42. Queenie
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING BY ‘LAE DOOBA’ BY SUNIDHI CHAUHAN
A long time later, I stir from his arms. My mouth is parched, and my lips are numb.
“This arm is useless,” he murmurs. “I can’t play cricket anymore.”
I instantly become contrite. “I’m so sorry. I should have moved.” The newness of what I realized when I shattered around him undulates in me.
“I’m kidding.” He squeezes open one eye. “Cricket is not more important than you.”
I throw his shirt back at him. “Now I know you’re lying.” I hunt for my dress, trying to find equilibrium in the practicalities. And trading tart statements with him.
“I could mean it.” He stares up at the ceiling, arms below his head. His armpit hair glistening in sweat.
I look longingly at it, as I shrug into my dress.
Oh god. What has happened to me that I am lovesick over his armpit hair? No. I’m not. I’m not love sick.
“So, why does this place have a domed rooftop when the rest of the buildings on Main Street don’t?”
“Legend has it they’d hold fashion shows here when House of Niamh was not given an invite to the New York Fashion Weeks. It became a tradition to continue doing so, after they got in. So, the glass stayed up.” I squeeze into my panties while answering him. I’m sticky and messy everywhere. And dying for a shower. Post-sex hygiene is important, right?
“Fascinating.” Noah sits up. Squints at me. “Why are you getting dressed, daisy girl?”
I stop breathing for a micro-second when he calls me that. “I’m cold.”
He holds out his arms, like he’s freaking Shah Rukh Khan. “Then let me warm you.”
I smile wanly at him. “I’m hungry too and I’m not sophisticated enough to have food with you stark naked.”
Although he looks so deliciously tousled, stark naked.
“Are you okay?” He tilts his head in concern.
I think I’m in love with you. How’s that for okay?
“I’m totally fine,” I emphasize. “I just…we were supposed to have dinner here, you know. All romantic and pretty.”
He nods slowly. “Dinner it is.”
“But maybe at the cottage?” I venture quickly. I touch my wrinkled dress. “I need a shower like, really badly.”
“Sure.”
We pack up quickly, and Noah gets dressed after disposing off the protection he wore. I got on birth control the first night we hooked up when we watched MI2. But we’re still careful on the protection front. It’s just common sense.
I gather all the evidence of our untouched bacchanalia and shove it in the wicker basket. Along with my ruined cricket outfit.
I make a mental note to come back tomorrow before my shift and clean the paint mess off the floor.
I’d put a tarp on the ground but some of the color has still splattered on the stone.
I push the tarp over the ball machine. I text Simon we’re leaving, because the Archer siblings will be responsible for bringing the machine off the atelier. I owe him like a month of pies for this favor.
Noah carries all the stuff back down in silence.
I watch his broad back, so stalwart in the dim lights.
I love you . The words knock in my chest. It would be fine. Because love is a verb. An action item which needs no action on my part. But then— I am in love with you , follows it. And I can’t stand it.
I run down the stairs and open the door to let Simon and Jace in. They whistle when they see me.
“Boys.” Noah is slightly winded on the last flight. “Nice to see you.”
Jace immediately takes a load off Noah, and I feel guilty. I didn’t even offer to help him carry the bags. I just take Noah’s brand of chivalry for granted.
We carry everything stealthily back to Noah’s Jeep. And he shakes hands with the two younger men. “Thank you,” he says solemnly. “You are real mates.”
Simon gives him a short nod and Jace smiles. A real smile. Not the plastic prettiness he doles out.
They go back inside House of Niamh, and I point at Lizzie. “I drove up here so…”
“I’m not getting into that gokart excuse of a car, unless I’m dying,” Noah says flatly.
I giggle. “It’s a regular-sized convertible. I can’t help it if you’re a giant.”
“I’m a normal-sized man, woman.”
“Giant.” I indicate his superior height. “Limbs.”
“I’m also not letting you drive alone tonight. We go home together.”
He sounds dead serious. And it’s not worth the argument, so I text Simon to park my car at the diner’s parking space. He’s a tall kid too but he can manage.
Then I climb into Noah’s Jeep and spy the sticker on it. I smile and think back to the first night we met. And all the events since then. Two months is too short a time to have lived this much, this quickly.
It feels like a lifetime of crammed experiences.
We don’t talk much on the drive home. He just shoots me occasional glances. I send him answering smiles. I’m okay. Even if I’m scattered into a million crystalline pieces.
My phone rings as I’m getting off at the portico entrance.
It’s my dad. I debate answering him while I’m still wet and sticky from vigorous sex. Nope. I let it go to voicemail.
“Who was that?” Noah asks, removing the wicker basket from where he’d stashed it.
“No one.” I sigh. “My dad.”
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
“I don’t know how to talk to him.” I hold out my hand. “Give me one of the handles, please.”
Noah gives a private smile and shares the load with me. We walk into the house together when he asks me, “Why don’t you know how to talk to him? Is it because you’ve dropped out of college?”
I drag the basket over to the dining table before answering him. Aware this is yet another secret he’ll know about me. Something I haven’t told anyone other than Mischa. “It’s not because I dropped out. He was surprisingly okay with it. It’s more…” I hesitate. “He doesn’t understand why I did it in the first place. And my parents think I’m also attending special courses at the university while working full-time.”
“And are you?”
I shake my head. “I dropped the course two weeks in. I can’t…I don’t want to go back.” Not yet. Not when I feel less than my former, kickass, go-getter self.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head vehemently. “Not right now,” I murmur. The new feeling inside of me – fragile and pretty - twists with all the ugly, delicate, broken feelings. Melts into it. But still stands on its own.
“Alright, then. Want to take your shower?”
“Do you mind if I go first?”
He kisses my cheek. “I don’t mind, Queenie.” And when I turn to leave, he says my name again. Queenie.
“Yes?”
“Was…before…” Noah swallows, uncertainties storming his eyes. “Was it not good for you?”
I reach out to cup his cheek and kiss him softly. “It was the best ever, you idiot,” I whisper against his lips. “I’m not sure I survived it intact.”
“Because you’re so quiet and withdrawn, I thought?—”
“You thought wrong. I’m just really not used to frolicking on strange rooftops on romantic dates.”
“You’re sure?” He searches my face, and it’s all I can do to not blurt out the inconvenient truth. I love you. That’s why I frolicked with you. And now I don’t know what to do.
“I’m very sure.” I push at his shoulder. “Now, let me get freshened up, please. Before your mates come home and demolish all this food.”
“I certainly can’t have that.” He caresses my sweaty, wrinkled waist. “It’s all mine.”
I race up for a quick clean up and shower and wander down in comfy pajamas and the jersey I now wear to sleep. It’s worn and soft and Noah’s eyes glaze every time he seems me in it. It’s gratifying, even if I’m so damn shallow.
He’s spread the picnic spread on the dinner table. And popped open a beer for himself.
“You know what I don’t understand?” I walk past him to get to my chair. He snags my waist and plonks me on his waist. I tumble a little and settle against him.
“What?” Noah nuzzles my neck.
“How come beer’s not considered alcohol in your brain?”
“Because it’s beer. It’s yeast and potatoes, you know?”
“That would be vodka, my good friend,” I answer solemnly. But my lips break out in a smile.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Noah pops a cracker into my mouth. “Bite.” He orders.
I don’t have an answer for how I fell in love with you. I shrug and chew the cracker. Then he lets me slide to my chair.
We divide the food up and devour it. He’s famished too so we only make small talk by the time we get to dessert.
“I made gaajar ka halwa. ” I proudly place a steaming hot portion of the Indian dessert on his plate.
“ Gaajar ka what?”
“ Halwa .” I fork some in. “It’s carrots. Milk. Sugar. Dunked in clarified buttery goodness. Yum.”
He watches my lips, my throat, which goes dry. “Yum,” he echoes. But he’s not taken a bite yet.
I resist the urge to squirm in my seat. And continue eating the delicious food I made. “Did your mom like sweets? Or was she a savory lover?”
Noah smiles. Digs his fork in the gooey red dessert. “She loved to eat everything except salads. But, in the end, the doctors made her eat a whole bunch of green salads. She hated it.”
“I hate salads too.” I make a face. “But they’re good for the health and work instead of exercising like a demon so I eat them.”
“Healthy food is not a substitute for exercise, woman!” He wags his fork at me.
We argue over the merits of healthy food and exercise for the rest of the meal. He banishes me outside so he can finish cleaning up.
I wander out to the couch and flick the TV on.
Just then something buzzes. I glance at the buzzing. It’s Noah’s fancy phone, which says Thalia.