11 #2
So, I went inside. I washed my hands. Noah had pulled a couple of boxes near the window in the living room, and he’d spread the takeout bag over one like a plate, and the sandwich had its wrapping cuffed and looking like someone was going to take a picture of it.
And so—because people on Instagram like weird things—I did.
I sat and ate, and the sunlight coming through the window warmed me up.
It wasn’t like I’d been cold outside—not exactly, not bundled up and working.
But there was a difference between not being cold and feeling warm.
And that difference might have had something to do with meatballs, mozzarella cheese, and white bread.
I was halfway through the sandwich when I heard Noah say, “No, the other way.”
Joe said something I couldn’t quite hear.
“Because I don’t like it that way,” Noah said. “We talked about this.”
This time, Joe’s response reached me: “That’s how they’re supposed to go in.”
“I don’t care how they’re supposed to go in.”
“Okay, let me check with Howie.”
I remembered something from chemistry class about how some metals—or elements, or something—boiled at room temperature. I couldn’t see Noah’s face, but I winced. And then I took another bite of my sandwich.
“You don’t need to check with Howie. I’m telling you right now that’s not how I want you to install those lights.”
Joe’s silence lasted several seconds. And then he said, “Sure.”
And it was the kind of tone guys used when they wanted someone to stop bothering them.
Maybe there was something wrong with my brain. Maybe I’d been spending too much time on this stupid Instagram account. Maybe I just wanted to see somebody else step on one of Noah’s fucking landmines—like, a guilty pleasure in watching it happen to someone else.
I grabbed my phone, started recording, and moved to where I had a view of the kitchen.
Noah’s cheeks were red; he’d lost the reindeer hat somewhere, and he stood now with his hands on his hips next to the cabinets Joe had been installing all morning.
“Joe, sweetheart, I like you. I also know you think I’m some pretty eye candy you can placate and send away, and then the men will figure things out. ”
“Now hold on—” Joe said, and now his face was turning red.
“But I’m not just a great piece of ass, Joe.
Understand? And when I tell you I don’t want the lights installed that way, it’s because—” Noah reached over and flipped a switch.
Lights came on under the cabinets. They probably looked nice when you were closer, but from where I stood, they were too bright.
“—they’re too harsh.” Noah fiddled with one of the lights, and the intensity lessened.
“That’s why I’m telling you to install them this way. Do you see what I mean?”
Joe scratched his chin. And then, with a trace of embarrassment, he said, “I didn’t think about that.”
“I know,” Noah said. “Now, what’s it going to be? Are you going to install them the way I asked? Or do I have to take my wig off and fight you?”
I shrank down. Physically. Made myself smaller, even if it was only a little, even if I was the only one who knew it.
But Joe burst out laughing.
I didn’t even have a word for how intense the wave of relief was. It was like my joints wanted to melt. And for several seconds, I couldn’t hear anything.
Whatever Joe and Noah said, though, they both seemed to be back to normal. Noah spotted me on his way out of the kitchen. He looked at the phone, which I was still holding, and then he smirked and struck a pose. “Did you get my good side?”
I wasn’t sure why, but I fled—grabbed my sandwich and the Coke and finished my meal on the back stoop.
It was fine.
Joe had been laughing.
Nothing happened.
But why did he have to say things like that? About his wig? Or the pose at the end?
Because he was Noah.
I put my trash in the garbage can and went back to work.
The time slipped away from me until I was on the stoop again, reaching inside to find the porch light because it was too dark to make a cut, when Noah said, “Are you planning on working all night?
He was leaning against the newly installed cabinets. The undercabinet lights were—I had to admit—perfect.
“A little longer,” I said. “And then I’ve got to get over and visit Si.”
“Interesting,” Noah said. “Because it’s almost seven, and visiting hours end at nine.”
“Fuck me,” I said.
“Been there,” Noah said, and his eyes looked liquid with reflected light. He was smirking. “Done that.”
I got the table saw back into the garage. I put away the baseboard. I did a half-assed job sweeping up, and then I hurried into the house.
Noah was leaning over the counter, doing something on his phone.
“You’re still here?” I asked.
“Of course. I’m having so much fun spending money. Why would I go home?”
I couldn’t even bring myself to ask. I locked the back door and started toward the front of the house. “If you’re serious about staying, can you lock up when you leave?”
“Howie.” When I glanced back, Noah stared at me for a moment, as though communicating something. And then he sighed—dramatically—and said, “You aren’t going to see Si in work clothes and with sawdust in your hair.”
I touched my head. Yeah, okay, there was a little; I scruffed my head a few times, sending the sawdust trickling down to the floor.
“Shower,” Noah said.
“She’s in a fucking coma. It’s not like I have anybody to impress.”
“It’s about respect. You can take five minutes for a shower. I’ll choose something nice for you to wear.”
Which was how I ended up in the shower while, from the bedroom, came the sounds of Noah picking through my life.
“Why are all these clothes still in boxes?” Noah called over the spray of water.
I kept working on the soap.
“What about that nice sweater my mom gave you? The blue one.”
Okay, maybe there had been a lot of sawdust. And some of it had been in my ears.
“Oh my God, you still have this stupid hot dog shirt.”
“I like that shirt! Don’t touch that shirt!”
It was hard to tell over the sound of the shower, but I thought he was laughing.
I got out of the shower. I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist. There was something…weird about being almost naked around Noah, but then, we’d seen each other naked plenty of times before. And it’s not like I was hanging my dick in his face.
When I stepped into the bedroom, Noah was sitting on my bed.
He was playing on his phone again, a bored look on his face, but laid out next to him was a nice flannel, a crisp white undershirt, and a clean pair of jeans.
Dressier jeans. Ones I’d forgotten I owned.
Instead of my work boots, he’d dug out a nice leather pair that I hadn’t worn in God knew how long.
He looked up, and then he rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Howie? It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.”
I cinched the towel a little more tightly as I picked up the clothes.
“Why are all your nice clothes in boxes?” Noah asked.
“Why do you think?”
“What do you wear when you need to go somewhere nice?”
“I don’t go anywhere nice.”
Noah rolled his eyes. Big rolls. “And why don’t you have any pictures on the walls?”
“Noah,” I said.
“You should have a picture of a car. God, that would make some bottoms squirt.”
“Oh my fucking God. Wait, where’s my underwear?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. All I could find was a bunch of weird leprechaun boxers.”
There was so much judgment in his voice that I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “You can get it on clearance after a holiday.”
“Oh. My. God.”
I made a noise that I hoped came close to fuck off.
“Howard! Nobody wants a leprechaun staring at them when they take off your pants!”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m good now. You can go home.”
“What do you wear when you go on a date?”
I carried the clothes toward the bathroom. And I was tired. And I was off-balance because of the whole underwear thing. Which maybe was why, before I realized what I was saying, I answered, “I don’t go on dates. I’m too busy.”
But Noah, of course, was unfazed. “What about when you hook up, then?”
And it was definitely the exhaustion. Definitely the weirdness of this whole fucking day, starting with that fucking Christmas tree and all the way through to this conversation right now, because I muttered, “I wish. Two years, longest fucking dry spell of my life.”
And then I realized what I’d said.
My whole body went tight. I stopped walking. I waited for the laughter. For the jokes.
Nothing.
Because I’ve got zero common sense, I glanced over my shoulder, and Noah’s face was…soft. So fucking soft. And I had no idea what that meant.
Noah was the one who moved first, sitting up, then getting to his feet. He cleared his throat, and his voice came out strange when he said, “I guess I should go.”
I nodded.
His mouth moved, but nothing came out. And then a moment later, he said quietly, “Tell Si I love her.”
“Yeah.”
And then he was gone.