44. Noah
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘LIE IN THE SOUND’ BY TRESPASSERS WILLIAM
I don’t know when we drift off. Maybe it’s the heavy, calorie-laden meal or the heavy-duty confessions. Or the intensely heavy coupling that ended with the best fucking orgasm of my life. But I go to sleep, holding Queenie in my arms.
It’s late, the house is quiet, and the garden is alive with summer sounds, when I wake up slowly.
She’s curled into me. Her small fist rests on my heart.
I love you.
The thought comes unbidden, unasked for, involuntary. I brush hair off her face, and she nuzzles closer, wrapping her legs over my thigh. Trusting me so deeply I am humbled, I am undone.
I am in love with you , I think to myself.
I haven’t actively sought a relationship with all the attendant feelings ever. Yes, my focus is on cricket, on becoming a capped player for the Australian international men’s squad.
But after watching mum fade away and unable to do a thing about it…after watching my father basically deny my mother’s decline…and then immediately jump into a new romantic relationship complete with a white picket fence and a princess daughter…love became an ugly word for me.
I haven’t been alone, but loneliness is a shadow in my life too. Even if I don’t actively acknowledge it.
I don’t feel lonely when I’m with Queenie. Even when we were sparring and spitting at each other, I didn’t feel…alone. I was connected to her. Thinking about her. Mildly obsessed with her.
I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone since mum. I haven’t even thought of love since I left dad’s home and attached myself to Fox and the De Rossis.
But, somehow, with Queenie, this brave, impossibly strong, amazingly smart woman…the words don’t just come, they are fact. They exist before I can deny them. And I don’t want to.
A small pang thuds against my newly awakened heart. A pang made of fear, vulnerability. Uncertainty.
No. I am certain, I decide. I don’t want to deny how I feel about Queenie.
I’ve had multitudes of feeling for her – liking, affection, infatuation, admiration - even before I came to know what she told me tonight. It must not have been easy. Going against the system, questioning it, questioning her place in it…having everyone judge her for something she didn’t do. Because she wanted to make it right.
She’s a freaking warrior goddess.
I don’t just like her or admire her now. I’m in awe of her. I don’t know if anything I ever do will be good enough to deserve her. Be worthy of her.
Doing the right thing when no one is watching is hard enough. But doing the right thing when everyone is watching and judging you is horrible.
And she’s so young. Younger than me. To have gone through so much. Alone. All alone.
No more, I vow to myself.
She’s not going to go through shit alone.
And, maybe, hopefully, if she will have me, I won’t be alone anymore either.
I stretch more comfortably around her. A protective shield of limbs and bones and skin. A wall between her and whatever world wants to harm her. When she puts her arms around me, she does the same for me.
I love you.
I’m in love with you.
I am happy I’m in love with you.
The words echo in my sleepy, hazy brain. A warm promise. A light against the shadows and secrets. An unexpected miracle.
And if there is a tiny hint of fear under the words, I choose to unsee it. Because I am not spending my life being afraid of love. Of the person I love.
Of loving her.
I almost believe myself.
Hey, Noah, how are you, mate? This is Kevin Sangster. Please give me a call as soon as you get this message.
I wonder who Kevin Sangster is as I listen to his voicemail one hot afternoon, in early August.
The sun gleams on the beach behind the cottage, where Fox is doing water therapy for his pulled hamstring.
Ares and I are playing gully cricket. We’ve hammered three sticks for stumps and placed stones on top for the bails.
Ares walks farther and farther afield for his markup, so I decide to check my phone. See if I have any texts from the woman I’m in love with.
I grin, when the thought comes, as I always do.
Being in love with Queenie Madhavan is easy. A honeyed road full of warm woman and a bright future.
Is it possible to have everything I asked for?
“I’m bowling,” Ares calls out.
I shove my phone and the lovely, wondering thought away. Grip my bat tighter.
Ares throws a yorker and I swat at it half-heartedly. He cocks his head. “That was a pissant move, you berk,” he calls out, as he walks back to the run up. “Hit the damn thing so I know what I have to adjust before we take on the Knights for The Triskelion Cup.”
I concentrate on timing the bat and working on my cover drive in real time.
“It’s just another match,” I tell him when he bowls the next ball. I middle it in the direction of the imaginary covers. It rolls a decent distance before it’s caught by Ares.
Not a boundary, but not bad either. I can time the damn shot correctly eight times out of ten.
“It’s three matches in three formats,” Ares corrects me. Rubbing the ball on his pants leg, to give it the correct shine and friction he needs. “A fifty over match, a T20, and a Test match. All in a span of ten days.”
“Because the coaches want us to play under pressure and master them all,” I remind him idly. Taking a small water break.
“I was there when Gilcrest gave the speech, man.” Ares walks back to his run up point. He’s varying his length between forty, thirty-two, and twenty-four yards to see which one gets him the most rewards. As in, wickets.
“I’m just saying, it’s no different than any of the other matches we have been playing for the last two and a half months.” With a jolt, I realize that’s exactly how long camp has been on.
And exactly how long Queenie and I have been…involved.
Almost as long as I have been slowly falling in love with her.
“Yes, but this is the Cup! A cup is a cup is a cup,” Ares insists, in typical pigheaded fashion.
I throw my hand up. “Alright, then. What do you want to do? Steal it?”
Ares shakes his head. “Nope. Win it for you. Because you’re an old wanker and can’t do it more than once. It’s also why—” He starts running toward me, a tank of a man, at ungodly speeds. Kicking up sand with every mile of pace he generates. “I’m okay with you getting selected this year. I’ll wait for my turn next year.”
“That’s mighty generous of you,” I say dryly. Nonetheless, it warms my heart that one of the most competitive players I know acknowledges my talent. My hard work.
Ares flicks the ball at me, right at waist-height. I squint and try to check for the spin and speed. But damn if the fucker isn’t fast. It beats past me, swings on the inside and knocks the middle stump bail off. The stone falls down with a thunk.
“ Howzzat!!” Ares screams, hands on knees.
I glare at the ball and place the bail back on the stump. “Again,” I tell him shortly. “I want to learn to beat your inswinger.”
“You can dream of beating my inswinger.” Ares picks up the ball and polishes it again, till it shines like an apple, getting sand and dirt on his tracks.
“Trash talk will only get you beaten for a four,” I call out to him.
But I settle down and concentrate on the game.