8. Noelle
Chapter eight
Noelle
Macy missed her calling as an opera singer. She had the vocal range for it.
My ears were still ringing from the shriek she let out when I told her Cal was Ruby’s mysterious stranger for the photo shoot over video chat.
“You’re in a romance movie, Elle!” Macy swooned dramatically, jostling her phone as she collapsed onto the couch at her new temporary home in Florida. She clasped a hand to her chest. “It’s like Anne and Captain Wentworth, only better because it’s real!”
I snorted and relaxed further into the pillows on my bed, a heating pad on my lower back. “And we all know how awfully Wentworth treated Anne at the beginning.”
Macy waved her hand. “He was hurting. I’m not excusing him, but he was human. Cal will come around.” She bolted up. “Wait, did you kiss him? I’ve seen stranger shoots before and sometimes they do!”
“No kissing,” I said very firmly, but my face warmed at the thought.
She smirked. “But you wanted there to be?”
“No!” I glared at the screen. “It wasn’t an enjoyable afternoon, Mace. It was torture.”
“Yeah, being held by a handsome man for an hour is really hard.”
“Mace.”
She sighed and fiddled with her favourite pineapple earrings. “Look, I get it. There’s a lot of unfinished business between you, but did you really expect you could avoid him in a town with 1,632 people?”
“1,633. According to Ruby, the Powells’ baby was born last night, and I was banking on that delusion, yes.”
Macy snorted. “Keep dreaming, chica. Delusion looks good on you.”
I groaned, draping an arm over my face. “What am I gonna do?”
Silence filled the space between us at my rhetorical question. Finally, she said gently, “How bad was it really?”
How to answer that? Despite my arguing to the contrary, it had been nice to see Cal again. Even if it tore me up inside. It was easy—too easy—to fall into old patterns when we were just Cal and Noelle. “I could very easily fall in love with him,” I confessed.
Because a part of me had never stopped.
Macy hummed, eyes sympathetic. “My vote is to apologize, and then if the sparks are still there, kiss the man. Second chances are a beautiful thing, my friend.”
Except I wasn’t sure I deserved one.
The next morning, I pulled into my childhood driveway. A little farther up the dirt road of Maple Lane would lead to the Satterfields’ place. So close but so far.
Exhaustion clung to me like a weighted blanket.
I’d slept fitfully last night, and while I wanted to blame it on the new environment, Cal was the real culprit.
For years, I’d carefully kept him relegated to married and off-limits.
Now he was decidedly not married and in Serenity Springs instead of Seattle.
It was messing with my sanity. And Macy’s kissing opinions weren’t helping.
The surprises just kept coming, and I was ready to unsubscribe to all of them. But today, I had a new mission. Another bridge to mend. This time with my dad.
Staring at my childhood house through the windshield, I picked at a loose thread on my oversized mauve sweater.
He might shut the door in my face.
Unlikely since we’d started chatting semi-regularly every Monday since last year. Facing your own mortality in a car accident made you rethink your priorities. I’d put feelers out with Ruby to see if he’d even be willing to talk to me. And he had.
We kept it light and surface-level, but every phone call ended with “Talk to you Monday.” Mondays were our thing.
It’s time. Build the bridge. Trust Jesus with the outcome.
I slid out of the vehicle—it was nice to have my own car back—and trudged towards the front door. Chopin’s “Funeral March” echoed in my head. So helpful.
News traveled fast in a small town, so I wanted to do Dad the courtesy of telling him I was home first.
Rolling my shoulders, I climbed the worn porch steps like they were my own personal version of The Rocky Steps.
Hand raised to the familiar white door, I hesitated. Please, Lord, let this be a favourable reunion. Taking a deep breath, I knocked. No going back now.
The door creaked open, and mossy-green eyes blinked back at me.
“Hey, Dad,” I whispered. “It’s Monday.”