7. Hadley #2
Nolan’s looking at her like she’s a stranger to him as well. “Did you just encourage underage drinking and fun?”
Katie flips him off. “Just not at the frat houses. Are you and Ezra still dating? I haven’t seen him since you’ve been back.”
Nolan’s heavy gaze makes me want to lie and say I am. I equally want to avoid this topic altogether.
“He graduated and moved to Florida.”
Katie frowns. “He was cute.”
Flippant remarks sharpen my tongue, so I sheath my words and give a tight nod.
“You should still go out,” Katie says. “There are a million parties tonight with it being so early in the year. Hannah might be up for going out. You don’t want to go out there alone. There are way too many assholes. And avoid the vileness of frat row.”
I smirk. Maybe she hasn’t changed entirely. “Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I need to make a list of people I can give a five-minute speech on that won’t put my class to sleep on Monday.”
“You can talk about anyone?” Katie asks, making the assignment sound painstakingly simple.
I nod.
“Why are you sweating over five minutes?”
“Because public speaking gives me hives.”
She stares at me as though I’ve just invited her to frat row. “You’re nervous to talk in front of people? How? You’re social. I see you talk to people all the time.”
“Public speaking and meeting people are on different planets,” I tell her.
Her dead stare tells me she doesn’t agree.
“There’s so much pressure when it comes to public speaking,” I say, feeling the weight of stress that consumes me at the mere thought.
“Meeting new people is easy. Talking casually is easy because you’re swapping stories and engaging with each other.
With public speaking, you’re up there alone, talking to everyone while they’re supposed to be silent, staring at you, judging you. It’s a lot.”
“Judge them,” Katie replies, grabbing more popcorn. “I do.”
“I get a little preoccupied remembering how to breathe to judge other people.”
Katie pauses mid-chew. “You’re not kidding? This really rattles you?”
“Like Jacob Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol .”
“Hmm. I never would have guessed.” Her gaze becomes one of intrigue, staring at me like a new academic study. “Can you talk about someone from the past? You could talk about Edith Wilson, and how she should be recognized as the first woman US president.”
“I don’t think most are going to be interested in another person that history wronged. Things are too divisive right now.”
“But we need to be having these discussions. People need to discuss things that make them feel uncomfortable.”
“Is that a knock against my fear of public speaking?” I ask, working to lighten the mood because while I agree with her sentiment, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to have this discussion.
Nolan finishes his chicken strip and dusts his fingers off in the sink rather than the counters I’d cleared or his shirt like Ezra used to. I hate that I notice the redeemable quality.
Katie chuckles. “It was not. I’m just tired of everyone getting so defensive over everything.” She dusts her hands off in the sink as well. “I have to go, but you really should consider going out. Maybe not obsessing over your speech will help clear room for new ideas.”
“I haven’t been obsessing.”
She lowers her chin. “You made three lasagnas this week. That’s the definition of you obsessing.”
I turn to look at the pan of lasagna still cooling on the stovetop. “Don’t forget to try some tomorrow. And have Carsen try some, too.”
Katie nods, one step out of the kitchen. “And, Nolan, I’m serious—no parties. And make sure you don’t bring your food downstairs. It attracts cockroaches.”
He nods. “Item two on the house rules. I got it. All six versions.”
“I’m nothing if not thorough,” Katie says, grabbing a final piece of popcorn before heading for the stairs that lead to the second story, leaving me too close to her brother with not nearly enough distractions.
“Do you know what I hate about public speaking?” Nolan asks, biting into a second chicken finger.
“The way people start fidgeting and looking at their phones like you’re boring them.
Or when they do that hard blinking look, and you start to question if you mispronounced a word or have something stuck in your teeth. ”
“Are you trying to be unhelpful or just exceeding with zero intention?”
His smile is instant as it is so often. There’s something about his quick and ever-present smile that makes me feel the claw of jealousy in my stomach.
I’ve always wanted to be sunshine, the happy one—the constantly smiling one—and yet, reason, logic, and responsibility always have me weighing outcomes and odds, searching for flaws or potential problems. I’m not a cynic.
I’m not even a realist. I’m a want to be glass-half-full but not even sure I even have a glass type.
“Which one is worse?” he asks, raising his beveled chin, as though he knows all his best angles.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re trying to be a masochist or if you’re like a puppy and are blissfully unaware.”
“And she’s sarcastic…” He turns his head, giving another best angle before shaking his head. I have no idea if he’s condemning me or simply surprised. I shouldn’t care.
I don’t care.
“Listen, about this game or retaliation or whatever, can we just … make amends? I won’t use the shower before six and I won’t use this shower down here ever, so you can do,” I swallow thickly as he turns amused eyes on me, “whatever you want. It’s none of my business.”
“I’m leaving,” Katie calls, jogging down the last few steps. “And, Nolan, don’t drink my coffee.”
Nolan salutes her as she disappears out the front door, then lowers his gaze to me. “Got you nervous?”
“I don’t even know what we agreed to.”
“A fun and harmless exchange of pranks. Jokes. Fun.”
“You said fun twice.”
“Because it is fun, or it will be.”
“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
That instant smile appears again, capturing my full attention.
“Can’t we just call it a truce?”
He takes another bite, chewing slowly as he stares at me. “You can let me know tomorrow if you want to call a truce.”
“Tomorrow? What did you do?”
Nolan shrugs, gathering his drink and box of food. “Have fun preparing for your speech.” He kicks the door open with the toe of his tennis shoe, flips on the light with his elbow, and heads down the steep stairs into the basement, breaking the rule he recited to Katie.
I stare after him for half a second, debating if I should follow and attempt to reason again, but realize that will only make things more awkward. Instead, I take in the main level of our house, studying all the details, searching for any slight or drastic differences.
This house doesn’t reflect the high-end houses my family’s business creates where everything is stainless steel, top-of-the-line this and top-of-the-line that.
Instead, it was redone by a father and son who tried to salvage some of the original items like the cabinets which stick and clang when they close but were freshly painted a shade of pearl gray last year before we moved in.
There are uneven spaces between the honeycomb backsplash that most likely wouldn’t notice, and a couple of cuts to the trim that makes the corners uneven, but I’ve grown to like the imperfections.
They make the house have personality and warmth, and I love that the walls are all painted in bold colors that make every room have its own personality.
Katie’s suggestion that I go out creeps to the front of my thoughts as I take a knife to the lasagna, cutting out a small corner.
It’s runny from being too warm. Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I can dampen some of these thoughts and fears for my upcoming speech if I get out of the house and distract myself.
I turn to grab a fork and nearly jump out of my skin when noticing Nolan in the doorway of the basement.
His quick smile is arrogant. “You’re a little jumpy.”
“Didn’t you just go downstairs?”
“I need more water.” He holds up an empty water bottle and shakes it side to side. As he moves closer, his attention seems to snag on the lasagna. “So you make lasagnas when you’re nervous about something?”
“Not lasagnas, specifically.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I pick something I don’t know how to make very well and try to find the best recipe.”
“So you take control when you fear losing control. Interesting.”
“I’m not losing control or taking control.”
God, I probably am.
Before he can respond, a loud scraping noise that sounds like a shovel hitting against a hard surface, has me glancing toward the living room, lasagna and my need for control gone. The noise is outside, but so loud and close it has to be against the side of the house.
Chills dance down my spine as horror movies haunt my thoughts.
I shoot an accusing look at Nolan, trying to calm my heart and rationalize why he came up here so fast, why he warned me that I can call a truce tomorrow—this is a prank.
An elaborate, stupid prank. But when he’s standing straighter, his jaw tense as he stares at the unlocked front door on the opposite side of the house.
The scratching sound happens again, this time, against the wall closeest to us.
“How are you doing that?” I ask.
He raises both hands, mirroring the same innocent gesture from before. “I’m standing right next to you.”
Seconds later, there’s a tapping sound, and then a terrible sound that has me imagining nails clawing the length of a chalkboard.
“Maybe it’s that giant tree beside the house or a rat in the walls,” Nolan says.