Chapter 7 Nellie Today
When I feel his eyes on me from across the deck—sense him like I always could—I can’t help but turn to catch him.
And when our eyes lock, I feel like I’m falling down a wormhole into a different me.
A me from decades past—who still thinks brown lip liner and matte lipstick is a good idea.
Who communicates with this man across rooms. And, for just an instant, I kind of want to keep falling.
Maybe Noah just happens to be surveying the scene when I look up.
Maybe I’m reading into his expression—which seems to hold all the things at once.
But the familiarity of those changeable hazel eyes, the way I know them like I know my own even after all this time, how they become conductive with that soft blue denim shirt—I feel something slip inside me and I have to look away.
I still light up under his gaze. And it’s no good.
We are stuck in that suite together. Because I cannot with Damien. That’s too close for comfort in a different way. I don’t want to live on guard. But I also cannot complicate things even more.
The anger feels safe. Like an unshakable boundary. Keep the anger, I tell myself.
Though I’m pretty sure that’s not what the life coaches say.
I shake my head clear. Shake Noah out of it like a pebble from a shoe. It’s just the passage of time, running rampant through me, pushing my buttons. Creating that ache in my chest.
With that small act, I feel a sting radiate from my upper arm. It wasn’t until I tried to get dressed for evening cocktails earlier that my shoulder lodged an official complaint. Or maybe I just didn’t notice the severity of the flare-up until then because, before that, I was busy reeling.
Now, Sabrina catches whatever flickers across my face before I can quite return to normal. She catches everything. Even a thing like this—that isn’t a thing.
She tilts her head. “So, I know you’ve got Alfie at home but how is seeing him again?” she asks, lowering her voice, as her wife, Rita, sets off for another drink. Rita drinks like a fish and holds her liquor like a beast.
I steel myself for the interrogation. “Seeing who again?”
Sabrina gives me an impatient look.
“Fine,” I say. “It’s fine.”
She arches an eyebrow. And it’s a good one. Extra dramatic above her cat-eye liner. The best in the biz. “Fine?”
“Fine.”
“Fine like fine, but really not fine?”
“Fine like… just fine.” I take a swig of my rosé. Not because I’m stressed. Because I’m thirsty.
“Seeing your first love again for the first time after decades? After you had an epic fight that exploded everything to the point where you won’t even tell your best friends the details to this day? That’s ‘fine like… just fine’?”
“Yup,” I nod, resolved to mean it. “Fine like more than just fine, in fact. Fine like seeing old photos of yourself with a heinous haircut and wondering how you ever thought bangs were a good idea.”
I don’t mention how, despite my best intentions, I spent the late afternoon lying in bed, listening for signs of Noah from his nearby room, or the jolt of illicit pleasure I got when I heard the muffled chords of “Welcome to the Jungle” playing from a distance and knew he was lying in his bed listening too.
I don’t mention how I could feel him near me like radiant heat as we stood in the same circle a few minutes before, which was anything but fine.
How it sent pins and needles skidding across my skin.
I don’t mention how fine he looks. And I definitely don’t mention the push and pull thrumming through me now—sadness, anger, humiliation, excitement.
Honestly, I couldn’t describe it even if I wanted to. And I don’t.
Sabrina eyes me, pursing her lips. “So Noah is just a bad haircut?”
“Pretty much,” I say, then swivel to grab a spicy tuna canapé off a passing tray to prove how fine I am. “One that grew out eons ago.”
“Um. Okay. Well, for the record, I thought you looked cute in bangs.”
“No one looks cute in bangs.”
I don’t even believe that. And Sabrina isn’t buying what I’m selling. But Rita has returned double-fisted and that’s a lucky distraction for me.
I run a hand through my hair. My current hair. Which I took literal great pains to refresh post-plane. Lifting my arm to use a curling iron was a true feat with my messed-up shoulder. I’m hoping copious alcohol is a cure for muscle strain.
“Who’s the redhead?” Rita asks, gesturing across the deck to where Lydia is hanging off Noah’s arm like a giant bangle. He has the good sense to look uncomfortable. I look away.
“Oh, that’s just Cara’s old friend Lydia,” Sabrina says.
“She looks… shy,” Rita deadpans.
“Demure is the word,” says Sabrina.
“Venomous is the word,” I snipe.
Rita shifts her gaze to me, and I shift under it.
Where Sabrina is all sharp eyes and wit, Rita is a horizon line—the most even-keeled person I know.
She just sees the thing and says it. Sabrina is dark shadows, copper liners, and bold lips.
Rita thinks lip balm passes for makeup. Sabrina is all cat, Rita is all dog.
And that combination—of uncanny scrutiny and unflinching honesty—is terrifying, especially if you’re holding back as many secrets as I am. These two can sniff anything out.
“Somebody doesn’t like Lydia,” Rita says, finally.
“Many people don’t like Lydia,” I grumble. “Entire countries probably. Continents. Planets.”
Sabrina turns to Rita with a smirk. “But especially Planet Nellie. Though she’ll never say exactly why. I mean, Lydia has always been kind of a hater. But at some point, Nellie’s irritation ratcheted up to total disdain.”
Rita leans in toward me. “Well, give me the gossip. Why don’t we like her?”
I appreciate the we so much. Rita, as always, is deeply loyal and ready to climb on board. But I can’t begin to get into that history. Not now, when I’m teetering on the brink. “We don’t like her because she’s the worst.”
Dropping all pretense of subtlety, Rita shifts her gaze behind me and openly stares, cocking her curly head to one side.
“So, it’s not because she’s trying to hump your ex?”
I can’t help but turn at that, too. Indeed, Lydia has Noah pinned against the balustrade, her palm creeping up his denim-clad chest. He looks like he’d like to climb over the railing and jump, broken bones be damned. But who can tell for sure?
And fine, yes, I am a little irate at the sight. But it’s not because he’s my ex. Not at all! Why would I care about what he does?
It’s because I am a big fan of that shirt. And it’s too nice for her creepy claws.
I clear my throat. “Nope. Not because she’s trying to hump my ex. That’s ancient history.”
“What’s that thing,” asks Sabrina, bringing a fingertip to her lip in mock contemplation, “about history repeating itself?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it involves doom.”
At that, we all resume staring at Noah and Lydia. The last gasps of daylight are beginning to fade and flatten, pink to mauve to purplish gray.
Rita toggles her head. “She’s not unsexy though.”
Sabrina elbows her. “Excuse me!”
Rita puts her hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”
“But yeah,” Sabrina admits, eyeing Lydia too. “I can see how if you didn’t know her before, you might think that. She has maybe improved with age.”
“Not her personality.”
Noah’s gaze darts over the crowd like he’s a cornered animal looking for safe passage. He catches Rita’s eye. She waves enthusiastically. He shoots her a genuine smile of momentary relief, then a hapless shrug. She laughs, gives him a thumbs-up.
Then he catches my eye, and I look away.
“Should we rescue him?” Rita asks.
“No,” I say. “We hate him too.”
“We do?”
She looks to Sabrina for confirmation, genuine confusion on her face.
“Yup, yup.” Sabrina nods vigorously like of course we do. “That’s right. We are card-carrying members of the NSA.”
“The National Security Agency?”
“Team Noah Sucks Ass.”
I watch Rita take this in. Frown. “But isn’t there that whole ‘do no harm’ thing with doctors? Isn’t it our duty to save him, so he can go on to save others in the future?”
“No,” Sabrina shakes her head. “That’s not to save doctors. That’s for doctors to save us.”
“I don’t think that’s right.”
“I’m confused,” I sigh. “Who is a doctor in this scenario?”
“Noah!” the two women answer in unison. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he has a stethoscope tattooed on his forehead.
“Jinx!” yells Sabrina, then she turns to me. “Wait. Are you telling me you didn’t know that? Like you legitimately have never googled him?”
I shake my head. Nope. Have I been tempted? Of course. But I have never given in. I knew it would only make me feel bad.
“Wow,” Rita says. “How is that possible? You’re a hero among women.”
“No more stubborn—or disciplined—a grudge holder has ever lived.” Sabrina grins, raising her glass for a toast like it’s a tribute. “To us. To CB and Ben. Let the insanity begin!”
I think that ship sailed hours ago—at least for me. Noah is a doctor? I am so confused. Like a podiatrist? Or a dentist?
I think about my work debacle. The fact that I’ll be out of a job in a matter of months. I’ll freelance, I know. I’ll figure it out. But he’s a doctor… and I am unemployed.
And it’s as we clink glasses, with this new information processing through my cerebral cortex, that I think to ask, “Wait, Rita. How do you even know Noah? When did you meet him?”
But then there’s a tinkling like fairy wings reverberating through the air and Ben is climbing up to stand on a wobbly chair to make a toast—suggesting that perhaps he has already had his fill of wine.
So, we turn toward him, as Rita slides an arm around Sabrina’s waist and Sabrina tips her head onto her wife’s shoulder.
I am so grateful for them and so happy for them and so alone in that same moment.