Backslide

Chapter 22 Nellie Today

I wake up in the morning, tangled up in Noah. I am dazed and toasty. And it’s a stellar way to start the day.

Today at five p.m. is Cara and Ben’s big un-wedding party—the culmination of the whole trip. If the song on the Saturday itinerary isn’t “White Wedding” by Billy Idol, I’ll eat every single oyster in the cooler myself—shells and all.

Outside, the sun is clearly shining, blasting through the windows like it’s finally back from vacation and it’s got some stories to tell. The storm is over.

It was a long night in all the best ways. And, on top of being… on top, I feel like it was really cathartic too.

We got resolution. We got satisfaction.

Sleep is overrated.

This felt like the kind of night that’s an end and a beginning. And considering how formative my relationship with Noah was—or first love always is—and how long I carried anger toward him, and maybe myself, this feels like a major step forward.

So, I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

The day is rife with possibilities. Possibilities that extend beyond this hotel room, all the way to my life in NYC. My friendships, my work, the bodega cat—what’s next.

In the dark last night, while I traced my finger back and forth across the scar by Noah’s knee, we talked and talked and talked; we ate Charleston Chews and drank cider at midnight; we did other things that will haunt—and sustain—me for the rest of my days.

Things that make me blush in the light of day.

But now it’s the morning after. The day after. That sounds so ominous.

Clearly, neither of us is making breakfast—because we got no skills. And that leftover pasta should be put out to pasture.

Plus, we have oysters and cheese to ferry back. So we can’t linger in bed forever.

I sigh, burrowing for a blissful moment further into both the plush bedding and Noah. Press my front into his side. His body is warm with sleep.

For one more brief instant, I am an ostrich with my head in the sand.

Though I have done a good job—by my standards—of pushing questioning thoughts of the future out of my head until now, they’re starting to pop in, uninvited. They carry casseroles of chaos, twelve-packs of panic, cases of doubt.

As much as I don’t want to face reality, it’s coming to call. I surely have at least three hundred texts from Cara already.

I twist my head and peer regretfully up at Noah, who is still sound asleep. Groan quietly against his chest. Resist the urge to press kisses across his rib cage. He is a sight to behold in the dawn’s early light, sun particles percolating around him like fairy dust.

How did I ever tolerate Alfie?

Noah’s lashes are black against his cheek, his lips parted, the scruff on his jaw just a little heavier than the previous day’s.

His chest, which I’ve been using as a pillow, looks even more sculpted in daylight and he’s got one perfect tanned leg sticking out from beneath the comforter.

Basically, he’s like a not overly worked-out Greek god.

And the last thing I want to do is get up.

But I must. Because—as much as I now acknowledge that there’s something real between us, that there always has been, that he is not the same boy he was when I knew him and yet still is in the good ways—I also know that there’s no future for us. I live in New York. He lives in LA.

We have full lives that we’re not just going to uproot for each other. We wouldn’t do it then, and we won’t do it now. The truth is, just because we’ve both caught feelings and a license to bone, doesn’t mean that we would work in the real world.

There’s so much more to a relationship than that.

And I am looking at him likely with as much doubt as affection when he opens one eye, peers at me, and murmurs, “Stop freaking out.”

“What makes you think I’m freaking out?”

“Because,” he says, “you’re freaking out.”

I sit up and he pulls me back down. “Noah, I have to get up.”

He shakes his head. “I have better ideas.”

I giggle because of course I do. But I am also all business. “Look, mister,” I say, poking him in the chest. “Take your ideas elsewhere. We need coffee and we need food. And we need to get the fuck back to Sonoma, assuming the flooding has subsided—because Cara is probably mid-coronary.”

“She’ll survive,” Noah yawns, turning on his side to face me and nudging me with his knee. “Besides, I’m also mid-coronary.”

“Really? Your heart seems just fine to me.”

“No, really,” he insists. “Feel it.”

I roll my eyes but lean forward and press my hand flat to his chest—but it’s a trick! He grabs me and pulls me on top of him again.

“Okay. All better,” he says, his arms wrapped around me as I straddle him.

“Oh, thank God. I’m a miracle worker. Take me on the road.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “I’ll take you anywhere.”

It’s a pretty convincing argument—the hard planes of his body under mine. A perfect fit. His lids still heavy with sleep.

I bury my face in his neck. Breathe him in. But then I escape, scooting to the bathroom before he can stop me.

I will get my head on straight.

Cara has indeed texted. A lot.

She is worried about the oysters. But also us. But mostly the oysters.

And she’s a little bit worried about the explosive combination of me and Noah.

Cara

I’m so sorry! I would never have sent you without me if I thought you’d get stuck with HIM! Are you okay?

Nellie

I’m okay.

Cara

Was it torture?

I consider that question: Has being with Noah been torture? A little at first. And then it’s been a dream. But there’s more punishment coming down the pike when we part ways, I let myself admit.

Part of me wants to confess it all to her, share in ways I have historically been hesitant—the good and the bad. But that would involve revealing so much at once—the truth about Alfie, the truth about the hot tub, the truth about last night. And this is her big day. Or un-big day.

I will not make this about me.

Also, the last twenty-four hours with Noah have been so special, as if protected by some kind of magical force field.

I kind of want to keep them to myself, at least for a little while longer.

I’m afraid, once they see the light of day, weather the storm of other people’s eyes, questions, thoughts, they’ll start to morph and fade.

And I can’t have that. Because I need them to carry me for a bit.

Nellie

No worries! We did just fine. Almost behaved like adults.

It’s true-ish.

Noah eventually gets up, though he tries to fool me back into bed at least twice more.

Outside, the sun is indeed making an appearance, but it’s a bit overcast intermittently here—marine layer fogging up the sky. There’s a chill in the air that I know will lift once we make our way back toward the estate.

We get dressed to both of our chagrin. We go for a walk, down tiny wildflower-lined streets to a flat sandy expanse of beach that is almost entirely our own—a best-kept-secret spot. We laugh and tease and hold hands and chase each other like idiots. The sea air styles my hair.

We return our key. We leave. We pick up the flowers at the flower farm, regretfully declining the tour of the meadows and the floral design class Cara had booked for the day before.

We’re short on time. Next, we pick up sea salt honey, chestnut meringue, and wineberry pies from a bakery that smells like joy, but decline the sourdough-bread-baking experience.

And though we don’t get to have the incredible dinner with Rhode Island clam chowder and fried saltines on the water at Nick’s Cove, we do pick up the world’s best breakfast sandwiches with eggs and apple-smoked bacon from a counter restaurant along the road that Cara texts us to try.

She has missed her calling as a travel agent, as much as that’s still a job.

And so we are driving up the coast inhaling our sandwiches, the rental car’s trunk packed with local delicacies, when I finally get up the courage to have “the talk” with Noah.

And by “courage” I mean that for the past few miles, I have been staring at the side of his ruggedly handsome face willing myself to broach this topic without ruining the trip at the very end.

“What?” he says, finally.

“What, what?”

He tears his eyes away from the road long enough to shoot me a cut-the-crap look.

“You’ve been staring at me mournfully since the vineyards reappeared.”

“Grapes make me sad.”

“Said no one in history.” He sighs. “Out with it. Whatever it is, you’re going to say it eventually, so you might as well cut to the chase.”

When I don’t speak, he lays a hand on my thigh and squeezes lightly. I never want him to take it away—which sends my mind down another perilous neural pathway.

I can’t need him.

I will do this! I clear my throat. “Noah, the last day with you has been… so special. You are so special.”

“Uh-oh. Is one of us dying?”

“No!”

“Okay. That’s a relief. Continue then.”

I exhale. “When two people are attracted to each other…”

“Oh!” He grins. “I get it. This is a sex talk. You don’t need to bother. I already know how it works… although if that wasn’t obvious last night and early this morning, maybe I have bigger problems.”

I shoot him an impatient look. “Noah. Be serious. Listen. Long ago…”

“In a land far, far away called New Amsterdam…”

“Noah!”

He is cracking up and, though his laugh is adorable, I want to kill him. On the upside, my frustration is a motivator for me to blurt out: “Shut up for a second, please!”

And he does.

“What I’m trying to say is that last night was so great, all of yesterday was amazing.

Beyond amazing. But it can’t happen again because we have no future together and I live in New York and you live here and we’ve broken each other’s hearts enough and it feels really good to finally not be mad at you anymore after so many years and so, yeah. Okay?”

There’s a moment of silence while he absorbs this and I catch my breath.

“No,” he shrugs.

“No?”

“Yup, that’s what I said. No.”

“No to what?”

“No to all of it.”

“Noah… you can’t just say no!”

“Yes, I can. And I just did. Anyway, is it my turn to speak now? You had your chance. And, honestly, it was not your best work.”

I cross my arms over my chest and purse my lips. “Fine!”

Without warning, he pulls the car over onto a little patch of grass by a dirt road and turns to face me.

“What are you doing?”

“Having the talk you wanted.”

“But the oysters…”

“The oysters are headed nowhere good. They won’t mind stopping.”

I grumble but give in.

We’re back in full sun country and the light is blasting bright behind Noah’s head like a sign.

Like he is destiny. Which I’m worried I’m starting to feel he is.

And that’s dangerous. I need to have this talk, create ground rules, because it’s the grown-up thing to do.

But it’s also about self-preservation. I am not at all sure I trust myself.

“You’re not wrong,” he says. “About our history, about our separate lives, about how much I rocked your world last night.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He toggles his head. “Mm. I’m pretty sure you did.”

“Maybe that’s what you heard.”

“That is definitely what I heard—multiple times.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

I try not to blush. “But you’re wrong about a few things, too.

First of all, I don’t live here. I live in LA.

A city you love. Where you have lived before.

Where there are many opportunities for art directors should they decide that winter is kind of bullshit and the sushi is better.

Second of all… well, I can’t remember second of all.

But the gist is this: You’re getting way ahead of yourself. ”

“Am I now?” I roll my eyes. “Tell me more.”

“The long term may be complicated, but this moment is not,” he says.

“We have one more night together before we all leave tomorrow. I get that the idea of the future scares you. Okay. That’s fine.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s impossible.

But there’s no reason why we can’t see what happens before then, let tonight unfold however it will. There’s no reason to shut it down.”

He has a point. Maybe I am getting ahead of myself.

Maybe the new me can just be in this moment and get what I can out of my time with him, then carry it with me as I reapproach my real life.

At the very least, this experience has reminded me not to settle—not for the Alfies of the world. Not for anyone.

Noah sees me wavering and goes in for the kill.

“Please don’t tell me I never get to kiss you again.” There is so much earnestness in his face that I fold on the spot. “Deal?” he says, offering his hand for a shake.

Can I do this? Can I trust myself not to get too invested? Not to overthink? To just enjoy the time I have?

Maybe. But only if I can maintain real clarity.

“Not so fast,” I say, leaving his hand hovering over the center console.

“I will agree not to rule anything out completely if, and only if, this all stays between us. I can’t deal with having to answer questions or hear opinions or process judgments or anything like that.

I need to know that all decisions, questions, and concerns are my own. ”

He considers this. “Fair,” he says. “So we good? Not to pressure you, but there’s a giant flock of wild turkeys running toward the car and I’m a little scared.”

I swivel around and indeed the giant birds are squawking toward us at full speed.

I link my own finger around his pinky and wiggle.

“I was really going for more of an actual handshake.”

“Shut up, Noah,” I say and kiss him hard on the lips.

“That works,” he says, once I pull away. Then he pulls back onto the road before the wild turkeys go wild on us.