Chapter 57
HANNAH
Wind rattles the cabin windows, howling from the snowstorm outside. I awake before sunrise, tossing and turning in bed, struggling to fall back to sleep. In tangled sheets, I feel claustrophobic, kicking them completely off so I can breathe. Sweat coats my neck, seeping into my hair.
I stare at the ceiling, debating on staying up until I have no choice but to move and get ready, knowing it’ll kill me later. I can blame it on the wind, but I know what haunts my mind.
The text I received before dinner yesterday from my doctor, explaining we need to go over the recent test results of my blood work had landed a blow. Her wording said it all, and I refuse to look at anything until I see her.
But I know. I know instantly that her message means issues ahead.
My PCOS is a constant reminder of how careful I need to be with how I live and what I consume. Right now, it messes with my sleep, it contorts my brain with thick fog, where I can’t remember some things, and it brings me closer to the diabetic line, like my mother.
I send her a text, knowing she’ll get it sometime in the morning, letting her know I’m okay and I miss her. Still trying to convince her to come down for Christmas, though she keeps dodging the question like it’s an Olympic sport.
Go figure.
Then there’s Noah.
He’s complicated, charming, and frustratingly complicated. It’s his attitude toward my body and my imperfections that baffles me. For someone so beautiful in every shape and form, my body is the last thing he’s turned off by. Rather, he worships it like he’s going to church.
I won’t lie, sometimes I miss his sarcastic remarks, and I find a thrill in the tryst we share, even at the beginning.
I wonder if he’s awake.
Unplugging my phone off the nightstand, I scroll through our open text thread. We barely text as it is, but I can’t sleep, and I wonder if the storm has woken him.
Me: Hey.
Seconds tick by, then minutes, before my phone chimes. I smile.
Noah: Surprised to find you awake, Red.
Propping all the pillows behind my back, I send a text back.
Me: It was a shot in the dark to see if you were awake.
Noah: I rarely sleep.
Huh, interesting.
Me: Same. I guess we have that in common.
Noah: Are you alone?
What an odd question.
Me: Yes?
Is he worried I’m with someone else? No. No, that’s impossible. Noah has flings, and after the travesty of his last relationship, I understand why. There’s no way he’s thinking that someone like me would have another man in bed. Having two men at the same time… I can barely get one to stay.
Noah: Just curious. Did you need something?
Me: Bold of you to assume I need something.
Noah: I can hear the attitude in your voice from here.
Me: I hope it slapped you in the face.
Noah: And what if I like it?
Heat hits my cheeks as his words take effect making my skin flush.
Okay, this isn’t how I thought the conversation was going to go.
Maybe some banter and witty comebacks, but this?
I’ve never done this before. Never…sexted.
Is that what we’re doing? I’m most likely reading into it, as texts can show zero emotion.
I mean, we’ve seen each other naked, had shower sex for crying out loud, and somehow texting Noah makes it feel more… intimate.
But I have nothing to lose.
Me: Do you now?
Noah: Yes, Red. Any mark you leave, I’ll happily wear like a badge of honor.
I take a sharp breath, my chest aching in a weird way. It’s not the normal despair, where someone gives you bad news or a passing of a relative, no, it’s the sense of someone teetering on a line of more than just want on a surface level. And Noah is reaching over that fine line in the snow.
Defensive walls start to take shape, because if he breaches it, I can’t handle the repercussions of the downfall that will surely follow after.
Me: That’s a bit dramatic.
Noah: Just stating the truth. I see no complaints on your end with the hickies I leave on that pretty skin of yours.
Me: Yes, well, I don’t declare my love for them like a poet.
Noah: Is that so wrong? To express what one does to another? How deeply you affect me.
This isn’t the Noah I met a couple of weeks ago. He’s different, bolder, and his words are like honey, sweet, tangling like a web inside my head.
My hands start to shake, anxiety overtakes my whole nervous system. His confession catches me off guard and I send out my best response to deflect.
Me: It’s just sex, Noah.
But I never hear from him again for the rest of the night.
When the early morning hour creeps in, the sun peeking through the blinds, my alarm blares, forcing me to move and get ready.
I check in between my shower and brushing my teeth, even when I call an Uber.
Standing outside the entrance of Snowy Peak, I look over my shoulder, trying to see if I’ll catch him strolling along the snow-covered path, the storm leaving behind frosted trees.
But it’s radio silence the whole drive back to my apartment in Boston, resting my forehead on the icy window, watching the outside world blur.
It’s not just sex. It never was.