Chapter 11 #2
It says something significant that Noah was so quick to defend his father.
I’ve never met any of the Hawthornes in person, but I’m getting the sense they are incredibly family-oriented.
It’s hard to imagine a dad being hard on his son for reacting the way Noah did.
If I had to guess, this is a problem that exists largely in Noah’s own mind.
He’s being harder on himself than anyone else is. That’s something I recognize because I do the same thing.
“So what happened after?” I ask. “Did you quit, or…”
“Not quite,” he says. “Though I did try. I was ready to walk out of the hospital and never go back, but my boss put me on leave instead. On paper, it’s a six-week leave of absence on account of my mental health. But I believe my boss’s exact words were to go ‘find some balance and touch grass.’”
“I mean, you came to the right place then.”
“Yeah. But my six weeks are almost up.”
I bite my lip. “What will you do then?”
“No clue.”
“But you miss it,” I say. “You already said that. You miss being a doctor.”
He picks up his glass and drinks the last of his wine, then leans back in his chair. “I do miss it.”
“Then why not go back?”
He meets my gaze, a question clear in his expression.
“If you love it and you miss it, what’s holding you back?”
“I’m holding me back,” he says, a slight edge to his tone. “I’m still the same man. The same doctor. And whenever I think about going back, I’m filled with this sense of…I don’t know. Dread feels like too big a word. But…”
“You’re worried it will happen again?” I ask.
“It could,” he says. “What do I do if it does?”
“But you already said you recognized what you were doing wrong. Working too much. Spending too much time at the hospital. If you start fresh, build some better habits, maybe talk to a therapist on a regular basis.” I shift in my seat, pulling the blanket up a little higher.
“Noah, you can’t be the only doctor who’s ever dealt with this.
It isn’t supposed to be easy. And you shouldn’t be expected to lose your humanity so that it is. ”
“I can’t talk to a therapist,” he says, breathing out a frustrated sigh. “A therapist will make me…talk. I’m not…good at talking.”
My heart squeezes. “You’re doing okay right now.”
“This is different,” he says. “You’re easy to talk to because you aren’t filling the silence. You’re giving me time to figure out what I want to say.”
He says the words so casually, he can’t recognize how much they impact me, but they hit me right in the gut, triggering a deep sense of longing.
I want to be the person he can talk to. The person he chooses to talk to.
“I can talk about the reversible causes of cardiac arrest all day long,” Noah says. “But you want to talk about my feelings? I hope you aren’t in a hurry because it may take a while.”
“I don’t think you’re alone in that way,” I say. “But I do think it’s something that gets easier with practice. It has for me. I talk to my therapist twice a month like clockwork. And it’s a lot easier now than it was at first.”
He stares into the fire for a long moment before he asks, “You have a therapist?”
“Her name is Gretchen,” I say. “And I wouldn’t have finished nursing school without her.
Or made it through my last breakup. But also, we talk when things are good too.
Sometimes, I even find that more helpful.
Because then she can be like, ‘hey look, you see all the things you’re doing to take care of yourself? Notice the patterns.’”
Noah’s face is contemplative, so I wait, remembering what he said about needing time to find the right words. Eventually, he looks up and says, “I think the thing that baffles me the most is that I’m not an angry person. I don’t really yell or get mad. But that day, something in me just snapped.”
“Noah, you ran out of bandwidth. You were exhausted. Stressed. You can’t judge yourself by your worst day.”
“Yeah, maybe not. But that’s easier said than done.” He scrubs his hands over his face and leans back in his chair. “Man. Wow.” He motions between us. “This doesn’t usually happen for me.”
Heat blooms and spreads through my chest. “This being…the talking?”
“The talking, the feelings. All of it.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “It’s different with you.”
I offer him a teasing smile. “And here I thought I wasn’t needed at all.”
He smiles. Now that he’s already done it once, they seem to be coming more easily. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you have to understand my hesitation. You’re probably too young for me, and the fact that Olivia—”
“Young?” I say, interrupting him. “How young do you think I am?”
“You just finished nursing school, so that makes you what, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
“I started school late,” I say. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Positively ancient,” he says, laughter in his tone.
There is so much we aren’t saying. He’s owning that Olivia might have intended to set us up, but he isn’t saying whether that’s good or bad. And why should he? I have no idea where I’ll be working come January. And at this point, neither does he.
It’s probably a terrible idea to start anything when both of our lives are so uncertain.
Then again, he just said things were different with me. And this whole conversation, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time imagining how pretty his big blue eyes would look on a baby.
Maybe we don’t know what will happen next.
But I’m sure I’ll regret it if I leave Stonebrook Farm without being honest about my interest—about how he makes me feel.
I drain the last of my wine, nerves spiking as I ask, “Is that why you didn’t kiss me today? Outside by the tree? Because you thought I was too young for you?”
He leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to. I wasn’t even thinking about your age. But…” He hesitates and breathes out a sigh. “I’m a mess right now, Megan.”
I reach out and grab the bottle of wine, filling my glass a second time.
When I hold it up in his direction, he nods, and I fill his as well.
“Well that makes two of us,” I say. “I have no idea where I’m going to work next month.
I have no idea if I’ll pass my licensing exam or where I’m going to live or how anything is going to look in my future. ”
“What does that make us?” Noah asks through a chuckle.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Probably perfect for each other.”
He grins. “So maybe we just…finish the rest of the wine and get to know each other? See what happens?”
“I like that plan,” I say. “But I do need you to tell me just one thing first.”
“Anything,” he says, and I can tell by the sincerity in his tone that he really means it.
“Are you ever going to kiss me? Because honestly, sitting here and wondering all night might actually kill me.”
Fire flashes in Noah’s eyes as he studies me, his gaze holding mine in that quiet way I’ve grown used to over the last few days. Then he shifts and stands, slowly closing the distance between us.
When he reaches me, he takes my wine glass out of my hand and sets it on the side table, then he leans down, placing his palms on either arm of my chair.
“We can’t have that,” he says.
My heart rate picks up speed, my skin prickling with new awareness. “No?”
He brushes his nose against mine, his breath warm on my cheek. “Nope. I like you too much for you to die over a kiss.”
Finally, I think.
Then I lean up and meet his mouth with mine.
Noah’s lips are fire warm and feather soft, and the contact makes heat rush through my body. The way we’re positioned makes our kiss entirely PG—something my brother could see without freaking out, but somehow it still feels like…everything. Like something intangible is happening.
After several moments of gentle, tender kisses, I sit up a little taller, bringing myself closer. I want more of him. More of this. But I can’t get close enough. I’m still sitting, and he’s still standing, and only our lips are touching.
It’s maddening.
Sensing my frustration, or maybe feeling it himself, Noah breaks the kiss long enough to stand to his full height and pull me to my feet.
Wordlessly, he spins us around and sits in the chair I just vacated, then slips his hands around my waist and tugs me onto his lap so I’m facing him, my knees bracketing his hips.
“Is this okay?” he whispers as his fingers slide into my hair and press into my scalp.
“Perfect,” I whisper back. Then I find his lips again.
I’m not sure I have ever believed in love at first sight. Or even love at first kiss. But I do know that I have kissed my fair share of men over the years, and no kiss has ever felt like this.
I lift my hands to Noah’s cheeks and cradle his face, willing him to sense what I’m sensing, to pick up on the same intensity that’s making my limbs feel molten. This kiss is rewiring my body, rewriting my programming to be tuned in to him like I’ve never been tuned in to anyone before.
When I deepen the kiss, my tongue brushing against his bottom lip, Noah lets out a low groan that makes my blood run even hotter. This man is impossibly attractive, sexy in ways that make it very easy to imagine forgetting everything but the feel of his body under my hands.
But something else is happening here. Something bigger.
Somehow, I know with utter certainty.
This kiss—this moment—it’s a beginning for both of us.
When our lips finally part, I’m almost afraid to meet Noah’s eye. But then he brushes a kiss to my forehead and utters a simple, “Wow.”
I chuckle into his chest, wrapping my arms around him while his hands settle against my back. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”
After I begrudgingly let Noah get up long enough to put another log on the fire, we settle back into the same chair and talk for hours.
We touch on almost everything. The big things—politics, religion, world views.
But we also talk about food and pets and vacations.
We list our favorite books and our favorite movies and talk about how we like to spend our free time.
We discover we both love hiking, though I’d rather die than sleep on the ground, and he’s an avid backpacker, happy to stay on the trail for days.
I tell him about Juno and how much I loved watching my best friend become a mom.
He tells me about his three younger brothers.
About being the oldest in a family of boys.
He talks about med school and his decision to practice emergency medicine.
How he feels like the ER is the one place where decisions and words come to him easily.
Except, the words are also coming easily now. No long pauses, no more hesitation. I’m not sure he’s noticed, but I’m noticing, and it’s really making my heart happy.
“You’re getting sleepy,” Noah says after a particularly long lull in the conversation. It isn’t a bad lull. Not awkward at all. But he’s right. I am getting sleepy.
I drop my head onto his shoulder and close my eyes. “Yeah. But I don’t want to go to bed. You’re good company.”
“Come on,” he says, giving my hip a good-natured squeeze. “Sleep. We have all day tomorrow.”
I grumble as I shift and stand, but I also let out an enormous yawn, so I can’t truly argue.
Once he’s on his feet, Noah picks up the blanket that fell on the floor and wraps it around my shoulders, pulling it closed just under my chin.
“Stay warm tonight,” he says, the firelight flickering across his face.
I push up on my toes and press my lips against his. “I will because of you.”
He lingers, kissing me one more time, then he steps away and moves toward the door. The absence of his warmth triggers a sudden and intense longing, and a tiny sense of panic wells up in my chest. Like him leaving might end whatever magic we’ve felt tonight.
“Noah,” I say just as he reaches the door. He turns, one hand on the doorknob, and looks at me over his shoulder.
I lick my lips. “What are you thinking right now?”
I’m not sure what sort of answer I’m looking for. Maybe just confirmation that he’s feeling this too.
Noah’s voice floats across the darkness, wrapping around me like an embrace. “I’m thinking that maybe my family knows what’s best for me after all.”