Chapter 22 #2
He put on a halfhearted smile, downplaying his admission with a shrug.
I observed a familiar ache in his eyes. It was a longing to feel consequential, a desire to leave a mark on the world, a yearning to have done something meaningful.
And it was one I understood, one I had felt an infinite number of times.
I wanted nothing more than to write my own books and have them matter, and Noah wanted nothing more than to play his own songs and have them matter.
“I can understand that.” I eyed him before continuing, “Do you get to play your own music?”
“Now and then, yeah. I’m playing a show at the Sparrow House in Denver. I’m just an opener for a local band. It’s not really a huge deal, but . . .” he trailed off, again offering a shrug.
“No, that’s a big deal.” I leaned forward. “When is it?”
“Next week.”
“Noah, that’s awesome,” I insisted.
“Thanks. So . . .” he halted, seemingly assessing whether he should continue. “Is there a guy in the picture? Someone waiting for you back in New York?” His voice was hopeful yet cautious.
“If there was, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
Noah nodded and didn’t take his eyes off me. Oddly, I didn’t want him to look away. I held his gaze. He leaned back, his foot grazing mine. Neither one of us moved.
“How’s someone like you single?” he asked without breaking eye contact. My heart raced. What kind of girl was I in his eyes? And more importantly, how was I going to explain my being alone?
I cleared my throat. “Well, New York has a lot of guys. But not necessarily a lot of good guys, unfortunately.” I looked down at my hands folded in my lap, attempting to fend off the wave of embarrassment threatening to wash over me, before it dawned on me that this was the perfect opportunity to uncover what had happened with Noah’s high school girlfriend, Alice Sullivan.
“What about you? If memory serves, you and Alice were attached at the hip in high school. Prom king and queen, the It Couple.”
Noah scratched his head and offered a tired smile. “We, uh, dated on and off for a while. But I think we just ended up wanting different things.”
“What different things?” I probed.
He exhaled, thinking. “She never understood why I wanted to move to Nashville in the first place. She’d kind of check out when I talked about music or wanting to get out. I think it overwhelmed her.”
I nodded in understanding. The itch for something else—something more—had always overwhelmed my parents too.
“Anyway, we broke up a little less than a year ago. And I think this time, it’s gonna stick.”
Stephanie marched up to the table with two glasses of water. “I totally forgot to drop these off earlier. Sorry, guys.”
Noah grinned. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll be right back with your food too,” she promised before disappearing. Noah turned his attention back to me.
“Didn’t you say you were writing a book?”
I filled him in on the various details of the book I was writing for Liv, explaining how our meetings worked, the process of getting a book published, and what my day to day looked like. Soon enough, our food arrived.
“So, what’s it like, ghostwriting?” Noah asked, slicing a sliver of steak.
“It’s—it’s, uh, good,” I squeaked, cutting open the chicken.
Steam cascaded out, beckoning me to dig in.
“You know, it’s a job,” I tacked on before taking my first bite—the perfect combination of crunchy and juicy.
Maybe the Bistro wasn’t a Michelin-star restaurant, but their fried chicken was more gratifying than anything I’d tasted at an artsy, posh, tiny-portion restaurant in the city.
Noah’s eyes narrowed.
“What?” I mumbled through my full mouth, grinning awkwardly.
“I know it’s a job, but I want to know how you like it.” He waited, fixing his eyes on me as he popped a cube of steak into his mouth.
I swallowed. “I mean, it’s fine. It’s . . .” I was unable to think of a word better than fine. None of them would have been totally true.
Noah cocked his head. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, as if I were the only person within a hundred-mile radius.
Or maybe it was the way he’d asked the question with genuine interest. Or maybe it was his earlier confession about his own life that made a more truthful answer than I’d ever given before bubble up.
I exhaled, putting my fork down. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
I chose my next words carefully. “Liv is the kindest person I’ve ever written for. She’s genuine. Sweet. So, in that way, helping her bring her story to life is a nice journey to be a part of.” I paused. Noah stayed with me, awaiting the rest of my thoughts.
“But I don’t know . . . I can’t say it’s my dream to write books for other people.” Had I just said that out loud? I swirled my fork through my mashed potatoes and forced a halfhearted smile, gauging Noah’s response. He nodded, his expression understanding.
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Writing books of my own.”
“Like, stories?” He carved out another bite of steak.
“Yeah. Novels like the ones I grew up reading. Stories that are good and beautiful, that I can call mine, that will mean something to someone. I just . . . I want to touch someone. I want to make someone feel what I’ve felt with the books I’ve loved most. You know—understood, seen.
And I can’t remember a time when that wasn’t what I wanted. ”
I leaned back. Had I gotten too intense? Too earnest? “I don’t know if that makes sense,” I sighed, loading a portion of mash onto my fork.
“Man, do I know that feeling.” Noah’s words were colored with sincerity, with a knowing. I took him up on what seemed like an invitation.
“Why music? What do you love about it?”
Noah pondered my question, rubbing his hands together.
“At the risk of sounding cliché, music was the place where I felt like I could explore what I was going through. My disappointments, hopes, fears. It started with the music I’d listen to—Sufjan Stevens, Bright Eyes, Death Cab for Cutie.
And then it grew into the music I’d write. ”
“When did you start writing music?” Had he always had this side to him even when I knew him? Had I just missed it somehow?
He squinted in thought as he dipped a piece of steak into his potatoes. “Around sophomore year?”
“Why didn’t the Nomadic Cherubs ever perform any of them?” I asked.
“You remember the Nomadic Cherubs, huh?” Noah’s eyes twinkled, and I flushed red, realizing I’d given myself away.
“I mean, they were the winners of Battle of the Bands,” I joked. He nodded in agreement.
“They were down to do covers. Which was a lot of fun. But the stuff I’d write, they weren’t really into.”
“Why not?”
“I found myself drawn to, for lack of a better term, sad boy music,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
“You know, kind of slow, quiet, lots of guitar. More about lyrics than beat. I guess it makes sense that a group of guys in high school would rather sing something by Journey. Can’t blame them. ” He threw his hands up.
“I’ve always really liked sad boy music too. Or I guess sad girl music,” I chuckled.
“Really?” A grin spread across Noah’s face. I matched him, nodding. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only weirdo.” He winked and leaned back.
We finished our meal over more discussions about the town, our favorite musical artists, and the publishing industry.
It registered as I took the final bite of chicken (despite promising myself I wouldn’t finish the whole thing) that there hadn’t been any lulls in our conversation, no So what should we talk about now?
moments—a first for me. Soon, our plates were cleared and our drinks were long gone. We lingered, nursing our waters.
“So, what’s New York like? I’ve never been, and the only images I have of it are from Elf and Taxi Driver, so I’m assuming it’s somewhere in between.
” Noah smirked, cueing a giggle from me.
Asking for a short explanation of New York was like asking for the SparkNotes version of The Lord of the Rings.
It wasn’t easily done, but that didn’t keep people from asking for it.
“Where do I even begin? It’s nothing like Avila Falls,” I laughed. “It’s a different kind of beautiful. Avila Falls is quiet and kind in its beauty; New York is overwhelming and magical and complicated all at once. Stepping outside your front door feels like stepping out onto a stage.”
“I’d love to go someday,” he said wistfully. Again, the question nudged my mind: Why had he stayed? Noah had big dreams of performing his own music that were bigger than the small-town audience he’d been given, hopes that didn’t match the venues he was playing. What had kept him from leaving?
“You should . . . you could visit me there,” I murmured, hoping I hadn’t sounded too forward or desperate.
“You’d show this small-town boy around the big city?” We grinned at one another. But with the faint glimmer of heartache I noticed in Noah’s eyes, my curiosity finally got the better of me.
“Why haven’t you left, Noah?”
The question sat in the spotlight between us. It was no longer easily ignored, no longer something that could be left unsaid. Noah shifted, bringing his elbows up onto the table and clasping his hands. His eyes drifted off.
“I really wanted to,” he began. A few beats passed. “I was so close. I was looking at apartments out in Nashville, saving up, planning the road trip out there . . .”
“And then what? What happened?”
“I was set to move out at the end of the summer, right after graduation. And then my dad got into a car accident. A spinal injury caused him to be paralyzed from the waist down.” The words poured out of him.
He’d delivered them more than just once.
They were heartbreakingly familiar to him.
And I could only assume that he wished they weren’t.