Chapter 18 #2
“Define ‘strange.’”
“Well, you’re not smiling,” I explain, exasperated. I wasn’t expecting to have to justify the odd vibe I’ve been getting from him; it’s making me second-guess myself.
But the whiskey is also telling that thought to fuck right off.
“You’re acting…cool.”
“Thank you?” Both his brows furrow, and the thought crosses my mind that I’m probably looking less cute-drunk and more conspiratorial-drunk than I should if I want to maintain an air of normalcy. Meanwhile, Nolan seems completely sober.
“No, not that kind of cool. You know what I mean—aloof, indifferent. You didn’t even laugh at my joke to Freddie when we were leaving.” I can see the sparkle in his eyes again. It’s there, even if it feels distant.
“The one about calling a ship a boat?”
“Yes!”
“I mean, it wasn’t the funniest thing I’ve heard you say, but—”
“Ugh, fine, never mind.” I throw my hands in the air, not sure how to proceed from here.
I thought if I was direct, he’d have no other choice than to come out and talk to me about what’s on his mind.
It doesn’t feel that complicated, especially for someone who wears their heart on their sleeve.
Maybe everything really is fine, and I’ve finally cracked.
The lack of sleep, having to be around Molly all the time, and just a general lack of fulfillment in my life have probably just sent me over the edge.
Oh, God.
“Chloe,” Nolan says, taking a half-step toward me, “I’m…”
I know his next word is going to be “fine,” based on his placating tone and guarded features. He’s closing himself off for some reason. And here I am pushing him to talk.
Shit, I’ve really made a mess of this night.
But before he finishes his sentence, he pauses, biting his lower lip thoughtfully, brows knit in frustration, or despair—I can’t tell.
“No, you’re right,” he finally concedes, and my body relaxes as a sigh escapes my parted lips.
“I didn’t want to say anything, but you’re right.
I’m not good at sorting out my feelings in the moment, and I get all in my head about things sometimes.
I messed up tonight, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about. ”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. My brain has clocked out for the day, and Nolan’s statement makes zero sense to me.
“You messed up? When?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He scrubs a hand along his jaw to the back of his neck, where it comes to a rest as he sighs.
“It was so stupid. The camera thing. I made this whole big deal about you bringing your camera, because I felt like you were really in your element when you filmed me in the kitchens, and I wanted to give you another opportunity to film something not for the show, but for yourself. You’ve mentioned a few times, in our texts, how much you’re not enjoying yourself.
I just wanted to do something that might inspire you a little bit…
But then you explained that you didn’t want to carry your camera around because it was too painful, and I just felt like this huge asshole. ”
I’m stunned. “That’s what you were upset about?”
“I wasn’t upset—not at you. I was angry with myself, for not taking what you might want into consideration when I made plans for tonight.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” he admits, as he gestures between the two of us, and I soften.
“Sometimes I forget that I have to let people in on my plans before I make them. Not everything has to be a grand gesture or a surprise.”
“Oh, Nolan,” I step closer to him, and he meets me halfway as I wrap my arms around his waist. His hands come to rest around my shoulders. I mumble into his chest, “But I like your surprises,” and I feel, rather than hear, him chuckle.
“Oh, yeah?” He rests his chin on my head, and it’s comforting.
“Hell yes! Your breakfasts are the best part of my day,” I admit. He pulls back slightly to look at me, as if checking to see if I’m lying, and I blink up at him, a lazy smile on my lips. He brushes an errant curl out of my face, tucking it gently behind my ear.
“My love language is acts of service and gift giving, according to my therapist,” he says, and I melt—because who doesn’t love a man who’s self-aware enough to take care of his mental health that way?
It makes me feel a little guilty for not making time for my own therapy this past year.
“I like taking care of people, making sure they’re happy.
But sometimes I feel like I come on too strong—like I’m a lot. ”
I squeeze his waist lightly. “Who doesn’t feel like a lot?
We’re dating in our thirties. We have decades of life trauma and experiences handcuffed to our wrists like beaten-up old suitcases that we drag along with us to each new partner.
And then, like a sad little show-and-tell, we have to open that baggage up and share all the weird and incredible things that make us who we are, while simultaneously hoping they fall in love with us, either despite that baggage, in some cases, or because of it. ”
What starts as a raspy rumble in Nolan’s chest builds quickly into a body-shaking belly laugh. It’s a sound I adore.
“That was the wisest and most convoluted metaphor I have ever heard in my life, Chloe Hill.”
“Blame Freddie,” I smirk. “And his stupidly strong cocktails.”
We stand there for a few minutes, just two people embracing on the dark, quiet deck. Guests walk by now and then, either on their way to Lunar Lounge or stumbling back to their rooms. But still, we hold on to one another.
It crosses my mind that now would be the perfect time to get back to where we had left off in the kitchen…
but for some reason, I don’t want to. Not because I wouldn’t welcome the experience with opening fucking arms. But because, in this moment, there is something profoundly comforting about allowing ourselves to be “too much,” but safely, without judgment.
I’m beginning to realize that the energy Nolan radiates isn’t a uniform whisper of joy, like a sunbeam. Instead, it’s complex, ever-changing—an entire spectrum of color and emotion.
He’s iridescent.