Chapter Twenty-three
As we go into May, keeping romance out of my relationship with Noah turns out to be much easier than I expected.
Probably because Noah’s final exams, his two jobs, and my mother, who is determined to occupy every spare instant of my time, leave us literally no time to get together.
At least my phone is back in my possession.
Spring cleaning has always been my mom’s post-tax-season project.
Usually, we all steer clear of her single-minded drive toward restoring order and spotless dignity to our home—which wasn’t messy to start with.
This year, however, spring cleaning has become a mother-daughter activity, taking hours after school most days and nearly every waking hour of my weekends.
It’s hard, but I help without complaint.
I even volunteer for some of the worst jobs, hoping my attitude and maturity will be noticed .
. . and that it will soften Mom’s heart toward me and, eventually, Noah.
After three weeks of being a cheerful, obedient, and dutiful daughter, who only communicates with my friend Noah by electronic means—I still can barely believe she relented and allowed even that—I finally build up the nerve to broach the subject one Saturday.
“You’ve probably figured out that Noah and I decided we should just be friends.”
Of the seemingly thousands of spring cleaning projects Mom is checking off a multi-page spreadsheet, today finds us cleaning and alphabetizing the bookshelves in Dad’s study.
“You know,” I continue when she doesn’t look up, keeping my tone casual, “nothing romantic or anything. Just friends.”
My mom actually snorts. “Right.”
“No, seriously. We agreed that we’re not going to hold hands, or kiss, or anything like that. We just want to be able to hang out. To talk. To sing together. Really. Total friendzone.”
“But you don’t want to be in the friendzone, as you say, with Noah Spencer.
” Something just shy of tenderness floats across the study on Mom’s voice when she chuckles.
“I’m not quite so old that I don’t remember what it was like to be a teenager.
Having a crush on a boy can seem pretty serious at your age.
And this Noah fellow? Well, he’s a looker. ”
“True.” I nod. “But I have lots of guy friends who are cute.”
“Noah is more mature than the boys your age. That ups his attractiveness, I’d wager. And that’s why I don’t want you dating him.” The tenderness is gone, but there is no animosity in Mom’s voice.
If she can stay neutral, so can I.
“I know. I understand that. Noah does, too. That’s why we decided to just be friends.” I grab a book from the pile on the floor, look at the spine, and slide it into position on a freshly dusted shelf. “Besides, he’s leaving for London in just a few—”
“He really is leaving, then?” Mom brightens. “When?”
“In August. August tenth, I think.” I know. That date was seared into my brain the first time I heard it. It still stings.
“Oh. Not until the end of the summer, then.”
“Right. People who date in high school usually break up when one of them goes off to college, anyway, so it would be silly to try to keep a romantic relationship going with an ocean between us for three years. Being friends makes more sense.”
Silly isn’t exactly the word Noah and I had used in our discussions of long-distance relationships. The word painful was mentioned. Excruciating, a time or two. But silly is a word Mom might better appreciate.
“Three years, huh? At drama school?”
“Yes. The London Academy of Musical Theatre.”
“Well!” Mom twirls her dust rag in the air. “La-dee-dah.”
Inwardly, I bristle. Outwardly, I pretend her antics are amusing. “As friends, we can still keep in touch by chatting online and stuff.” I pick up another book. “No pressure. And if we want to date other people, no problem. Because we’re just friends.”
My heart lurches over the idea of all the older, more sophisticated girls Noah will meet in London, girls whose parents are more open-minded, maybe even supportive of his theatre aspirations.
“But even with all the technology at our disposal,” I continue, swallowing down everything in me that wants to contradict these facts with my hope, “there are time zones to navigate, and he’ll be making new friends in London.
” I shrug, but the weight of my own words is like lead on my shoulders.
“Once he’s gone, the reality is that we—” I gulp, glad my back is to her as I dust this shelf a second time. “We probably won’t talk much.”
“I don’t know, Faith.” Mom sighs. “He seems too old to even be your friend. It’s . . . well, I don’t know. It’s a little weird, isn’t it?”
No. “Maybe.” No, no, aaaannnd no. “But we’re already friends.
Real life isn’t like the internet, where you can just ‘unfriend’ someone and that’s that.
” I bite my tongue to keep from arguing the age issue.
Again. “And the romance part ended weeks ago. Weeks. You’ve seen my texts.
” Every night, the minute she gets home from work, I have to hand her my phone.
“You’ve read my emails. We’re friends. The romance part is . . . done.”
“I have every right to read your texts and emails. I’m your mother.”
“I’m not saying that you don’t.” I work to keep my voice even. “Actually, I’m glad you’ve read them, because it proves to you that Noah and I can just be friends.”
“You’ve shown a remarkable sense of restraint these past few weeks, Faith. You may not think I’ve noticed, but I have. You’ve been helpful around the house without complaint. And I’ve seen in your eyes how you’ve battled to keep your mouth shut when you’ve wanted to argue.”
A small noise squeaks in my throat, but I don’t say a word.
Mom holds up her hand. “I know that sounds like a criticism, but it’s a compliment. I’m saying you’ve shown me some maturity.”
“Oh. Um . . . thank you.”
Mom stares at me for a long moment, and I sense our conversation is about to change direction. I only hope it moves in the direction I desire.
“If you’re with Noah,” Mom says slowly, “I expect you to be out in the open, not cuddled up on the sofa in somebody’s dark basement.”
“Okay.” My heartbeat jolts . . . and then takes off like a racehorse. Mom’s going to let me see Noah? In person?
“And absolutely no funny business.”
“None.”
Mom turns to slide a freshly dusted book onto the shelf. “And I don’t want him here.”
“What?” I turn away from the book shelf with the book still in my hand. “You don’t even want to meet him?”
“I’m giving you a little latitude, Faith. Not an endorsement. Please don’t let me down.”
Right. Okay. “I won’t.”
“You’re on a very short leash.”
“Got it. But I think he’d like to meet you.”
“These are my terms for allowing you to continue this friendship. Take it or leave it.”
I nod. Swallow. I’ll take it.
It takes two more hours to finish the project in the study. After lunch, Mom announces we’re finished cleaning for the day because she has a hair appointment in Sommerton.
“Mom?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to seem too eager. “Can I call Noah and see if he wants to hang out?”
Mom sighs. “I suppose. Just remember my terms. You are friends only. No funny business.”
It’s a nice day, so we decide to meet at the waterfall. Out in the open. Just like Mom said. For once, I beat him there and wait near the waterfall’s ledge, but facing the trail. When Noah rounds the corner, it’s all I can do not to run and throw myself in his arms.
But I can’t. That would be romantic. And wonderful.
It’s harder than I thought it would be. For both of us, I think. A simple touch of the hand, Noah’s arm around my shoulders, a hug . . . affection is so natural, so comfortable between us. It takes a conscious effort to avoid it.
We walk up and down the creek bank until our shoes are wet and muddied. When we return to the waterfall, we rinse our shoes in the creek and then sit on a dry spot on the upper level of the waterfall’s ledge to soak up the sun.
It’s a gorgeous day. Wildflowers have sprung up all over the woods. The trees and grasses have greened up. Spring at the waterfall is a world of beauty unto itself.
I point at the bank behind Noah. “Do you know what those flowers are called?”
He leans back for a closer look. “Uhh . . . no.”
“They’re called Dutchman’s breeches. You see how the blossoms are formed? They look like a pair of billowy knickers turned upside-down.”
“Billowy knickers?” Noah laughs and wrinkles his nose. “That sounds like something straight out of Jane Eyre or one of those other works of classic literature Ms. Whetstein tortured me with in high school.”
“Torture? I read Jane Eyre in Honors English last year. I loved it.”
“Really?” He makes a comically horrified face. “I had to read it again for a lit class this spring. Trust me. It was torture.”
I bring my open palm across the water, splashing it toward him, but only a few drops actually touch his clothes. “How dare you disparage the reputation of my Jane!”
“Your Jane?” He blinks and looks up the creek where my dog is exploring. “Nuh-uh. Your dog is not named after Jane Eyre.”
“You have a problem with that?” I purse my lips and scowl . . . but then laugh. “No, I’m kidding. She’s not named after anything, really. When she was a puppy, ‘Janey’ just seemed to fit her personality.”
“Ah.” Noah jumps up and pulls a handful of the little white flowers from where they grow. He bows, offering the bouquet to me.
“Perhaps my lady would accept this small token, with my apologies for failing to appreciate the tedious literature of which she is so enamored, even though she did not name her canine companion after said literary heroine.”
“Excellent highbrow accent, Mr. Spencer. And because your accent is so excellent, I shall choose to ignore that you referred to Jane Eyre as torture.” I take the flowers. “Apology accepted. Except . . .” I bite my lip. “I, uh, don’t think you’re supposed to pick flowers in a nature preserve.”
“Oops.” Noah’s eyes widen. “I forgot about that.”