Chapter Twenty-two
Noah is quiet. Too quiet. As we near the Parre Hills gates to exit, I ask if he minds if I turn on the radio.
“Why? You hate music.”
His smile loosens a knot in my throat. I laugh and dial up the volume. It’s “Hey There Delilah” by the Plain White T’s.
“Ugh.” He groans. “This song again?”
“How can you not like this song? I know it’s been around forever, but it’s such a catchy little tune.”
“I guess.” His forehead creases with . .
. not exasperation exactly, but something close to it.
“But it’s been playing all the time this week.
No kidding. Like, every time I turn the radio on, there it is.
It’s like the DJs dug it out of the vault and then decided to stick it back into the rotation every couple of hours or so, just to mess with me. ”
I would laugh, but he actually sounds peeved. By a song. How weird is that? “You hate it that much?”
“No.” The frustration in his voice melts on the melody of a smile. “I like it a lot, actually. This song always makes me think of you.”
“Really?” My heart soars.
“Yeah.” Noah puts both hands on the wheel. “And what it’s going to be like after I leave.”
. . . and falls. “Oh.”
“No, don’t be sad. Listen to the words.” Noah starts to sing along with the chorus but then stops suddenly. “You know how I change the words of songs sometimes?”
“Mm-hmm. You’re a total hack.”
“Yes, I am.” He grins. “Well, for this one, I change the name from ‘Delilah’ to ‘Madeleine.’ And later in the bridge, when it talks about ‘a thousand miles’?”
I nod.
“I change it to four thousand miles and, well . . .” He turns a warm, half-smile my way. “It’s you and me. Our story. Or it will be, in any case.”
Noah sings along with the next verse, improvising changes to the wording as the melody progresses.
It’s an upbeat, happy tune. I’ve sung along with it on the radio for years without really thinking about the words. But tonight, especially listening to Noah’s subtle lyric changes, the song almost breaks my heart.
Almost.
But sweetly.
As the tune reaches its final chorus, I add in the harmony. The lyrics of this song carry a promise, a promise that warms the ever-present Noah-is-leaving shaped ache in my soul.
“Noah?”
“Hmm?”
“I think you’ve officially found our song.”
“Our song.” There’s a strange softness in his echo, almost as if he has a sore throat, but I know better.
The song ends, replaced with a commercial for an auto parts store. Noah dials the volume down. “So, where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know. Have you eaten?”
“No. I was planning on taking you out. Or . . .” Noah pauses. “Did you eat dinner already?”
“No. What sounds good?”
“Anything but pizza. I’ve been eating leftover pizza all week.”
“We could just drive through somewhere, grab sandwiches. Have a picnic?”
“A picnic?” Noah laughs. “Sure, why not. Where?”
“How about a park or something? If we’re going into Sommerton anyway to get the food, we could go to that park on the north side of town. The one with the duck pond and the fountain. It’s April, so they should have the picnic tables out by now.”
“It might get a little chilly tonight. Maybe we should eat in and then pick up some coffees to go or something before we go to the park.”
After eating sub sandwiches in a mostly deserted fast food restaurant—thankfully, I don’t know any of the patrons, which means they won’t recognize me and report back to Mom—we head to the drive-thru lane at Grady’s Grind.
Ten minutes later, we’re walking a tree-lined, paved pathway to the picturesque duck pond, frothy coffees in hand.
“Let’s go away from the trees so we can see the stars,” he suggests, guiding me to a bench.
Noah’s arm wraps around my shoulders. I snuggle into his side. Comfortable silence envelopes us as we gaze across the still water to the tiny island where recently-returned geese gather for the night.
“Faith,” he begins in a voice just above a whisper, “your parents don’t know you’re with me, do they?”
“No,” I admit the omission that’s been riding me all night. And most of the afternoon, really. But . . . “This was Gretchen’s idea. And since they left her in charge . . .”
Noah is silent for a few moments, but I feel tension building between us, and I don’t know how to make it disperse.
Finally, he exhales a long, slow breath, but a sense of dread washes over me when that sigh is followed by, “We need to talk.”
Noah pulls his arm from my shoulders, and the temperature seems to drop a few extra degrees.
“This sneaking around and lying to your parents . . . it’s not right.”
“But Gretchen—”
“Gretchen’s approval is only adding a more palatable layer to the lie.” Noah’s look sends a twinge of guilt through my heart.
“I know,” I whisper. I don’t know why I tried to justify it. “And I guess I lied to you, too, when I texted that I had permission to see you. You probably thought that permission was from Mom and Dad.”
He looks down at his hands, now clasped in his lap.
“I hoped. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t suspect there was more to your text than what it said.
I mean . . . you sent it from Gretchen’s phone.
That’s why I waited so long to reply. I wondered if the message really was from you or if your mom and your sister were setting some kind of trap.
” He shakes his head. “We’ve gotten ourselves in a pretty tangled web, haven’t we? ”
I scoot away, lifting my knee sideways on the bench so I can face him. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. But I was afraid that if I did, you wouldn’t . . .”
I let my voice trail off. My gaze swerves out over the pond. I can’t meet his eyes.
“You thought I wouldn’t agree to see you.”
“Exactly. And . . . you would have been right to stay away.” I look down at my hands for a minute and then meet his eyes again.
“Noah, you’re so . . . good. Don’t get me wrong, I love that about you.
I do. You always know the right thing to do, and you always do it, even when it’s the hardest possible thing to do. ”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Like going to see my parents last week. That was the right thing to do, but it took a lot of guts.”
He shrugs.
“I can be brave, and I can be good. But I’m not bravely good, you know? At least not consistently, like you.”
“Faith, I’m not—”
“You are. But just hear me out, okay? The thought of being with you makes me want to be brave, to stand against my parents and their prejudice. I want to prove how wrong they are about you. And about me, too.” My hands fist, my fingernails digging into the soft flesh of my palm.
“But I don’t know how to do it, because when it comes to being good—at least my parents’ definition of the word—I’m hopeless. ”
“You’re not hopeless. And you’re being much too easy on me.”
“There you are again, being good.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “But regardless of how we got to be together tonight, if this is being bad or disobedient or rebellious or whatever . . . it seems pretty justifiable to me.”
I take a breath. “My mom’s behavior toward you isn’t remotely justifiable.
I can’t even—I mean, it’s not like we’re drinking or doing drugs or having sex—which, by the way, is what she’s really worried about.
When we’re together, we talk about music and theatre and—and God, of all things!
You’re my best friend and . . . and a mentor, even, in a lot of ways.
You get me like no one else ever has. Like they never will.
Of course I want to spend time with you!
Why can’t she see that? Why are we the ones who are wrong, when our only offense is wanting to see each other? ”
Noah envelopes my hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb across the skin between my thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not what we’re doing or not doing,” he says finally.
“It’s how we’re not doing it. According to your parents, I’m not welcome at your house or in your life.
You’re not supposed to be dating me, but here we are. On a date.”
Noah puts his hand on my chin and turns my face. “No matter what Gretchen says you can do tonight, we’re doing exactly what your parents said we can’t.”
A curl blows across my face. Noah tucks it behind my ear. “Yes, your mom and dad left Gretchen in charge, and Gretchen gave you permission to go out with me. But—and I’m just guessing here—I assume neither one of you is going to tell your parents about tonight, are you?”
A fast breath, just shy of a snort, expels from my nose. “Not likely.”
“I didn’t think so.” Noah’s smile is warm, but sad, too. And something about it sets off warning bells of panic in my brain.
“There are words I haven’t said to you because I’ve always considered them sacred.
And this is probably the worst possible moment to let them loose, but the thing is .
. .” He swallows. “I love you, Madeleine Faith. I’ve never said that to a girl before, not romantically. And I never wanted to, until you.”
My breath catches as much on the tears shining in his eyes as the words.
“I love you, too.”
“I know you do. Even without the words, I think we’ve both known it for a while.”
I nod. But the words are awfully nice to hear. And say.
“And that’s why this is so difficult.”
My breath freezes on the slap of conclusion that punctuates that statement, even though he’s still speaking.
“Love is brave, Faith, but it rejoices in the truth. And what we’re doing, regardless of how we rationalize it, is dishonest.”
“I know.” I swallow around the cold-spiked lump in my throat. Meeting like this is the same as lying. And lying, even by skirting around the truth, is wrong. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. My lie. And I dragged you into it tonight. I’m sorry.”