Chapter Twenty-three #2
“You’re such a rebel, you lawbreaker, you. Not to mention that giving a girl flowers is usually considered romantic, and we’re not doing that sort of thing anymore.”
“Right again. Forgive my lapse.”
“Done.” I lift the bouquet and examine the stems. “It looks like you got a few of them by the roots, so maybe we can replant those. These,” I say, sorting the flowers and tossing the bad ones into the stream, “are goners. I’m not sure how Dutchman’s breeches are seeded, but let’s just pretend they’re going to circle-of-life it and become a new patch further downstream, shall we? ”
“I shall hope for that outcome. In the meantime, how shall I express my gratitude for your help in hiding the evidence of my careless misdeed?”
I love that he’s kept the accent, so I match it with the one developed during hours spent watching Masterpiece on PBS. “I believe any young man who unlawfully picks wildflowers must have his good name protected by a quick-thinking young lady of his acquaintance.”
“By all means.” Noah doffs an imaginary top hat. “Proceed.”
I move to the bank and look at the muddy clay. “Er, this could get messy.” I drop the accent.
“Let me. I’m the one who broke the law, after all. You can’t see it, but my hands are already dirty. Just like Lady MacBeth’s, except with pollen instead of blood.”
“I must have missed the memo. I didn’t realize it was classical literature day.”
“You started it.”
“No, I started with Dutchman’s breeches. Botany, not books.” I set the flowers in Noah’s open hand. “You’re the one who mentioned Jane Eyre and then adopted the accent and put on that dashing cravat and top hat.”
“I’m so absent-minded. I don’t even remember tying my cravat on this morning. But I’m gratified you find it dashing.”
“Indeed.”
Noah grins, adjusts the imaginary cravat at his neck, and then digs around in the dirt, placing the fragile stems back into the earth and then gently patting the mud back in place.
“Hey,” he reaches toward a nearby cluster of undisturbed Dutchman’s breeches. “Look back here!” He pushes the flowers to one side—carefully this time. “Check it out. It’s a little cave!” He reaches forward.
“Stop! You don’t know what’s in there!” I yank him back. “There could be a snake or a black widow spider or a rat or something.”
“You’re right. Hang on.” He rinses his hands in the stream, dries them on his jeans, and then pulls out his phone. “Flashlight app.”
He angles the light toward the hole in the bank. “There are a couple of webs, but . . .”
I shudder when he ignores the fact that something alive made those webs at some point and sticks his hand inside the miniature cave.
“Seems to be critter-free. I guess the creepy crawlies got tired of living in the Dutchman’s pocket.”
“The what?”
“Oh, come on. This little miniature cave is in back of the Dutchman’s breeches, right? Therefore, it must be his pocket.”
“You’re weird.”
“My mom would say clever.”
“Because she’s your mom, and your mom is nice.”
He laughs. “You’ve never even met my mom.”
“Then we’re even. But I imagine your mom as being very nice.”
“She is, actually.” He smiles. “I think you two would get along really well.”
I turn my attention back to the little cave so I don’t dwell on the differences between our mothers. “Do you think anyone else has ever discovered this little pocket? Apart from rodents and spiders, I mean.”
“Hard to say.” Noah shrugs and lets the flowers fall back into place. “But . . . maybe it’s just been waiting for us to find it. Maybe it’s ours.”
“Ours? You mean like this is ‘my’ waterfall?”
“Yeah. We could leave each other notes and stuff here when we can’t get together.” He winks. “Nothing romantic, of course.”
“Never that! But stuff would get wet, wouldn’t it? And honestly, I’m not sure I want to stick my hand in there and root around.”
“You’re right. Besides, leaving papers in there would be like littering, sort of. And I’ve already broken the law once today.”
“And I’m your accomplice.” I nod and examine my fingernails, which are a little dirty from sorting the muddy flower stems. “I need to wash off the evidence.”
Over by the stream, I stick my open hands in the water, palms down, and watch the play of sunshine, shadow, and water cast lines on my skin. “The water’s still pretty cold. I thought after the last week it would’ve warmed up.”
Noah crouches beside me and puts his hand in the water. “It is cold.” His hand slides beneath mine and my fingers curl down, weaving through his. “Better?”
“Better.” But it’s not the water temperature I’m thinking about now.
“Good. After all, how can one keep warm alone?”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“No, King Solomon. It’s from Ecclesiastes. Revised Noah Version. And . . .” A strange, strangled sort of laugh exits his lips. “And it’s really inappropriate, considering . . .” He clears his throat. “But it came to mind.”
“Are you blushing?”
“Probably.”
“Over a Bible verse?”
“Look it up when you get home, and you’ll know why. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Your ears are seriously pink! But you said Ecclesiastes, right? I thought Solomon wrote all his embarrassing lovey-dovey stuff in Song of Songs.”
Noah gives a comic groan. “So did I.”
I’ve never seen him so flushed. I want to laugh, but I practice mercy instead and change the subject. “So, were you serious about leaving notes in . . .” I squint, trying to remember what Noah called the miniature cave, “in the Dutchman’s pocket?”
“Sure, why not?” He gives my fingers a squeeze. “It could be like our personal mailbox. We could find an old jar or something to keep the notes from getting wet or lost. Or taken by giant snake-eating spider-rats.” He grins and bumps his shoulder against mine.
“You just had to go there, didn’t you?” Minus the creepy-crawlies, it’s kind of a cool idea, though. Sweet. Whimsical. Like Noah. “Our own personal mailbox. I like it.”
Light and water dance over our joined hands, but regardless of how romantic it looks—feels . . . is—I can’t let myself dwell on those thoughts and the danger they present.
As friends, Noah and I can be together.
We can’t be anything more.
Not yet.
With a hard swallow, I untwine my fingers from their happy underwater home and then rise and shake the water from my hand. “We probably shouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry.” He stands, wiping his hand on his jeans.
“I wish I could say that was a totally unromantic hand hold, but it would be a lie.” He meets my eyes.
“It won’t happen again. Okay, it might. But I’m sorry.
Sort of.” His frown deepens. He winces a little.
“Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say.
I know we need to stick to the plan, but it’s so . . .”
He trails off, but silent strings of words fill the space between us like a reprise of all we said that night at the duck pond when we agreed to enter the friendzone.
“There’s going to be a learning curve,” I say finally. “But if we stick to the plan, there’s hope.”
Noah swallows, nods. “So we hold on. Without actually holding on.”
“Yeah.” I melt beneath the love in his crooked smile. “We hold on.”
What other choice do we have?