Chapter 21
Lily
Fighting a yawn is unbearable. There’s that telltale tickle in the back of my throat, my jaw aching to stretch. I can feel it creeping up, but clamp my lips shut, desperate to stifle it. Except it betrays me while Old Man John goes on about his recent visit with his daughter.
I’m happy for him, truly I am, but this past week since Ms. Sullivan has returned home has been exhausting. I’m not sleeping well, driven to check on her multiple times a night, terrified she’ll have more complications.
Noah and I were in the hospital for several more hours before we were told the fluid was removed and she’d be set to go home the next morning.
It’s been just over a week, and the toll this last hospital visit has taken on her body is devastating.
I’m worried. Noah’s worried. Even Max is acting anxious when he comes around.
My eyes water, and I play it off by blinking rapidly, but Old Man John eyes me. “She doing all right?”
He doesn’t have to say Ms. Sullivan, almost every patron that’s come into the diner recently has asked about her, about Noah. The entire town loves the Sullivans, and I can understand why.
The harder I fight the yawn, the more awkward my face gets, and it finally slips out in a stifled, garbled mess that leaves me utterly mortified. My yawns have the worst timing.
Old Man John chuckles, inching his coffee cup toward me. “You may need this more than me.”
I lean, both hands spread against the coffee-stained counter. “She’s doing all right.”
“Noah must be beside himself. I’ll have to make sure I stop by if she’s up for a visit.”
I smile. “I think she’d like that.”
Turning, I busy myself with the coffeepots, making more, and refilling a few mugs on the counter. I glance at the clock. Three more hours left.
I can’t wait to get out of here. The garage called two days ago and told me my car was finished, new parts and all. Noah’s been so great about taking me to work on his own time, using up his vacation days, so I’ve been extra diligent to save every penny from my paychecks to pay for the work.
Thankfully, the diner has been busy most of the day today, adding to the tips I’m collecting to round off what I owe the garage.
A group of national park rangers came in, uniform and all.
In the past—er, before Noah—men in uniforms would rile me up, light my fight-or-flight on fire with an underscore of rage.
But this time my feelings jumped into my throat, and they weren’t the bad kind.
I scanned each face as they entered and sat down, hoping for a minute I’d see Noah.
He’s mentioned he has to catch up on a lot of work since he’s been off more than usual, so he hasn’t been around the house much. Even Ms. Sullivan’s noticed. I miss Max, and … I miss Noah.
The door chime dings once again, and out of habit, I glance toward it.
Morgan, in all her glory, along with three friends walk in, seating themselves at a booth in the far corner.
Not looking is futile, and I can’t help but take in her put-together outfit.
Flare burgundy pants that practically match my hair, clog-like wedges, and a cream sweater no longer plain because she’s decorated each wrist with gold jewelry and her neck with chunky necklaces.
Her friends are equally dressed, and I examine down my person, pursing my lips at my uniform and unattractive boots.
While her hair is pulled up into a soft bun, mine is scraggily and wind-blown, probably even snarled in the back from where I almost fell asleep during my fifteen-minute morning break.
Jealousy is a new emotion for me, but I’d never felt it so strong then when Morgan shuffled down the hospital in her skintight dress and flirtatious smile hidden behind worry.
Or the claws of envy when Morgan texted Noah three times on Thanksgiving.
I was already struggling with thoughts that I shouldn’t be interfering with the Sullivan’s holiday, and that made it worse.
The thing is, I expected this. Her with him.
I don’t want to be that person, that kind of woman.
I could drive myself mad, dissecting every glance, every laugh, every fleeting interaction between them, but I’ve come too far to allow those things to concern me.
So, while she and her friends take turns shooting me looks, I shake off any bitterness creeping in and smile at her before taking the order of another table.
The next three hours are painfully slow, but I power through them, my stack of tips in hand as I exit the diner en route to the garage. Distance wise, it’s not overly far by car, but since I’m walking, I need to stick to the sidewalks down Main Street.
I adjust my crossbody—a rugged, grunge-inspired bag made of distressed black leather and frayed edges.
It’s the only other bag I own besides my hiking backpack.
While I walk, I open the asymmetrical flap and dig around inside for the envelope of cash I’ve collected over the past weeks and tuck today’s earnings inside.
I believe I’ll have more than enough, especially since Noah went over several nights ago when the part came in to help with labor costs.
The thoughtful gesture—gestures—I’m not used to this, any of it. I’ve done life myself for the past six years, on my own. In my experience, men don’t do this kind of thing for me, going out of their way. It’s completely disarming in a different way.
With him, before I knew his true colors, I was disarmed by the screw this attitude, the I can’t be bothered with others, I’m too cool for school broody type.
It pulled me in. He was all sharp edges and untamed energy, making it seem like I was the only one who he’d show emotions for.
It was that reckless love, the beautifully controlled crazy I couldn’t resist, even though something about his unpredictability felt off.
He was the guy all the girls wanted, and he had eyes for me. So it must be worth it, right?
It’s almost as if I was conditioned to want the alluring guy everyone else wanted.
So much so that I went color blind to the red flags: deflecting meaningful conversations, hot-and-cold behavior, ignoring boundaries.
Those all eventually turned into impulsive habits, controlling possessiveness, and physical manhandling: grabbing, pushing, shoving.
But Noah …
My mind runs in circles, making sense of it, to reconcile the unexpected patterns of thoughtfulness with the cynicism I’ve carried around for so long. It’s like I packed it up with me when I left Ruin and have been toting it around ever since.
For a moment, my entire body goes unsteady, like the ground has tripped beneath me. Noah’s one of the good ones.
I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking as I round the corner, and—
My shoulders slam into a solid chest, and I stumble back. Someone looms tall in front of me, a dark hood pulled low over their face, hiding everything but a vague outline of a jaw.
“I’m—” I inhale, stifling an audible gasp and catch a whiff of something sharp and acrid—my stomach tightens. Swallowing, I gulp and screw my face into a grimace. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
They, he, I’m assuming, doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, still. Silent.
Every instinct tells me scream, or run, but my feet are frozen, or maybe it’s the cold weight pressing down around me with this man’s lingering stare.
Erratic, my pulse thumps, and the rest of the street blurs away, tunneling in on his shadow. I glance down, noticing the black slacks and polished shoes, contradicting the plain gray hoodie pulled up and over his face.
An uneasy feeling zips up my spine, and instead of waiting for the man to say, oh no problem! or be more careful next time, I bolt.
At first I don’t register my direction, I just want out of there, but when I glance behind me, the man is walking away and rounds a corner, slipping out of sight.
I sigh, slowing down to a full stop and ignoring the quizzical looks from a few others walking out of different shops as I keel over and gather myself.
What the hell, Lily. You’re paranoid. This man was probably out for a walk, and you bumped into him. Maybe he’s a mute and couldn’t say anything, or perhaps he had headphones I couldn’t see over his ears.
Why did I assume something negative and book it out of there?
Maybe it was the way he sized me up from underneath the cloak of his hoodie, and though I couldn’t see his face or read his expression, it was like he knew me.
I’m imagining things.
But the hairs on the back of my neck won’t settle, nor will the sense of trepidation stop whispering in the back of my mind.
My head remains on a swivel for the rest of the walk to the garage, and I ignore every urge to allow my mind to wander off thinking about Noah or the poem I’m working on. I keep occupied and finally reach the graffitied roll-up door to the shop.
The door is covered in a clash of chaotic color, and it’s glaringly obvious I’d missed some of the nuance.
Bold, jagged letters stretch into the names of major car brands like Ford and Jeep.
The colors aren’t those associated with the branding though—they are bursts of neon electric pinks, bright green, and fiery oranges.
Hues of deep blues and purples bleed into each other, and I notice names like Tommy and Jed.
I bet all the employees have their names painted on here.
Briefly, I wonder what happens if someone quits or gets fired. Do they roll over it with white paint and plaster the next guy’s name up there?
While I contemplate this, I peer down at some paint chipped away in the corner, revealing streaks of rust underneath.
A blend of designs crowd one corner of the door: skulls, twisted faces, disgusting blood drops, and other random cryptic symbols I can’t decipher.
It’s all slightly hypnotic and defiant. I like it.
I can appreciate the artistry, and my mind flickers to my brother Liam, thinking he may enjoy a photo of this.
My head snaps back. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to reach out and contact my brother, or any family for that matter.
Seeing Noah and his mother—their bond, his commitment to her … I think it’s rubbing off on me.
I roll my eyes at the idea and enter the garage. Spotting my car immediately, I move toward it, offering the hood a quick pat. Hello, you little shit.
Once again, the garage is alive with clinks and clangs, and it takes me a minute to spot Tommy coming out of the office. He stares at his feet as he walks, but when an engine roars, echoing within the walls, he snaps his head up and notices me.
I offer an awkward wave and point to my car, which comes out as an exaggerated jabbing poke.
He smiles a sheepish grin I’m not expecting and moseys over to me. “I bet you’re ready for your car back, huh?”
“What gave it away?”
He smirks. “Keys are in it. You’re all set. Bring her back if you have any other issues.”
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, reaching into my bag for my hard-earned cash. It’s a shame—I never get to hold on to this much money for long.
He looks surprised by my question. “Noah took care of it already for you.”
I shake my head, tongue sluggishly moving to swallow. No. This wasn’t the plan. He already helped me by offering his time to drive me to work, then working to offset the labor costs of my car. Why would he fully pay for it, too?
“Noah’s one of the best guys I know, and I can tell you with absolute certainty, there hasn’t been a woman to turn his head in a long, long time,” he says, answering my question like he plucked it from my thoughts.
I almost scoff. Me? Turn Noah’s head? I’m new, but not the type of girl to turn heads. Not in the I want to spend forever with you way, maybe in the look at this crazy girl living out of her car full time focused on being alone way.
“Can you … reverse the charge to his card or something. I have cash.” My hand fumbles through my bag and I rip the envelope out.
“No can do.” He chuckles while shaking his head. “Paid cash. My advice? Save your cash for something else. Knowing Noah, he’s not going to let you pay him back.”
That’s my fear.
I thank him and climb into my car, which is surprisingly cleaner than I remember, and my cheeks heat. It’s a bit weird driving after not doing so for a few weeks, but I pull out of the garage, onto the side street, and make my way toward Main Street.
While I wait at a red light, I glance around, spotting the shop I fell asleep in. Those chairs …
I glance behind me, eyeing the space. With the seat folded down, I could get two of those chairs to put on the back porch.
Ms. Sullivan deserves a place to sit out there, and with the extra money sitting in my passenger seat—I search the front of the store for the neon open sign, and when the stoplight turns green, I pull across the street.