Chapter 7 Nellie Today #2
Until I feel someone settle in beside me too, place a strong hand on my shoulder. I don’t know who I’m hoping to find. But when I look up, it’s Damien grinning down at me like the Cheshire cat. And that was definitely not it.
Ah, well, beggars can’t be choosers.
“I hear you’re getting hitched,” he whispers.
At first I don’t know what he means—there’s so much roiling through my brain and home feels so far away. But then I play catch-up. Understand. Cara must have mentioned Alfie. So, I smile. And nod.
What’s one more lie?
“Too bad,” he says.
“Is it?” I whisper.
“Maybe not,” he reasons, a glimmer in his eye. “There’s always time for a last hurrah.”
I look up at him with profound confusion or maybe it’s disgust—because on what planet? Certainly not Planet Nellie.
But then doubt creeps in. Is he talking about Noah? Or himself?
There’s no time to find out. Which is probably for the best.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen—and women and those that identify as… well, Roman people,” says Ben.
He has definitely had too much pinot. His purple-tinged teeth are a tell.
I throw back the rest of my wine. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
I will my focus to Cara’s shining face as she stands to the side, looking adoringly up at her husband. Even in his silly state.
This will all be worth it for her, I tell myself as I exchange my empty glass for a full one from a server’s passing tray. She’s got so much on her plate. She’s seemed so stressed lately on the rare occasions that she can make time to talk. She deserves to let loose.
I can bask in her joy. And, if I’m lucky, the rest will be a blur.
When I wake up the next morning, there’s tempered light relaxing through my gauzy curtains. Like it’s just so damn mellow.
Good. For. You. Sunshine.
I am also seeing things through a hazy filter. So there.
But I am not weightless or airy. Nope. To the contrary. Everything in me weighs ten tons.
My head, sure. That’s heavy as hell from too much wine.
Reality coming to call. That’s plenty leaden.
But, above all else, it’s my shoulder that I quite literally cannot move.
Damn.
I can’t help but see it as the physical manifestation of my current mental state. Frozen in place. Unable to move forward. Mired in a portion of the past that I would much rather forget.
For a minute, I just lie there and let my eyes close again. The rest feels like an uphill battle.
Eventually, I blink my eyes open again and use my good arm to reach over and grab the itinerary from my bedside table.
Today reads: “Day 2: Out on the town!” Apparently, we’re taking a day trip to “wander quaint shops” and, if we choose, stay for a “craft brew tasting and organic pizza feast.” I scan the code for today’s song.
Not surprisingly, it’s another throwback—though a bit mysterious considering the plans. “Pack the Pipe” by the Pharcyde.
Now I have to play the part of the adviser
Because the bud is just a tasty tantalizer
The bud, not the beer, ’cause the bud makes me wiser
Steeling myself, I let my eyes drop closed again.
If I made it through last night, I can make it through this whole trip, I tell myself.
I can hide behind Sabrina and Rita. I can chat with Cara’s boring college friends.
I can drink more wine—if I can stomach it again. Most importantly, I can avoid him.
And I can keep my spinout to myself.
Only, can I really? Because I could swear I dreamed about Noah’s stupid denim shirt.
And him tugging it off his broad shoulders.
Or—ugh, worse—was that a drunken daydream while I was still in that liminal state between sleep and wakefulness, hearing him return to his room with a click of his door shortly after I climbed into bed?
I cringe. Why was I envisioning what he was doing on the other side of our living room? Like I don’t violently hate him.
Lord help me.
It’s safer to open my eyes. So I do.
With my good arm, I reach over to a switch by the bed and turn on the light.
And, in the full illumination, I have to admit the room really is sweet.
Even from my compromised position. Against the backdrop of white vertical shiplap walls, the furniture is unfussy and neutral, the couch a cushy textured oatmeal linen.
A cheerful green-tea throw collapses neatly over one arm.
You can almost hear it yawn and stretch.
Sprigs of lavender, buckeye pods, and their wildflower friends jut from a speckled bud vase, quirky and upbeat.
Like they’ve been gathered by nymphs from a nearby meadow.
On the coffee table, which looks like reclaimed wood without being blocky, is a ceramic dish bearing house-made salted caramel truffles—each also adorned with sprigs of lavender and rosemary.
And if I wasn’t hungover enough to dry heave, I would start my day with one. It is vacation, after all.
Everything feels rustic but pristine and it’s an occupational hazard—my art director brain that never fully turns off—that makes me instantly think about how I might switch out the thistle rug and add an additional bedside lamp. Then this would be a lovely place to shoot.
Great natural light.
For people with actual jobs.
But no time for that. Because I have to attempt to drag myself out of bed and get myself dressed—with one functional arm. It’s been years and years since my shoulder hurt like this, and I can only vaguely remember what to do about it—especially while far from home.
Now, I pad through white barn doors into the bathroom, equally bright and cheerful, with a contemporary egg-shaped tub that is most definitely calling my name later in the trip. According to a letter-pressed card by the sink, even the marbled hand soap is made on-site.
I manage to brush my teeth and smooth my hair a bit, at least. I bury my nose in that soap—notes of berries and simpler times.
Then I return to my bedroom in search of coffee.
Sadly, when I check out my little snack nook, there is only tea.
But lord knows I’m not going into the common area and risking running into him.
So, as much as my hungover body is dying for a heavier dose of caffeine, I make myself a sad cup of Earl Grey, dunking the tea bag with my one good hand.
Clasping my mug, I slide open the glass doors and step out onto my private patio.
It’s lovely. Which is a theme here. The air is warm and fragrant.
Under a tree canopy, Adirondack rocking chairs overlook vineyard fields, neat green rows that seem to smile up at me as they reach toward the sun.
I place my cup on a simple side table as I walk toward the railing to get a better look.
The sky is an unmarked blue that’s reserved for only the most special San Francisco days but is de rigueur here.
And I am so consumed with the view that, when a low voice murmurs “Morning” from behind me, I startle and almost fall to my death off the deck.
I whip around to find Noah sitting in a chair to my left, and I do it too fast to remember to be mindful of my arm. Before I can decide whether to respond politely or growl at him, I am clutching my shoulder and yelping in unbridled pain.
Apparently, this terrace is less private than I thought.
He jumps up and crosses to me, setting his coffee cup down.
Of course he has coffee. See? I am overachieving. Even through the pain, I can resent him.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks, standing in front of me. All tall and… ugh.
“It doesn’t,” I squeak.
He doesn’t even bother to shoot me an impatient look. “Nell—Eleanor. Whatever your name is. Where does it hurt?”
At a loss, I gesture with my other hand toward my shoulder.
“Sit for a second, okay?”
I am resigned.
I let Noah lead me to one of the rocking chairs. I collapse into it in defeat as it reverberates.
He kneels in front of me. And, as he settles in, I take the opportunity to observe him from above. He’s in a gray T-shirt and athletic shorts, both a perfect fit. And he has clearly recently returned from a run because they’re both clinging to his body ever so slightly.
Maybe he doesn’t play sports anymore, at least not in hopes of a career, but he has definitely kept himself in fighting shape. The California sun has done him well too. His chest is lean. His arms are toned. His legs are tan, except where I note—with a pang—a large scar at his knee.
He leans toward me and it takes everything in my power not to back away.
He smells like men’s deodorant and freshly brewed coffee and…
him. And his proximity is doing something unholy to me even through the pain.
It has been a beat since I’ve had decent sex.
Things with Alfie had been strained for a while—and, if I’m honest, he was never the most thrilling in that department anyway.
It was all kind of rote, and he was never very interested in taking direction.
But this is something else—something age-old and unfinished coming to call.
I cross my legs and will my eyes away from Noah’s defined arms, chest, and legs and back to his face.
Below a creased brow, his eyes scan me like I might be feral. Like he isn’t sure how to approach. Can he help me? Will I bite?
Against my will, I feel a pang of affection. And coupled with the other pangs shooting through me, it’s a problem.
We both exhale. The air around us seems to still.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, quietly, gently.
Fuck.
“Why?” I demand, scared for a moment that he has read my mind.
Noah cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “So that I can check out your rotator cuff?”
“Right. Fine. I guess so.” I roll my eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “First, you’re going to have to let go.”
It is only in this instant that I realize I’ve been clutching my shoulder with my opposite hand. I slowly release my death grip and exhale sharply, the searing pain dissipating the tiniest bit.