Your Biggest Fan

20. NOAH

Chapter twenty

Principal Phillips holds the door wide open to his wood-paneled office after my twenty minutes of waiting. The audacity. I’ve had to smell stale coffee while my ass went numb. The hard slats likely imprinted on my skin.

I hop to my feet and brush past him, taking in the dark green carpet and heavy oak furniture that makes the room small and cramped every time. Framed certificates and faded military photos dating back to the 1970s line the walls behind his desk, with a box TV sitting on a rolling cart in the corner, rabbit ear antennas askew, but my eyes always land on the giant American flag hanging above the filing cabinets to the left of his desk.

Principal Phillips gestures to the chair facing his desk piled high with manila folders.

The chair lets out a defeated wheeze under my weight, and I prop my feet up on the edge of his desk, almost tipping over a Snoopy mug full of pens and pencils.

“What did I do now?” I ask, tilting my head back and blinking up at his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. The hint of stubble on his jawline always seems so out of place in a principal's office. “Did I forget to call you Your Highness again?”

He snorts and moves around me, pushing my sneakers off a stack of papers. “You know I prefer Your Majesty.” He settles back into his leather desk chair, running a hand through his thick, dark hair in a way that would probably make the lunch ladies giggle.

I stand up and bow. “A thousand apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Alright, alright. Sit back down.” His tone turns more serious as he folds his tan hands on top of the pile of folders. “I did want to touch base with you about a couple incidents that were reported to me.”

I plop back down in the chair and slide down with a sigh. “What false accusations have been made against me this time?”

Hopefully not me getting blamed for rearranging the letters on the cafeteria sign to read ‘Sloppy Gels’ instead of ‘Sloppy Joes.’ Even though it added a bit more truth to the advertising, I couldn’t take credit for that one.

He gives me a knowing look over his glasses. “Well, there is the gang graffiti you’ve been drawing.”

“Lies and slander!” I protest. “It was the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air logo and it was on my own notebook.”

“Mhm.” He raises an eyebrow and glances down at a file folder open on his desk. “I suppose the poster in the boys’ bathroom saying ‘Call 867-5309 for a good time’ had nothing to do with you either, correct?”

“No way.” I lean forward, elbows on the desk. “The janitors probably put that up themselves.”

“Nice try. That poster was traced back to your handwriting.” He pulls a stapled packet of papers out of the folder and waves it at me. “Along with three other incidents of vandalism in the past month.”

I pull back one of the strings on the Newton’s Cradle on his desk and start watching it bounce back and forth, back and forth. “Are you really going to squash a young artist trying to liven things up around here?”

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“The classrooms aren’t much better. It’s all rotting ceilings and chalk dust. I keep expecting a velociraptor to walk in.”

Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

“This school could use some spicing up between all the cracked holes in the floor and missing locker doors.”

Back—

Phillips snatches the cradle away. “What about the Dee Snider comparison you made regarding Mrs. Wilson’s hair?”

“A compliment of the highest order,” I argue, blowing a curl off my forehead. Now my fingers are itching for something to fidget with.

He fights back a smile. “Somehow I don’t think she saw it that way. I have another one where someone saw you write ‘homey don’t play that’ on the bathroom stall? A reference I still don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s all part of my master plan... to bop The Man.”

Phillips sighs, the lines on his forehead creasing as he removes his glasses and sets them down on the disorganized papers. Shit. What could I have possibly done that has Philly looking so grim?

“Noah,” he begins, rubbing at his temples. A bead of nervous sweat trickles down my neck. “I know you like to joke around, but we need to have some mutual understanding here.”

I lean away from his desk, slouching back down my seat until my ass hangs off the chair. My attention switches to unraveling a loose thread at my knee.

We’ve done this tango enough times over the years that this scene feels familiar, like the opening act of a play where we both know our roles. In a weird way, he’s served as a mentor figure for me who sometimes offers real advice without trying to dampen my style. I know it makes it harder for him when he's supposed to be the one who disciplines me.

But something in his look makes me think I really screwed up this time.

“I get that you’re a free spirit and all that, and I let it slide from time to time, but there still needs to be some limits. No vandalizing school property or insulting teachers—even in jest.” He pauses, waiting for me to look up at him.

I don’t. Too busy bracing for another lecture about wasted potential and responsibility.

“Everything okay at home?”

The muscle in my thigh jerks on the spot, a smartass reply on the tip of my tongue.

The words died unspoken.

I have been overdoing it lately, ever since Dennis trashed my bedroom. I’d felt on edge every day, looking for any way to stay busy. Not that I’d ever tell Principal P that. He’d have to report it. And no one would believe me anyway.

When I do finally meet his steadfast gaze, the way he’s looking at me now, with that caring dad-like expression… I start to feel sick and my throat tightens.

“I know that the Mayor has been sending your dad out of town a lot lately to oversee some construction.” The springs creak as he leans back in his chair, and I look away, knee bouncing up and down.

“So?”

“So... I want to make sure you’re in good hands.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, steepling his fingers with his elbows on his arm chair. “You’re a good kid, Noah,” he tells me, eyes softening a bit. “I know you don’t mean any real harm. I only worry because these kinds of actions can get you into serious trouble if you aren’t careful. I don’t want to see you go down that road.”

I scuff my shoe on the floor, looking properly chastised. “Yeah, understood. Wouldn’t want to tarnish my squeaky clean rep.”

“I've seen what you can do on paper. It's good stuff.” I fucking beam and my fingers itch to create something new. Dennis may have destroyed my room, but he can't touch the ideas in my head. “Just keep your art on paper, not the bathroom walls.”

I fold my arms with a huff. “I make no promises.”

He snorts, shaking his head and a finger at me. “Uh huh, sure. Keep the pranks and wisecracks to a minimum, deal?”

“I’ll try my best. For you.” I give him a wink and finger guns, which makes him laugh.

“Now get out of here, before I change my mind about detention.”

“Glad I could add some excitement into your day Philly.”

Phillips chuckles and shakes his head as I hop up and give him a two finger salute on my way out.

“What am I going to do with you?” he grumbles, though not unkindly.

Back on familiar ground, I pause in the doorway, turning to face him with grin #2. “Aw come on, you know you’ll miss me when I’m not around next year.”

He tries to look stern, his mouth set in a tight line, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. “While I admire your confidence, let’s not get carried away. Remember what we talked about and try to rein it in a bit, okay?”

“Yeah, I got it…” I roll my eyes. “No more bathroom graffiti or picking on poor Wilson and her monster mane.”

Phillips shoots me a warning look.

“I mean, no more graffiti or wisecracks, period,” I quickly correct. “Cross my heart.”

“That’s better,” he says with a nod. “Try to stay focused and keep that sense of humor of yours aimed in a positive direction.”

I bite my cheek to stop from grinning. He sounds like someone’s goofy uncle trying to be the cool principal. “I’ll do my best, P-Phil.”

“And Noah...” he pauses, smile fading as he stands up. “My door’s open if you do ever want to talk.”

“Yeah, I know.” I wave him off, surprised by the unexpected tug those words have on my system. Most adults have written me off as an irredeemable troublemaker by now.

Kinda nice to know someone still cares.

I throw him another sloppy wave and a “catch ya later” over my shoulder. I can’t have him thinking I’ve gone soft, after all. I’ve got a rep to uphold.

His words stick with me as I go, making me stand a little taller while I make my way through the deserted halls, not wanting to be anymore late for band practice.

Roxanne already wants to kill me.

It’s about five minutes later that I roll up to the end of the concrete pathway leading up to all of the padlocked garages and park off to the side, next to the rusty blue metal of another unit. I hang my helmet off the handlebars, shove my pack of smokes in the back pocket of my jeans, and make my way to the garage.

The past month of band practice has been interesting, to say the least. Roxanne looks like Animal from the fucking Muppets because it’s all hair and arms and legs with her. I can say my favorite days are when she swings her gaze to glare and flip me off in her Sisters of Mercy T-shirt while I play the Imperial March from Star Wars on my guitar as she walks into the garage.

On the days when she beats me to the garage, one side of her mouth lifts in a smirk as she plays The Terminator Theme and she just beams, the aggravating fucker.

Today, though...

I already know the answer when I scan the lot for Daniel’s beater Chevy Nova, grinning wide when I only see Roxanne’s monster of a car parked out front. I walk a little faster toward our garage, my Chucks scratching on the blacktop when I round the corner.

“ Oh sunshine, ” I crow, drawing out the last word as I come to a complete stop whenever I come face to face with what might be a dream.

Did I get into a biking accident? There is a very real chance I died on the way over here. That’s the only reason why this scene unfolding in front of me would make any sense.

But oh... it’s fucking real.

Roxanne stands there, her back to me, long dark hair in a frizzy mess spilling down her cropped denim jacket, still wearing those little black shorts from earlier today with a white tank top, looking like the embodiment of an empty graffiti canvas on legs.

Her look isn’t what matters though. She’s clasping my microphone in her hands while the cord tangles around her boots, singing while she shimmies her legs together, swaying her hips down low to the ground. And somehow I feel jealous of the wires.

I let out a low whistle as my eyebrows hit my hairline. If I had a bra, I’d probably throw them at Wishmore like girls throw at the rockstars on stage.

As she belts out some choice Journey, her voice is surprisingly strong considering how often she seems anxious. Her munched on necklace can attest to that.

She points skyward, lost in the lyrics about love gone wrong. My hip presses into the edge of the garage, not daring to break her flow. This is too good.

God, I’m fucking stunned. Completely in awe and fascinated by her cute little ass that keeps moving from side to side. She pops it back with the rhythm, denim straining against her thighs.

Who is this person?

My head spins a little while I tug at the chain around my neck, trying to relieve some tension in my body. If she’s going to sing like that, punctuating each emotional crescendo with a hip swivel, I can at least admire the view, right?

She—this angelic singer amid the drab storage unit—seems too good to exist, a dream I’ll wake from sprawled out in the middle of the street because I did eat it on my bike on the way here. I pinch my arm to make sure I’m not hallucinating, but goosebumps spread all over my body as her voice cuts through the fuzz in my ears.

I can’t believe my eyes. Or ears. This girl has a voice fit for a siren to sing with—so gritty, slightly raspy and earthy, yet powerful and emotive. It’s hot .

One thing that’s not known: Roxanne Wishmore can fucking sing.

Why isn’t she our lead vocalist? She has a sound that can fill stadiums, and make the stars in the sky shine brighter. The world needs to feel what I’m feeling right now.

Then again… I’m not sure if I want to share this view.

I’m still transfixed as she croons. I’m honestly losing my mind watching her put on a show, like a bullfighter dancing with death in the ring, but the cute kind. So maybe watching your kids bond and get along or some shit. Something you know you'll remember forever, even if you can't quite explain why.

She hits a particularly high note next, head thrown back, and spins around.

The microphone instantly clatters to the concrete floor.

“Noah!” she shrieks, face flaming red as she scrambles to grab the mic cord and turn the amp off, kicking cans around and dropping change out of her pockets. Her clumsiness never fails to make me grin.

“Oh, please do not fucking stop on my account.”

She trips toward the stand, hair flopped over half her face. “It’s not what you think!” she tries to explain quickly before I follow her eyes down to the ground. She picks up a little black tube, hiding it from my view. “It’s... uh... mine. I was fixing my makeup. Yeah. That’s it.”

Her voice comes out so tiny, with no trace of that fearless rock goddess I witnessed ten seconds ago.

“You’re wearing lipstick for me now?”

“What? No!” she sputters, mortified, and yanks her headphones off her head. “It...” she swallows hard. “It's for myself. I usually have time to put it on after gym, which I didn't today. So I had to do it in here. Today. Just for me. The microphone was my mirror.” Her voice gets shaky at the end and she glances around like a cornered animal seeking escape.

I decide to throw her a lifeline.

“Yeah, makes total sense.” I nod, and she seems relieved that I go along with her story. “Although... you have to admit, you have a wicked voice.”

It was so... seductive. I’m having trouble focusing on anything else right now because I keep hitting rewind on the last three minutes over and over again and again in my head.

Her cheeks turn redder with heat. “It was just a song that I like and know the words to, so it was easy to sing. But thanks.”

“You don’t have to be so shy.” It’s obvious she’s self-conscious, which is why I try to be somewhat gentle as I add on, “If anything, you should be doing more singing.”

“How long were you standing there?” she grumbles, crossing her arms.

“Long enough for a private show.”

Groaning, she drags a hand down her face. “Sorry, I got a little carried away. Can you try to pretend you didn’t see that?”

“The kiss I'll forget. Your little slip about your boyfriend's... inadequacies? Gone. But this? Not a chance. I may make song requests whenever I want an encore.”

Her blush turns on full blast. “Oh no, no, no, you don’t get it. I only sing like that when I’m alone. I would never be able to sing in front of actual, real life people.”

“Then, I’m honored to have witnessed this amazing performance?” I ask with a smirk. “Can I at least get a few more songs before you call it quits?”

She shuffles her feet, eyes swinging down to the concrete floor. “I’m really not that good. I probably sounded awful just now. I only like singing in the car or shower for fun—nothing serious.”

Shaking my head, I gently pick up the microphone cord from the ground and tug, reeling her closer with each pull. “No way, you sounded incredible. And if you try to say you can’t carry a tune, then I’m suddenly hearing impaired, or you’re a pathological liar, because I heard you absolutely kill that song.”

A pretty color spreads from her cheeks to her nose, but Roxanne shrugs, fiddling with the cord wrapped around her wrist.

“It was one song. I think you’re being dramatic because my voice isn’t anything that special.” She glances up at me all shyly through her lashes. “Maybe the garage acoustics made me sound better than I am.”

“Nah.” I bring her body closer to mine with each pull, wrapping the cord around my palm. “I don’t buy that one bit. I’m going to prove it to you by showing you how good you sound.”

With a final tug, I bring her close enough that I can see flecks of gold ringing her black pupils.

“For the record, it wasn’t just one song,” I murmur, leaning in to count the flecks. “You sang Journey, one of my favorite bands in the world. That one song made me want you to sing even more, so...” I reach forward, my fingers wrapping around hers as I switch the microphone’s power button back on.

Her sharp intake of breath is a gunshot in the tiny space, and her lashes flap like fearful butterflies, but she doesn’t pull away. My own pulse beats at my skin as I turn to grab my guitar from its stand, the leather strap heavy across my shoulders.

With a quick flick the amp hums to life.

I slowly strum, keeping her eyes on me. “Let’s hear another one.”

“What? I don’t know if I know, you know, more songs.”

Bull . This girl definitely has a stack of records at home and grilled me about Heart’s 'Brigade' album a month ago. She knows more songs and is holding out on me.

That means it’s time to give her the face I know will make her sing.

And it isn’t smile #3.

“Please, Roxanne. I want to hear more of your voice. I don’t want it to go away yet.” Gripping the mic stand, I unleash the full power of my baby blues and rest my chin on top, peering down at her with my best pout. “You can’t tease me like that and not show off for me, it’s simply torture. I need to hear a few more songs.”

She avoids my protruding lip, fiddling with the microphone cord. “I really don’t sing for other people. You caught me in a moment of letting loose when I thought I was alone.”

I drop the stand and grab her hands, forcing her to look at me. “Listen. I don’t want you to sing because you’re scared you’ll embarrass yourself or not sound good. I want you to sing so you can hear yourself the way I hear you.” I lean in a little closer, trying to pour every ounce of earnesty into her mossy little eyes. “Your voice is fucking mesmerizing, and it made me feel things I’ve never felt before. And you need to hear yourself too. Your voice is meant to be heard. Sing for me.”

Roses blossom on her cheeks at the same time the sun flickers back behind the clouded trees in her eyes. It’s not until she bites her lip that I’m reminded of spring, and I know I’ve worn her down.

“Okay, okay— fine . I need one thing from you first.”

“What do you need? I will happily provide whatever for you, as long as you sing.”

Her frown gets deeper as she stares up at me from where I tower over her, my thumb messing with the rubber bracelets coating her wrist. What I would give to shrink down and crawl in between the cracks of her little brain and see what lies in there, to see what she’s always thinking about.

I watch her chest fall from a large breath. “You have to promise that if I mess up or suck, you won’t laugh.”

Does she really think I could ever laugh at someone baring their soul like she had? I’m fully prepared to be brought to my knees by her.

“I promise.”

Her eyes linger on mine, and whatever she found must have satisfied her, because she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin with quiet determination. The pulse in my neck throbs at the lock of hair stuck to her lip, then I remember my role here.

“Now, please,” I implore, dropping her hand, “sing, Roxanne.”

And she does.

The first notes of that same Journey song slip out past her lips, rearranging all the squishy pieces inside my body while my fingers strum the guitar’s strings with her. Her voice rolls out like velvet, smooth then gritty, now soft, now blaring.

She pours her heart into it, fear and self-doubt falling away. She starts to move like it’s a stage, prancing around and clearly getting into the whole performance act. And she’s kind of nailing it?

It’s a dorky act that should not at all have me nodding along and smiling so damn hard my cheeks hurt. She notices, all proud of herself, giving me a quick wink that has me snorting while she widens her stance and gestures out to the fake audience.

God, I was so right—her voice is divine. And now, maybe, she knows it too.

My eyes dance as I join in at the next refrain, and I smile as she leans the microphone towards me so I can take it completely. Near the end, Daniel ambles up, bass guitar in hand, and Roxanne startles. That wall slams back up, her shoulders hunching as she retreats back into that shell of hers. I nudge her with my elbow, offering her a smile to keep going, and she adjusts to him being around.

Her voice trembles but gains strength with each line until she’s belting again. Pride—at least I think that’s what it is—swells in my chest and I have to resist the urge to grab her up in a spinning hug. Is this how parents feel seeing their kid’s first play? Like their heart might burst out of their ribcage?

The hours pass by in music and laughing, me grinning like an idiot at Roxanne and her smiling and moving around the room. Daniel was bouncing on his feet and clapping his hands above his head as if he was engaging an audience. We really need to do a gig or something.

It’s a fucking beautiful sight. It really is.

We all end up passing the mic around, switching up instruments and trying to one-up each other’s improvised riffs. At one point I convinced Roxanne to give us a little guitar solo and she laughed so hard, all nerves gone despite her not even knowing how to play. So I thought.

She had her eyes squeezed shut, brows lowered as her fingers flew over the frets. Her hair’s a wild dark halo around her head from all the head banging. Little Roxanne shy-and-studious Wishmore was rocking a solo like she’s Slash himself? My jaw hit the fucking floor.

I had exchanged a look with Daniel during it all. Roxanne’s giving me a run for my money.

When the stars come out and we call it quits for the night, I’m floating. Her eyes shine too as we put up our equipment, fold up all of the cords, and turn everything off. I know she cleared a major hurdle in her own mind. And damn if that didn’t make me admire her even more.

The garage is dark, except for the glow of the warm bulb overhead and string lights above the couch, and I figure now’s the perfect time to celebrate her little achievement with a special treat.

I pull a slightly squashed joint from my front pocket and Daniel whoops. “My man!”

Laughing, I stick a cassette in the boombox perched on a stack of crates in the corner, while he lays down a pile of blankets on the rug on the floor, and Roxanne moves over to the ancient couch tucked against the wall. It coughs up a cloud of dust as she flops down.

The three of us pass the joint back and forth as the last light fades. Roxanne’s eyes are sparkling like emeralds again, her inner rockstar finally unleashed.

This is just the beginning for her.

An hour crawls by and we’re still sitting in weed smoke, debating the burning question: could Bruce Willis’ character in Die Hard defeat Sylvester Stallone’s character in Rambo ? A question that was so urgent and world-altering that it tuckered Daniel out. He’s currently passed out on the pile of blankets at the foot of the couch, mouth agape mid-snore.

Sadly I’m not quite as high as I should be, and definitely still do not understand why Roxanne thinks John McClane would outsmart Rambo. The weed obviously messed with her logic skills.

I shake my head at her nonsense and sink back into the couch, letting ELO’s 'A New World Record' play out. I’m half-mindedly paying attention while I roll up another joint, my fingers breaking down another nugget Daniel brought.

Roxanne sits curled up by my side, chin propped on her hand, watching me closely as I sprinkle the herb into the paper. She must be trying to learn how to do it, but either way, her stare clinging to has my hands shaking, and I’m scared of the flaws in my face.

“I’ve never seen you this quiet,” she teases.

“Yeah, well…” I smile, trying to match her tone. “I can’t be a delight all the fucking time.”

I shape the sheet and with a flick of my tongue against my bottom lip, tucking the paper around, beginning to lick the edges with enough moisture to seal.

She makes an odd noise. When I glance over at her, concerned, it’s to see her face red, and those glazed rounded eyes skittering away as she clears her throat.

Okay, impatient.

After placing the end in between my lips, the smell of it already makes my mouth water and my eyelids fall half-mast. I line up my Zippo and light the twisted tip. It flares cherry red as I take a puff, earthy smoke on my tongue making my heart kick up a notch.

I’m about to pass it to her when she quickly leans toward the ground. My eyes snag on the strip of waist between her cropped jacket and shorts and the smoke immediately catches in the middle of my chest and I splutter, covering my mouth with a fist when I cough, the back of my eyes stinging.

When she sits back up, there’s a penny pinched between her fingers and my heart starts pounding harder in my chest, though for a very different reason than a moment ago.

Without a word, she flips its head up and sets it back down on the ground.

I exhale another round, brow crinkling. What the hell is she doing?

In the garage glow, her dark hair is still messy from when she threw herself into singing, light skin dewy with moles on her neck I’ve never noticed before. She chews her full bottom lip, brown lipstick long gone, avoiding my eyes.

Leaning back into the couch, I spread my thighs a little wider with the joint hanging out of the corner of my mouth. Our knees bump together.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Hm?” She looks back at me, and I jerk my chin down at the ground. She crosses her arms, leaning her elbows against her thighs. “Oh. I dunno. Superstition. I always flip a penny upside down so someone else finds it and gets good luck.”

That makes me laugh quietly.

“Wow. Spreading luck and joy wherever you go. You’re so adorable.” I let out a breath of smoke into the air, glancing sideways at her. “Are you ever not going to be adorable? Does it ever stop?”

She levels a glare my way. “No, it doesn’t. And please, stop saying shit like that.”

I tilt my head to the side as another stream of smoke hangs, then drifts away. “What, are you embarrassed to hear me say things like that? Or do you know you’re already adorable, and have no need to hear it?”

“Both. You’re making me feel weird by saying it, and you’re right, I do already know.” Her hands cup her elbows, and I keep watching her squirm a little against the couch. “But I’m not always as adorable as you make me sound. Sometimes I’m just as annoying.”

“Not annoying.” I lean up to gently place the joint in between her fingers.

She pinches the end and takes a quick hit, the smoke drifting out her nose and mouth. “That’s the weed talking,” she laughs. “I think I annoy everyone, all the time. It’s who I am.”

I grasp her wrist gently. Our eyes lock.

“Hey, none of that self-deprecating shit,” I say, and her chest hitches on an inhale, pulse jumping under my fingertips.

I rub my thumb over the delicate bones of her wrist, marveling again at how freaking tiny she is. Like I could wrap her up in my arms twice over.

“I happen to find your particular brand of annoying pretty damn adorable.”

She laughs, an awkward sound, and tries to glance away. I let go of her and tap two fingers under her chin, redirecting her focus back to me.

“And I’m not saying that because I’m stoned right now.” I wink and her lips roll into her mouth. “But I also know your voice is prettier than you let yourself believe. You gotta stop doubting yourself.”

Her fingers go to her face as she pulls all of her hair to the side of her shoulder, a move that’s more than trying to fix her tangles. She’s trying to hide herself from me.

“Are you not used to being complimented?” I taunt, although there’s the slightest bit of concern there too.

Those green little eyes narrow on me while her tongue circles the side of her cheek.

“Why are you always being so nice to me?”

Listening to the genuine suspicion, like she couldn’t possibly trust me because I am nice to her, makes my heart clench. As if kindness from me is a smokescreen for ulterior motives.

Sure, everyone knows I’m certainly an aficionado of the fairer sex, and there’s an extra layer of intrigue when it comes to someone as reserved and private as her. But Roxanne’s allure, for me, goes beyond that. It's not her body that's got me hooked—it's the way she lifts her chin, the way she breathes fire with every glance. Something that's been on my radar since that night at the bar.

The mystery's still there, but now it's her that's caught me.

Most people are too blind to see what's right in front of them. Thanks to that radar vision, I see that rare thing behind those eyes that show she's fucking special. I want to know her. I want to peel back every layer, taste every secret. I'm itching to discover what makes her tick, what makes her burn. I want to experience Roxanne in all her glory. It's not just curiosity anymore. It's a fucking need .

I flounder for a response, grappling for the right sentiment to connect us.

Because you intrigue me.

Because I think you’re worth knowing.

“You deserve to be complimented. Just as much as anyone.” A beat passes, and I add, almost in a whisper, “Maybe more.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” She throws her head back and groans, almost smacking her skull against the wall as she falls against the couch. “Seriously, how do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

Her hands wave at me in a circle. “The—the—” More expansive waving. “The whole confidence thing.”

“I believe in what I say.” I shrug, letting the smoke swirl around me as I take a drag. “Yeah, maybe I do say a lot of cheesy shit, but if any of it makes you blush or makes you feel something, then it works. And if it gets some kind of reaction, be it good or bad, it makes me feel like a million bucks.”

“You're saying you say these things to make me embarrassed?” She bolts upright, perching on the edge of the couch cushion as she pins me with a look. “What do you do whenever you’re actually flirting?”

“With you, all I have to do is say or do what’s on my mind to make you rattled.” In one smooth motion, I lean in and sweep her silken hair back, my thumb brushing against one of the moles on her neck. “Like this.”

A corner of my lip tugs up when I see the muscles in her throat work to swallow, then she smacks my hand away.

“Wow, another failed pass from the great Noah Jackson.” Emerald eyes dance as she takes the joint from me. “I think you’re losing your touch, Slick.”

I clutch my chest. “Oh, God. Have I been flirting this whole time?” I make a fake retching sound and nudge her knee with my knuckles. “I’ve been using all my cheese on you!”

She laughs in between puffs. “No, but really. When do the ladies know that you’re being serious?”

I flop back against the couch, staring up at the smoke swirling the ceiling.

“I don’t know.” I scrub a hand down my face. “That’s never been something I’ve had to think about before. I just like being my usual, cheesy and funny self. And when I’m around someone I like, the cheesy and funny tends to come out more?” I loll my head lazily to face her. “Maybe I’ve never flirted in my life.”

“You really don’t have a way to let a lady know you’re seriously into her. Not just kidding around?”

Shit, was I not being serious already?

I went from lounging comfortably to leaning up uncomfortably straight in an instant.

“Well, how am I supposed to let someone know that?”

“That’s easy. Just tell them. Just say the words.”

I wet my lips, watching the paper burn in her fingers. “Sounds boring.”

A noise—a bird hopping across the pavement in the front of the garage—makes me turn away, leaning my arms over my knees.

“Just say the words...” I trail off as I let the advice bounce around in my head. “What words do I say?”

The direct approach really does sound so boring. Uncreative. Totally not my style.

She shrugs and passes me the joint. “Any words will do. Just speak from that tangle of feelings inside. The words will be there and you just have to let your heart lead the way. Say whatever bubbles up in the moment.” She smiles gently. “That’s all she’ll want from you.”

Taking a hit, I hold the smoke in my lungs as I stare at the red glowing end. She makes it sound so easy, but the prospect of being emotionally raw and genuine makes my palms sweat.

“Just say the words, right…” I pluck the joint from my lips, holding it out for her. Our fingers brush as she takes it. I swallow, skin thrumming as we hold eye contact and she takes a long, deep inhale, like it was her last breath. “That still sounds boring.”

I settle back and fold my hands against my stomach, playing it off despite my face on fucking fire and my heart trying to jump out of my body. Roxanne exhales, the smoke pouring from her lips as she turns back to me and leans in so close.

So close.

“It might sound boring to you,” she spears my chest with one finger, “but to the girl you’re talking to, it’ll be the most important conversation of her life.”

I open my mouth, but the retort I intend to say evaporates on my tongue. No joke or sarcasm can cut through the gravitas of this moment. My stomach twists at the breath leaving her mouth and hitting my nostrils, at her fingernail poking through my shirt.

I wrench my eyes away from her deep greens, down to the finger that’s touching me, then down to her knee that’s pressed against the side of my thigh.

For some reason those ‘boring words’ don’t seem so far out of reach anymore. It's gotta be the weed talking, but it’s strange how such a normal hangout feels different tonight…

Special even.

Staring back up at her, I still don’t say anything, but can’t stop the corners of my mouth from tilting up when I discover a tiny constellation of freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, barely visible unless you're this close. They remind me of cinnamon sprinkled on warm milk.

Her teeth grab the edge of her lip as she tugs her jacket tighter around her body, leaning away and resting her head against the couch.

We both fall quiet then, me rubbing my sternum where she poked me, content to listen to Telephone Line playing.

Though my eyes still slide over to glance at her from between my lashes as she closes hers. She looks relaxed, and I really want to say something to keep the conversation flowing, but wherever we’re at right now feels too nice to disturb. I guess it speaks volumes that we can sit here and not have to talk.

I’ve almost let myself zone out completely when there's a shift on the couch, and I notice her arms come up to wrap around herself, shivering. The cold October air is seeping in through the open garage, and I had not realized how much the temperature inside has dropped since the sun went down.

Roxanne’s next shiver shakes the couch, and she starts rubbing her hands over her bare legs.

“You cold?”

“No, I’m f—” She cuts herself off as another tremor passes through her slender frame. Another puff of smoke leaves her lips and drifts around the room, but it’s not from the joint.

“I’m fine,” she insists with a tight smile. “Just ignore me.”

What a stubborn little brat. I almost smile.

“How am I supposed to ignore you with your teeth chattering over there like you’re Mr. Frosty?” I reach forward and poke her leg, feeling the chill of her skin. “Liar.”

My eyes flick down to the floor, where Daniel has his beanie pulled over his eyes, all comfortably bundled under the majority of the warm blankets. With a huff, I peel back my jacket and hand it over to her. “Here. The infant has enough covers to build a blanket fort already.”

She blinks at it like I’ve lost my mind. Even as she shivers again. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“Not as cold as you, apparently.”

I quirk a brow as she takes the jacket from me, secretly pleased that she’s about to put something of mine on, and she shoots me a small glare like she knows.

“Fine.” She slips it around her and snuggles deep into it. “I’m cold.”

“Weed makes me hot anyways.”

I definitely fan myself mentally at the way my jacket looks on her. The way it’s slightly too big, the way her dark hair drapes over the front of the bright red. It’s a feeling much warmer than any coat could provide.

Running up the sleeves once more to soak in the sight of it, I meet her eyes. “I’ll get a space heater for here though.”

She nods, chewing her cheek in that cute way she does when she’s thinking. “Can I ask you something?”

“I’m an open book.” I spread my arms wide, as if to say ‘literally ask me anything .’

She shifts onto her left hip, curling her knees, examining the tiny black marker stain on the sleeve, tracing her eyes down the length of her arm where her fingers barely poke from the jacket.

“How do you always have money for things? This place, your equipment, and now space heaters?”

My smile falls a little. Of all the questions, I never expected her to be bringing up my money situation. It’s the one thing I’ve never been able to explain to anyone, and I honestly can’t imagine how I’m going to explain it to her.

I shake my head, trying to think of a lie on the fly.

“I, uh...”

Maybe I can pretend I have a secret Swiss bank account? Inherited a fortune from a long lost uncle?

Yeah, right .

“Honestly? My parents leave me money to get by whenever they take off on their endless vacations.” I pick at a crumb on the couch cushion. “Which tends to be like, 80% of the time.”

I dare to meet those eyes brimming with silent questions.

“They take off for weeks on end, sometimes for work, sometimes lush getaways I’m never invited on. Maybe I’ll get a generic postcard if I’m lucky. Or a voicemail. I stopped asking where they go a long time ago. I’ve stopped caring altogether, really.”

“That’s… a lot of alone time,” she says.

I fix on twisting my ring around my finger. “Yeah. I’m used to it by now I guess.”

“But that’s crazy. They leave you money and take off whenever they feel like it?” She pauses, and I start burning up on the inside. “Do you have to buy your own groceries too? And pay rent? Like, do your parents just leave you all alone with only money?”

I nod a little. “Yeah, I buy my own food. They at least pay the bills on time. They give me money and leave. I... I don’t know what else to say about it.” I force a tight chuckle, not wanting to dampen the mood when we finally got to this new peace between us. “Wouldn’t want the lights getting shut off while they’re tanning on the French Riviera or whatever.”

Awkward silence. I dig my fingers into my thighs, rubbing away the need to bounce my leg.

“Anyway, I can fend for myself alright,” I say. “At least all those weekends alone taught me how to shred on guitar.”

Roxanne offers a sympathetic smile, nodding, but I see the lingering concern in her eyes. I clear my throat, wanting to shift the spotlight off myself.

“What about you? Are your parents...” I don’t want to say normal , because it sounds so judgmental in my head. “Do they spend more time with you?”

I wince, knowing how fucking lame that sounds too. I’m already botching this.

“What I mean is, are your parents home more often than they’re away? Do they go on trips often or...” I trail off with a lame fucking shrug as Roxanne starts laughing and gives her head a fond shake.

Christ. How the hell do I fix what I just said?

She combs her fingers through her hair until it brushes out from the tips, tossing it over her shoulders. “I haven’t had a proper conversation with my mom in years.”

That comment is enough to take me back. I didn’t expect her to actually give something so honest. While looking so normal about it at the same time.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Family drama is a language I speak fluently. “And do you talk to your dad?”

She takes a long drag as she considers, slender throat working. “My dad—”

Daniel releases a thunderous snore from his blanket burrito on the floor and Roxanne startles violently at the disruption, nearly dropping the joint.

She scrambles to her feet when he grumbles something in his sleep, already shrugging off my jacket.

“I should probably get going actually,” she mumbles.

I want to ask if the start of my life story is too depressing and that’s why this girl decided to abruptly leave, but there is something that is telling me not to. Something in the line of her shoulders, in the flex of her nostrils that tells me to let it go.

But some things I can’t let go of.

“You know, red really might just be your color,” I inform her as she hands the jacket back to me. I’ve always noticed, as an interested band member, how much she tries to hide away at any piece of praise. This is no different—one little compliment and she lights up so much that the grubby space around us seems bright.

Her glow pushes back the shadows, making everything a little less... well, shitty.

“Has no one really ever complimented you?” I drop the jacket onto the couch, taking the finished joint from her next and pressing the end into an ashtray on the ground.

“Not really,” she confides, voice low between us. “Harley wasn’t much of a sweet talker. I mean, he said nice things, but not in the way that you do.”

Those words make me ache for her. That the wet sandwich that is Harley had this fucking angel in front of him at all times and never told her. He wouldn’t know a compliment if it crawled up his ass and died.

And if I could be honest without getting a slap from her, if I could scream it to her face, I’d tell her what she really is—something unique and unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. And I’ve hardly even met her.

I’ll have to help her get through that hurt, keep her head high, and keep him off her because she deserves better. I’ll keep her happy, distracted, and keep his name out of her mouth. If that’s a gift for me, too, well.. so be it.

I clear my throat. “What way am I?”

“Obnoxious. Pushy. Deaf to subtle hints.”

I bark out a laugh as I stretch myself out more comfortably across the couch, but my eyes stay looking up into hers as she blinks down at me.

“I’m not really in the center of attention,” she murmurs, looking small and not safely inside my jacket, “so, to answer your question, no, not really.”

I shift, tucking my arm behind my head. “Well, you should be.”

Pink creeps up her cheeks and she glances away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m gonna go now,” she says quickly, dipping her eyes down to where I was pulling my shirt out of the tuck behind my pants. The tightness is too uncomfortable if I’m going to pass out here until Daniel wakes up, but her stare has me forgetting how to untuck a fucking shirt.

“Sleep tight, Wishmore. And don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

The fading notes of Telephone Line play out as she hurries out of the garage, not even really saying bye, but before I can close my eyes, the glint of the penny on the floor catches my attention. The copper head is pointing up, staring at me, and I shake my head at it.

She always turns over pennies so others have good luck. Why does she have to be so fucking cute?

Another piece of evidence that Roxanne Wishmore is definitely a secret huge softie behind that mean girl look. Not that I plan on exposing her to the general public anytime soon.

Sighing, I reach down and pick it up, feeling the ridges of the date under my thumb. I slip it into my front pocket as I sprawl back out on the crouch. Smiling to myself, I stare up at the slightly cracked ceiling above me, seeing one last glimpse of Lincoln’s head before everything goes dark.