Backslide

Chapter 10 Nellie Today #3

Damien looks at me expectantly, from under his blond lashes, like it’s my turn to speak. “Yes,” I say. Because I don’t have other words.

“I get you too, you know,” he says. “You and I are so alike. That’s why I knew you could handle a gummy. Noah always wants to believe you’re tamer than you are. But you’re an undercover wild child. I know that.”

This statement confuses me because I am now positive that Noah was one hundred percent right about the gummy. But also, yeah! I could be a wild child! Whatever that means.

“The thing is,” he continues, “girls always liked me a lot growing up—and they still do now, to be honest. You know that. I’m not trying to be cocky. But, like, it’s true.”

I nod. And not just because I have lost all other functions.

What he’s saying is weirdly accurate, though I have never understood it myself.

While not being the best looking or remotely trustworthy, Damien is deeply charismatic—in a sociopathic kind of way.

He’s an expert flirt. In high school, there were even periods when we would talk on the phone and I soaked up that singular focus.

The more attention he got from women, the more alive he became.

I cannot count the number of girls who confided in me back in the day that they were hooking up with him in secret.

At one point, two close friends of mine revealed their respective secret relationships with him to me in the span of a single week!

How he convinced them all to keep it on the DL is beyond me. But the guy is funny. And successful now, I guess. And I will admit he is truly gifted at making you feel like you’re in a secret club together—with everyone else on the outside.

Which is what he is doing with me right now. I assume out of boredom.

And I think I’m supposed to be flattered by his attention. But he has deeply misjudged my mental state. I’m not sure how I would handle this shit on a good day—but right now?

I cannot.

“Anyway,” he says, running his thumb up and down the edge of a white paper napkin. “I guess I’ve always wondered: Why didn’t we ever get together?”

What?! This just took a turn.

I am functional enough to bark out, “Noah!”

“Right, I know. But you guys broke up for a second once or twice during high school and I actually met you first. I guess I should have stepped in when I had the chance.”

It’s true that Noah and I took a couple of breaks, but we always got back together within days. Neither of us dated anyone else.

I am struck dumb. And I am so hot. And dizzy as hell. And all I can think about is the trickle of sweat trailing its way slowly down my back. I am also going down.

“And, like, now we both wound up back in New York,” Damien is saying, eyes on the table in front of him and then shifting focus to me.

“And I should have texted you or whatever—DMed you instead of assuming one day we’d run into each other.

’Cause now you’re engaged, and it just feels like we missed our chance. And what if we were meant to be?”

It occurs to me, even in my only semi-lucid state, that if we were meant to be, we would be.

That’s sort of the point. But I do not have the tools to express that concept or somehow explain to this man—who I assume is just having a moment in the movie of his life versus expressing actual feelings—that we never got together because ew.

“You’re just so stunning,” he says, gazing at me.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, gazing back.

He crinkles his nose, thrown off for a moment, but then thankfully he’s too high to clock the true weirdness of that transition.

And, so, despite my fear of moving at all, I take the opportunity while he’s distracted to stand up, unstick my dress from my ass and thighs ever so elegantly, grab my bag, and go wander in search of a make-believe bathroom.

Make-believe, because I clearly don’t have to pee. There is no liquid left inside me. I have sweat it all out.

“Be right back!” I lie as I reach the sidewalk and start walking away.

“I think the bathroom is this way!” Damien calls from behind me. But I don’t turn around.

As quickly as I can, I round the corner into a patch of shade underneath the awning of an olive oil store.

Thank the fucking Lord.

This isn’t the first time olive oil saved me, I think. What?

I lean back against the cool stone exterior and close my eyes and the sensation is like a dream. Thank you, thank you, thank you. There’s even a slight breeze worrying the leaves on the surrounding trees.

Oh, sweet relief.

The good news is I have escaped the sun—and Damien. The bad news is, I can’t ever move from this spot again. And it would be inconvenient to be arrested for vagrancy.

That’s when I hear someone clear their throat.

A police officer already? Oh no! I’m high! Oh, wait. It’s legal. It is legal, right?

My heart pounding, I peek one eye open to find Noah standing in front of me in place of a cop, all tall and smug and not at all sweaty.

He only glistens.

Fucker.

“Oh. It’s just you,” I exhale, relieved despite myself.

“Not the most flattering take, but okay yeah fine,” he says, toggling his head. “Just me. More importantly, what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? I could have sworn you were leaning against a building, talking to yourself again.”

“I was meditating,” I insist. “You’re not evolved enough to understand.”

“No, I get it. You’re at one with the facade.”

“With all of Planet Earth.”

“Really? Even with me?”

At that, I open my other eye. “No. Not with you. Only humanity.”

He rolls his eyes. Looks me over, head to toe, which I do not feel like a laser scanning me.

“You look hot,” he says, finally.

And I get a flash of heat between my legs. “Th-thanks,” I stumble.

“No. I mean, sure. You look hot that way too. You always do,” he says, now a bit flustered, his eyes glancing off and skittering away from my falling top. “But I meant hot like temperature. From the sun. Which I know you hate. Are you okay?”

Dammit. Why does this man know me so well? Have I really barely changed in twenty-some-odd years?

I don’t have the will to fight it. I must confess.

“I’m so hot,” I admit, letting myself droop.

“And not at all in the good way—even I know that. Look at me!” I lift my hair up off my neck and lean my head back.

“And I can’t get water. Because I’m too scared to try to use Apple Pay right now because what if I can’t scan it correctly because I’m… you know.”

“Too high?”

I scowl. “Whatever.”

His eyes say I told you so, but his lips—full and soft in a way I don’t notice—say, “Come with me.”

“No.”

“Nell.”

“Eleanor to you.”

“Eleanor. Fine. C’mon.”

“Why?”

“Because I can help you.”

I shake my head. “Never go to the second location. It’s the kiss of death.”

“Except when you know the person can help you stop freaking the fuck out.”

“What if you know the person is deranged?”

He rubs a hand over his hair like he might make a wish—for me to stop being a pain in the ass. “Eleanor!”

“Aren’t you going to lecture me on how I should have known better?”

He shrugs. “I would, but it’s not that fun.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re kind of pathetic.”

My mouth drops open. “What the hell!”

“Just come with me.” He reaches out a hand like there’s a universe in which I would take it. He rolls his eyes, then motions for me to follow.

“Fine!” I relent. “But wherever we’re going better not be hot.”

Noah moves to touch my elbow and guide me forward, but I snarl, so he jumps back and gestures with his chin instead.

He makes his way down a short block, past a cheerful children’s bookstore and a hippie candle shop with batiked muumuus in the window.

The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon buns wafts from a small bakery with a chalkboard sign outside that reads “SPICE UP YOUR DAY!”

We round the corner and suddenly the street opens into a large town square.

And looking at it, I feel like I can breathe again.

The plaza is green and placid, and there are black metal benches shaded by trees—redwoods, cedars, spruces, and palms. In the center, there is a simple fountain by a small marigold garden.

And just seeing the water bubble up and splash eases the tension in my chest a bit.

“Oh, thank God,” I murmur. Apparently out loud. Because Noah smiles at me, seemingly against his will.

We cross to the small park area and settle on a bench, blessedly out of the sun. The relief is palpable, despite the mixed company.

“What time is it?” I sigh.

He looks at his watch. “I think the van is picking us up in about thirty minutes to take us to the restaurant for pizza.”

Panic surges through me. “Thirty minutes?! Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t let John see me like this!”

“Who the hell is John?” he snaps more sharply than is warranted. “Your fiancé? I thought he wasn’t coming? I feel like that wasn’t his name.”

“Fiancé?” Right. In theory I have a fiancé. “No.”

“There’s another guy you’re dating?”

“No!”

“Then who’s John?”

“The driver.”

“The driver… of the van?”

“Yes!”

Is it me or does Noah look relieved? And then amused.

“And John can’t see you high because…?”

“I don’t want him to be disappointed!”

Noah tilts his head, looks at me. Hard. And I think I see a flash of pity cross his face as his expression softens.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t be disappointed,” he says, quietly. Then, he starts digging into a market tote bag that I just now notice he’s been carrying by the handle.

“What’s in there?”

“The medicine for your arm, for one thing.”

“You picked it up?”

“I figured you might forget… in your state.”

“Why didn’t you forget? Didn’t you also take a gummy?”

“I did, stoner. But some of us are not lightweights—and know it.”

Stoner. What he called me on that first day we talked.

When I first met Noah, he never really drank or smoked pot. At least not during baseball season. I guess he has since dabbled and learned his limits.

I open my mouth to protest, but what’s the point?

“Here.” He hands me an unopened bottle of iced green tea.

“You got this for me?”

“No. I got it for me. But if you’re dying of thirst, you can have it.”

I shrug. Beggars can’t be choosers. I take a sip. “I prefer raspberry.”

Noah rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time. But I don’t care—because the drink is cold and refreshing like an oasis in my mouth and, as an added bonus, I have successfully annoyed him.

“This is pretty,” I say, taking in our surroundings, the other duos on benches having no doubt more normal conversations. “How did you know about this spot?”

“I’ve been here before,” he says.

Right. He is a California boy now. He might live in LA, but wine country is just a hop, skip, and a jump for him. I wonder who he’s come here with—girlfriends, friends, the team? I glitch on the idea of his girlfriends. I wonder what they’re like, how many there have been.

But I don’t ask. Because I have no right. Instead I say: “Today is weird.”

“Well, sure,” he says. “Wait. I have something to help with that too.”

And, from the gourmet market tote, he pulls out an individual box of Cheerios.

At the sight of it, something catches in my throat and I almost start to cry.

What is with me today? This week? This year?

How can dry cereal be a time machine? And yet, it is. Shooting me back through the space-time continuum to the day we first really spoke in Ben’s kitchen, before all the hurt and the messiness. Before everything after that. Before now.

Our eyes meet. And there is so much there, I cannot even begin to unravel it. What lies beneath the yellow flecks in his irises that I’d forgotten were there. Years and days and no time at all.

Why is he sitting here with me? Is he tolerating me? Doing his duty by me? Or is it more?

Without a word, Noah hands me the box. I open it and start to eat and, just like that day so many millennia ago, I quickly start to feel more like myself. I scoop up a little handful and hold it out toward him, a peace offering. He takes me up on it, popping an o in his mouth.

I think about telling him about Damien’s question about our romantic past—but why? It’s meaningless and can only cause trouble. I decide to keep my mouth shut.

The breeze has picked up, cooling the damp nape of my neck and my thighs beneath my skirt. It ruffles the hem. Tickles my calves.

Having finished his Cheerios, Noah is leaning back against the bench beside me, his strong hands resting on the thighs of his perfect worn-out jeans. I feel like tipping my head onto his broad shoulder, giving in to whatever this is I’m feeling. My guard is down, I reason. That’s why.

It’s only nostalgia.

Just feet away, a small spaniel chases a rogue leaf. From inside a hexagonal pavilion on the other end of the plaza, a quartet starts playing, something big band and age-old. And, for some reason, I feel filled up.