Chapter 15 #2
The dining table remained covered by the puzzle, and I did not want to clear away work that gave him a sense of progress. Instead, I arranged dinner on the broad window ledge and moved the small side table between two chairs.
No candles.
No formal setting.
Nothing that felt like a performance of romance he was expected to recognize.
I dimmed the overhead lights and turned on the old brass lamp near the harbor windows. Its amber glow softened the room. I placed the food in ceramic bowls, hid the takeout containers, and set out the pear soda in short tumblers.
Then I remembered the dessert.
I put it in the refrigerator.
Noah returned wearing a dark cardigan over his shirt.
He stopped when he saw the arrangement.
“You changed the room.”
“Only temporarily.”
The chairs faced the windows.
Beyond the glass, evening gathered over the marina. Rain clouds broke above the western headland, leaving a narrow strip of copper light near the horizon. Boat masts stood black against it.
“This is nice,” Noah said.
Relief loosened something in me.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Too dim?”
“No.”
“Do you need the green lamp?”
His gaze moved toward the hallway.
“Leave it on.”
I did.
He maneuvered beside one chair, transferred with my help, and settled with his injured side supported by cushions.
I placed the tray across his lap.
“What is everything?”
“Lamb with preserved lemon. Rice with herbs. Carrots. Flatbread. A chickpea dish that may be too spicy.”
“You’re not telling me what I used to order.”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
“Scientific.”
He tasted the rice first.
Then the lamb.
His face gave nothing away.
“Well?”
“I’m gathering data.”
“You’re impossible.”
He tried the chickpeas.
His eye widened.
“Spicy?”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
He took another bite.
“No.”
I laughed.
The sound made him smile.
We ate while the last light left the harbor.
For a few minutes, the only conversation concerned food.
Noah preferred the lamb.
He disliked the carrots.
He tasted the pear soda and looked surprised.
“This is the dessert.”
“It is not.”
“It should be.”
I stored the new facts quietly.
Not because they replaced the old.
Because they belonged to him now.
When he had eaten enough to satisfy me and not enough to exhaust himself, he leaned back.
“Tell me about you.”
The request was expected.
It still made me nervous.
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything.”
“That is broad.”
“I can’t think of questions fast enough.”
“Then I’ll choose.”
He nodded.
I set down my glass.
“I grew up in Alder Ridge.”
“Where is that?”
“Two hours inland. Logging town. More churches than traffic lights.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
“That was quick.”
“You asked an easy one.”
He smiled.
“My father repaired heavy equipment. I started working with him when I was thirteen.”
“Did you get along?”
“When the subject was machinery.”
“And otherwise?”
“Less.”
Noah’s expression changed.
“Because you were gay?”
“That was part of it.”
“What was the rest?”
“I wanted a life he did not understand. Leaving felt like criticism to him.”
“Did he know about you?”
“Eventually.”
“What happened?”
“He stopped inviting me home.”
Noah looked down at his glass.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make it good.”
“No.”
I liked that he did not insist pain had made me stronger.
Pain had made me careful.
Work, friendship, and Noah had made me stronger.
“My mother died when I was in college,” I continued. “My father remarried. We exchange cards at Christmas. Nothing more.”
“Brothers?”
“One sister. Older. We speak twice a year.”
“Do I know her?”
“You met once.”
“Did I like her?”
“You said she had the warmth of a parking meter.”
Noah choked on his drink.
I reached for the napkin.
He waved me off, laughing carefully.
“That sounds cruel.”
“She spent dinner asking whether the yard was a real business.”
“Then I stand by it.”
“I thought you might.”
He took my hand across the space between our chairs.
The gesture came easily now.
“Did we talk about family a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
“My parents don’t accept me either.”
“I know.”
“I remember that.”
His voice tightened.
“Not the worst years. Just enough.”
“You don’t have to discuss it tonight.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his thumb over my knuckle.
“Did that bring us together?”
“It helped us understand each other.”
“Two men rejected by people who were supposed to love them.”
“And then surrounded by people who chose us.”
“Caleb and Owen.”
“Leah. Emma and Clara. Marlowe.”
Noah looked toward the dog stretched beneath the window.
“We built our own.”
“Yes.”
His gaze returned to me.
“Did you know immediately?”
“Know what?”
“That you wanted me.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“That quickly?”
“You walked into my office carrying a tool case I told you not to bring.”
“That cannot have been seductive.”
“You opened it to prove you owned better meters than I did.”
“That is seductive.”
“You also insulted my panel layout.”
“Was it bad?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“You were nervous.”
He considered that.
“I don’t feel nervous around you.”
“You did at first.”
“What changed?”
“You learned I was more nervous.”
Noah’s smile became soft.
“Were you?”
“I had a rule about employees.”
“You told me.”
“I took it seriously.”
“Until the green lamp.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something you haven’t told me before.”
I looked toward the harbor.
“Our first argument happened before our first date.”
“What about?”
“You reorganized my office.”
“That seems helpful.”
“You threw away a box of old invoices.”
“Were they important?”
“No.”
“Then I was right.”
“You had worked at the yard four days.”
“I was efficient.”
“You told me the office smelled like wet cardboard and regret.”
Noah laughed.
I watched the sound move through him.
“That is excellent.”
“You apologized the next morning.”
“Why?”
“You thought I would fire you.”
“Did you consider it?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“Bought a filing cabinet.”
“That is practically a declaration.”
“It was the beginning.”
His laughter faded.
He studied my face.
“You like telling me these things.”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
I did not hide the answer.
Noah’s fingers tightened around mine.
“I’m glad you tell me anyway.”
“So am I.”
He asked about the yard.
About how I bought it.
About the first boat we repaired together.
About Caleb and Owen.
About why I preferred old station wagons to trucks, why I hated dried fruit in cereal, why I kept a paper calendar despite owning a phone.
Some answers amused him.
Some produced a distant frown as he searched for recognition that did not come.
When that happened, I waited until he returned.
Eventually, his questions became simpler.
“Favorite season?”
“Late autumn.”
“Food?”
“Anything cooked outside.”
“Music?”
“Folk. Blues. Music where the singer sounds as though life has happened to them.”
“Color?”
“Green.”
He looked toward the navigation lamp.
“Because of that?”
“No. You chose the lamp.”
“I did?”
“At an estate sale. You argued with an old woman for twenty minutes over the price.”
“Did I win?”
“She charged you more.”
Noah grinned.
“What do you hate?”
“Crowds.”
“Same.”
“People who call electrical tape a permanent repair.”
“Correct.”
“Sweet pickles.”
He made a face.
“Correct again.”
“Morning radio hosts.”
“Obviously.”
“Being unable to help you.”
The final answer quieted him.
I looked at our joined hands.
“That is what I hate most now.”
Noah leaned closer.
“You help me constantly.”
“Not where I want to.”
“Where?”
“Inside your head.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“You make it quieter.”
I looked up.
He seemed embarrassed by the confession.
“How?”
“When you’re there, I don’t have to keep checking everything.”
“What do you check?”
“Where I am. Whether I’m safe. What I’m supposed to do next.”
His gaze moved toward the green lamp.
“You carry part of the room for me.”
The words lodged beneath my ribs.
“I can do that.”
“I know.”
He lifted my hand and touched his mouth to the back of it.
The kiss was clumsy because of the angle.
It was still perfect.
We sat quietly for a while.
Then Noah said, “You haven’t asked me anything.”
“This date is for you to learn about me.”
“That is unfair.”
“How?”
“You already know me.”
“Not all of you.”
“Ask.”
I considered.
“What is one thing you like now that no one has told you to like?”
Noah looked surprised.
He thought.
The effort showed in the line between his brows.
“The sound of rain on these windows.”
I waited.
“Pear soda.”
“Good.”
“Marlowe’s ears.”
The dog lifted his head.
“Reid’s beard.”
Heat moved through my chest.
Noah’s cheeks colored.
“You asked.”
“I did.”
“What else?”
“The green lamp.”
His fingers shifted in mine.
“Not because I remember buying it. Because it means I’m here.”
“Anything else?”
He met my gaze.
“Hearing you come upstairs.”
I forgot every clever answer.
Noah looked away first.
“Your turn,” he said.
“My turn for what?”
“Something you like now. Not before.”
I thought of the last weeks.
“Your handwriting in the journal.”
“It’s awful.”
“It shows how hard you’re working.”
“That is sentimental.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The way you call for me without apologizing first.”
“I still apologize.”
“Less.”
“Anything else?”
I rubbed my thumb along the side of his hand.
“You looking at me as though I am worth discovering.”
Noah’s eye brightened.
“You are.”
We finished dinner after that, though neither of us paid much attention to it.
I cleared the trays and brought out dessert.
A small paper box.
Noah looked suspicious.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
He lifted the lid.
Inside were four honey cakes shaped like seashells.
He stared.
“What?”
I sat opposite him.
“You used to buy these every time we passed the ferry market.”
“Why?”
“You said they tasted like something your grandmother made.”
He picked one up.
“That sounds like you telling me what I like.”
“You may hate it now.”
Noah bit into the cake.
Honey shone briefly on his lower lip.
His expression softened.
“I don’t hate it.”
“Good.”
He chewed slowly.
Then took another bite.
“Do I remember my grandmother’s?”
“No.”
“Does it taste familiar?”
He closed his eye.
“I don’t know.”
The disappointment entered his voice.
I reached for his hand.
“It can simply taste good.”
He nodded.
After dessert, the documentary lasted twelve minutes.