,” she says from the kitchen table.
I look at her, and she nods at me, her tubing bunching over her ears.
I’m lost, thoroughly lost. She didn’t tidy up yesterday, and I swear a quarter of the deck he’s looking for is in my damn dress.
I open my mouth to ask, but she flutters a hand at me, and I seal my lips immediately as Noah comes into the kitchen with a pack of cards. UNO cards.
Returning to my dishes, convinced if I stare any longer, I’ll give whatever I’m not supposed to away.
Noah tosses the cards on the table, and they land with a thwack.
“So,” he says, striding over and standing close behind me.
There’s a faint whoosh of air between us, just barely.
Then his hand lands with a muted smack against his jeans, like whatever instinct to reach for me was shut down.
“It’s tradition, every year on Thanksgiving we play UNO.
It was one of the card games we could play with only two people, and since it’s always been me and my mom … Anyway, you up for a game?”
“Sure, just let me finish these dishes.” I glance up into the window in front of me, and the dusky night allows my reflection to stare back at me. I focus on him, standing inches behind me.
Noah grabs my elbow and this time, I don’t miss the featherlight touch of his thumb brushing the sensitive underside of my arm. “Dishes can wait. UNO cannot.”
I spin, fighting back a smile at the boyish grin riddled with competitiveness. He pinches a section of my black bow and rubs the fabric between his fingers.
Ms. Sullivan props her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm as she smirks between us. “Noah wins every year. I told him this year will be different.”
It slowly registers with me—the reason she’s given me the cards all night. She’s taken them out of the deck for me to keep on the side and use to beat him. To cheat. Damn, this family is ruthless.
“Who am I to keep the Sullivans waiting,” I deadpan.
After I fill the sink with water to cover the dishes, I dry my hands off and pad to the table. I slide into the chair next to Ms. Sullivan, and though it’s round, we sit in a configuration of her and me on one side, Noah on the other.
Max nudges my thigh and I side-eye him, giving him his desired attention.
“You know how to play?” Noah asks.
I narrow my eyes at him. Of course I know how to play, though I haven’t played in years.
I used to convince my brothers to play with me when I was around twelve or thirteen.
They decided they were too cool to hang out with me most of the time, always wanting to head off to some party or hang with the friends romping around outdoors, but every so often Adam and Liam would sit down and play card games with me.
Adam took it way too seriously, constantly wanting to bet on his win, while Liam and I destroyed him despite the low stakes.
Noah holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Okay. I was just checking.” He winks at me and my stomach swoops.
With several cards tucked into my dress, I half expect the deck to appear thinner, lighter than normal, but if it is, Noah doesn’t notice. He removes them from the package and shuffles with precision. While he deals, my eyes slide to Ms. Sullivan who looks gleeful.
With my seven cards—number cards because I’m fairly certain I hold the majority of the good cards elsewhere on my person—I sneak a peek at Noah who’s scowling at his hand. I can’t help the twinge of guilt, but it’s quickly followed up with a thrill of getting to prank him with his mom.
Noah tosses a yellow three on the discard pile. “Your turn,” he says to me.
I pretend to study my cards, brows furrowing, but I already know I’m going to play my yellow reverse card.
The game goes around, back and forth. So far, I’ve had each color and have been able to play, but when a red seven is placed on the pile, I know it’s time to bring out the big guns.
I make a show to “adjust” my ass in my seat, slipping the draw-four cards from my dress and into my palm as smoothly as I can. “Well, I guess I have to play this then.” I slap the card down and call out green. “Draw four,” I say, biting my lip as Noah shakes his head.
“Haven’t seen one of those yet. They must be buried in the pile.” He squints at the pile like he should be able to see through the stack of cards to the bottom.
Ms. Sullivan softly snorts and hurriedly covers it up with a cough.
Noah takes the next four cards on top of the pile, and I bite back a smile.
The game continues, and the direction is reversed again. Ms. Sullivan makes a point to play four skips in a row, and Noah groans when his hand grows with each rotation.
I strategically play my “secret” cards when I need them, and when it feels like Noah has half the deck in his hand, I blurt out “UNO,” with fake innocence.
Noah scoffs. “Oh, come on. This whole stack is literally stacked against me.”
I shrug, spreading my hands as if to say I don’t know what to tell you.
Seconds later, I toss the final skip card down, and his mom snickers. He tilts his head, a mix of disbelief and something else. We stare at each other for a minute, then his eyes widen.
“You two!” he bursts out, and Ms. Sullivan cackles a raspy laugh.
There’s a glint in his eye, a telltale sign.
He pushes back, rising, like he doesn’t know whether to hug or chase me. The latter wins out, and he jolts around the table as I instantly push back the chair to stand with a playful scream.
“Run, Lily!” his mom hollers as I round behind her and take off for the living room.
Max barks, chasing me for a second before deciding he’d rather retreat to the kitchen while Noah is preoccupied and scout some leftovers.
Noah’s heavier footsteps follow close behind me, and he playfully growls at me. I dive for the couch, rolling off it just as he reaches me, and I scramble against the flooring to right myself.
“You think you both can cheat!” He laughs, his voice full of an exaggerated menace, but when I turn to check over my shoulder, his grin is anything but.
“It wasn’t me!” I shoot back breathless already, and stomach aching with laughter.
My hair, that I put up to do the dishes, tumbles out and across my face as I bolt into my bedroom—his old bedroom.
I round the bed as he flies through the door.
He pauses, hands to his thighs, and he laughs.
It’s uncontrolled and deep, a timbre both rough and sweet that demands to be joined.
Something stirs in my chest, my adrenaline in overdrive, and I let out a squeal when he dives for me, carefully pushing me on the bed and grabbing to tickle my waist.
“Wait! Wait!” I half yell, half chortle.
He smiles unrestrained as he scrambles to follow where I’m kicking back off the bed, not wanting this addicting chase to be over. In two moves, I’m off again, back through the bedroom door and headed across the hall to the bathroom. Quietly, I pull back the shower curtain and my heart races.
I slip in, smacking my hand over my mouth to calm my laughing pants. I focus on the hallway through the space between the curtain and the shower wall.
“She’s not in here, you sore loser!” his mom yells. He must’ve gone to the kitchen.