Chapter 20 Nellie Today #5
“What makes you say that?” Noah turns his phone to face me, revealing a similar barrage of messages from Ben.
“Wait—Ben is having a neurotic meltdown too?”
“She took over his phone.”
“She doesn’t have your number?”
“No, she definitely does.”
Noah returns to cooking, which is sort of funny to watch—he is very determined, his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on the instructions.
I suspect this is what he looks like in surgery.
Meanwhile, I text Cara and let her know that we’ll survive but not be back until tomorrow.
Cara
Thank God!
I see the telltale dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
I roll my eyes.
Nellie
Yes, Cara. The oysters are fine.
Cara
Oh. Okay, cool. I wasn’t even going to ask.
Sure.
I know that she ran directly to Sabrina and told her that Noah and I are stuck because, a few minutes later, I get a text from Sab with multiple eggplant, taco, and winky face emojis. And that’s when I decide I was happier without service and turn off my phone.
Good timing because dinner is ready!
Noah and I sit across from each other on stools at the small breakfast bar. We each have a cider open in front of us. It’s… intimate. It feels domestic and homey in a way that I both love and hate.
I throw my hair in a sloppy bun. And look up to find him watching me.
“I like your hair like that.”
“Apocalyptic from the rain?”
“No. Wild and like… natural.”
“Thanks,” I smile.
If he thinks I have natural highlights, I am not going to tell him different.
I bite into the pasta on my plate and whoa, this man does not have talent in the kitchen—it is all reserved for medicine, sports, and sex stuff—because, somehow, he has messed this up. The pasta is so undercooked that al dente doesn’t begin to describe it.
“Delicious,” I say, as a piece of pasta crunches audibly in my mouth. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He takes a bite too, then pauses mid-chew.
“You’re welcome.” He scratches his head. “I think I may have undercooked the pasta.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Cook the pasta at all?”
His mouth drops open and then he cracks a wide grin, shrugging with his palms up. “I told you I couldn’t cook.”
“No. No. I can’t cook. You can’t boil water.”
He laughs, loud and big. And it fills up the entire tiny cottage. Completely infectious.
“Fair enough.” He takes a big bite anyway. And I follow suit.
Honestly, the food is bad, but, after our day and in this little house with the rain pouring down outside, it tastes oddly good.
I look at him sideways, wonder about him in the world. Noah, in his twenties, in his thirties, navigating medical school and summer jobs, internships and relationships.
I snag on that last thought. And get suddenly curious. In a dangerous way.
“So,” I say, oh so subtly. “Did your ex cook?”
He looks up at that, wariness in his eyes. “My ex?”
“Well, I mean, maybe I should say ‘exes’? I honestly have no idea. But Rita mentioned someone…”
“Avery,” he nods.
Avery? I hate her instantly.
“What was the deal with… Avery?”
“The deal?” He pauses to look up at the ceiling and consider what comes next.
I try not to stare at the way the dim lighting casts shadows across his face, accenting his cheekbones and strong chin.
Damn. Why does he have to look like that?
“She’s a d-girl—like a development exec at a studio,” he starts.
“One of the guys on the team—his wife—introduced us at a pool party.”
“Be honest: Did you meet in the pool? Or the hot tub?” I gasp. “Wait! Do you seduce all your women in water?”
“Um. First of all, no. She didn’t even swim that day.”
Of course. I roll my eyes.
“Second, I did not seduce you.”
“What would you call it?”
“Mutual. At least, I hope?”
He is asking and so, against my will, I nod. Yes. Fine. If I must. Mutual.
Probably he is being generous. I’m the one who would have let it play out, let the chips—and his hands—fall where they may.
The memory of it ricochets through me. I cross my legs and will it away.
“Anyway, she was smart and from the East Coast and, yes, she could really cook,” he says.
I was with him for the first two.
“So, what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it obviously didn’t work out,” I say, sweeping my arm around the general space to indicate that she’s not here. No Avery in the cabinet or under the chair. “So why did it end?”
“Honestly,” he says, scratching his temple. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Did she hate that you travel a lot?”
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “I don’t.”
“You don’t travel with the team? I just assumed.” Now, I’m surprised.
“I mean, occasionally, but mostly I’m on the ground for home games. And a couple of times a week, I’ll head to the training room the day before or after a game. Or my partner in my practice will. But most of the time, I just see patients at our office.”
Interesting. Then maybe not so much a girl in every port—or airport lounge.
“Anyway, it’s not that anything was wrong per se, which is part of what made it hard to end it. It was time to commit for real or move on and… it just didn’t feel right.”
Suddenly, I feel defensive on Avery’s behalf, outrage rising in my chest. “So, what? You just dumped her after she wasted all this time on you? Ghosted her? Cheated?”
Like you did me.
I don’t say the words, but they hang between us all the same.
“No,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to feel the way I was supposed to—but I couldn’t. I told her upfront, a few months before the end. We went to therapy, but I just couldn’t get there.”
I nod, quieted. Remind myself he’s not eighteen-year-old Noah. He is not the same.
“Honestly,” he continues, “this has happened over and over with me. There’s nothing wrong on paper. There’s just something… missing. I don’t know. Maybe my expectations are too high.”
I don’t want to relate to this but I do. So close, yet so far. My relationship mantra. And I never wanted to settle.
Because, somehow, I always sensed that there was something better. And now, with a sharp intake of breath, I fear I know why.
“I wonder the same thing,” I say carefully. “But—and I mean this more than anything—I would always rather be alone than with the wrong person.”
He nods solemnly. “Exactly.”
His gaze falls to my face, which he examines so intently that I no longer know what to do with it—part my lips, blink, arch my brows.
It’s like he can read my thoughts.
I stretch my neck, side to side, pretending not to feel the effects of his focus on me, hot and heavy.
“I owe you an apology,” he says finally, eyes downcast for a moment but then flitting back up to find mine.
“The pasta was pretty undercooked.” I smile, taking a sip of cider.
“Not for that.”
“Oh. For… it’s okay.” No part of me wants to discuss this, but I charge ahead.
I am trying to be a grown-up, which is not my strength.
“Look—when you stopped things in the hot tub, I got angry. But I think I was mostly embarrassed. Because I thought… but now I realize that, even if you panicked, you did the right thing. By stopping things before they got out of hand. Well, more out of hand.”
“I don’t mean that either.”
And then I let myself know what he means.
There’s a silence as the weight of his sentiment descends, landing inside me so differently than when I’d imagined him saying these words to me. So many times. Over so many years. Until it cycled almost entirely out of my daydream rotation.
It doesn’t make me feel vindicated; it makes me feel sad.
“When I think back to the day you reached out and told me… that you might be pregnant, and the way I acted—” Noah pauses, his brow furrowed, his palm flat on the island like it might keep us steady. “I would have killed any guy who treated my sister that way. I was…”
“A child.”
“Yes. And no.”
“Noah. We were kids. It was a million years ago. And you were already grappling with watching your future, as you thought you knew it, crumble under your feet.”
And I realize I mean it. Maybe I really can begin to forgive that eighteen-year-old boy.
“We were, but it still mattered—and it matters now,” he says, his eyes dark and haunted. “It’s still the moment I regret most in my life. Because what I did, that choice in that instant, kickstarted a domino effect that destroyed everything in its path.”
“Not everything.”
“No?”
“No. Because look at you,” I say, with what I realize is genuine fondness and maybe even a little awe.
I rest my palm on top of his strong hand.
I don’t notice how nice it is or how the contact reverberates through me because I am impervious.
“You’re a doctor. And a good guy. A full person.
With friends and a life, away from the toxic shit we grew up around.
And maybe that would never have happened for you if those dominos hadn’t fallen. ”
He looks at me, a little slyly, glancing from my face to my hand and back again. Feeling exposed, I’m tempted to pull my palm away, but don’t. Instead, I play chicken with myself. “Thanks for saying that, Nell… can I call you Nell, again?”
“Let’s just assume yes. For now.”
“The truth is,” he says, avoiding my eyes for a beat again. “A big part of what motivated me all these years was… you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, now resolute and gazing at me fiercely.
“I wanted to show you what I could do. I wanted to prove… anyway. You’re being generous, but the truth is it’s not okay.
What I did was unforgivable. And I know even if you’re trying, it may never be possible for you to fully let that hurt—that betrayal—go.
Which I hate. But I don’t blame you for being pissed.
Even so many years later. I treated you like shit. You didn’t deserve that.”