Chapter 40 Cam
40 Cam
On Thursday, we’re organizing some things in the back when Justin starts singing “Drunken Sailor,” clearly expecting me to join in, as I always do.
Darrell, of course, isn’t expected to sing. However, maybe if he’d sing right now, there would be less attention on the fact that I’m not.
Justin moves on to “The Last Saskatchewan Pirate,” a blatant attempt to lift my spirits. I crack the tiniest of smiles, but that’s it.
“Okay, time out.” He uses his hands to make a T.
I roll my eyes and stand still, hands on hips, by Tank 2.
“What happened, man?” he asks. “You were in a good mood—a great mood, I might say—when I got home on Sunday, and everything seemed fine on Monday…”
Darrell looks at me in concern, and the fact that he’s actually stopped doing the task at hand speaks volumes.
I pinch my brow. “Something’s up with Noelle, but I don’t know what.”
We’ve barely texted in the past few days. She leaves me on read for hours. It wasn’t like this before we slept together.
I think of the weekend, when I found her in the middle of the night and she told me about her sister. Maybe that’s part of it, though I’m convinced it’s not everything.
I consider what I might have said or done to fuck this up, but I’m drawing a blank. I’m sure there are things I could have done a little differently—I’m not perfect—but even after so little time, I know Noelle, and this is odd.
Although…
I groan at the recollection.
“What is it?” Darrell asks.
“I said that when we’re together, I sometimes feel as if I’ve done this before. Like, in a previous life.”
Justin shakes his head. “That sounds like such a line.”
“I know,” I say. “But it’s not.”
“I know you don’t usually say thing like that, yes.”
“I just had this weird feeling. The words came out of me, and she stiffened afterward.”
Darrell has a sympathetic you’re an idiot expression on his face.
“Is it really that bad?” I ask. “She said she understood. I told her that I just meant… we fit together. Nothing more. Everything seemed okay, but maybe it wasn’t.”
Yeah, maybe she thinks I’m some kind of charming playboy, but that’s not the case. It’s not like I’m always trying to get a woman in my bed.
Justin slaps me on the back but doesn’t say anything more.
“I also told my mom that I’m seeing someone,” I say, “and Noelle, uh, heard that conversation. I didn’t want to lie and treat her like a secret, but it might have been too much?” Though she said she was fine with it, perhaps she wasn’t.
But I have a feeling it’s something else.
Here’s the thing about beer.
A lot of people who drink it—whether at a kegger in university, or in the backyard alone after a long week, or at a gastropub with friends—know little about how it’s made. They might have some hazy notion of yeast and hops, but they don’t talk about the mash and the wort and all the steps that go into creating it; they simply enjoy the finished product.
Yet there’s so much behind that pint glass. So much science goes into it—and knowing it doesn’t dim my enjoyment of beer but makes me appreciate it more.
Still, my knowledge about the beverage itself pales next to that of Darrell, who’s the brewmaster. He has multiple books just about foam. Foam is serious business. And even he is forever learning.
We can’t all be experts in everything, from archeology to zymurgy. There isn’t enough time in the day, for starters.
But I do want to be an expert in Noelle Tom, and no matter how much I learn, there will always be more. I want to devote all the time that I can to her.
Later, when I’m in the office organizing some files, I take a break and text Noelle.
ME: Hey, just thinking about you.
Hm. Maybe that was too much, but it’s honest.
ME: You want to do something on the weekend? We have an event on Saturday, so I’ll have to work all day, but I’m free on Sunday. I’m yours, if you’re interested.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. I suppose she’s at work, so I shouldn’t expect her to answer right away, but when I haven’t heard from her ten minutes later, I’m tempted to send her another text and ask what’s wrong. I restrain myself from doing that, but I can’t stop thinking about Noelle. I don’t like feeling off-balance. I’m usually a pretty even-keeled guy, yet the thought that something’s wrong between us makes me feel anything but.
Because, like I told her, I believe we fit together. We belong .
I know it’s early to feel that way, but I can’t help it.
I picture her sitting at her desk, brows lightly furrowed in concentration, in that cute way she has when she’s studying a menu, for example. To be honest, I don’t know exactly what engineers do —as in, their daily tasks—but she said something about a recycling plant. Of course, she was mostly naked at the time, so it’s possible I misheard, but I don’t think I did.
At last, I get an answer.
NOELLE: Yes, let’s do something on Sunday. I’ll make time to talk to you tomorrow too.
That makes me feel better temporarily, but then I worry it’ll be some kind of serious talk. Though why would she have agreed to see me on Sunday if she plans to end things?
It’s unlike me to worry so much, but I continue to wonder if something’s wrong. I wish I could relive this past weekend—and Monday night—so I could fix it, whatever it is.
I also wish we’d started dating last year, so she had the chance to meet my grandmother, who could have told her about the bootlegged dramas on VHS that we used to watch together… and how they made me cry. The timing of everything seems horribly unfair.
When it comes to Noelle, I have endless wishes, yet I have no idea what she wishes when it comes to me . I thought I understood her, but now, I’m positive I’m missing something. I just can’t figure it out.