Chapter 15
Fifteen
Caroline
I thought the first trip to St. Catherine’s had shown me all there was to know about Noah. But I was wrong.
That afternoon, I saw him become a hundred different people in one day.
He was the pancake chef at breakfast, flipping griddle cakes higher than anyone else and letting the kids pile on chocolate chips until they looked like tiny solar systems. He was the bike mechanic in the yard, kneeling on cold concrete to fix a chain while a little girl hovered, biting her thumbnail and hoping he could save her favorite thing.
He was the tutor, huddled at the battered library table with a cluster of teenagers, walking them through college essays and scholarship forms. He never gave the answers, but he always knew how to help them find it themselves.
He was the magician who could turn an hour and a box of balsa wood into a model airplane so real, a quiet boy named Ben wouldn’t let go of it even at dinner.
And when the whole place finally settled for a movie and popcorn, he was just a guy in an old sweatshirt, sprawled out on the recreational room floor, letting kids use his lap as a pillow.
I sat beside Sister Margaret, who poured me chamomile tea and watched the scene unfold with an almost maternal pride.
“You know,” she whispered, “he grew up here.”
I blinked, surprised. “He never said.”
She nodded. “He doesn’t like to talk about it. Both his parents gone before he turned ten. A hard, hard life, but he made the best of it.”
I looked at Noah, letting two boys clamber over his back as he tried to pretend he wasn’t being tickled within an inch of his life.
“He comes back every Saturday,” Sister Margaret said. “Rain or shine. Some of these children, he’s the only steady thing in their world.”
I felt my throat tighten. It was one thing to be generous with money or time. But to keep showing up, week after week, for kids who would outgrow the place and maybe never remember your name? That was something else entirely.
“He doesn’t like to be thanked,” she said, “so we just pray for him. And for you.”
She patted my hand, her palm warm and dry. “You’re good for him, Caroline.”
I almost dropped my tea. “We’re just friends.”
She smiled, eyes twinkling. “Of course.”
We left at dusk, the sky turning indigo behind us. The kids lined up to wave goodbye, their hands pressed to the glass until we pulled out of the lot.
On the drive home, we didn’t talk much. He put on music, something slow and soulful. I sat with my hands folded, feeling a hundred things and none of them simple.
When we got to my place, he put the car in park and didn’t turn off the engine.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “just—today was a lot.”
He nodded, understanding. “Me too.”
A beat of silence. The car idled.
I wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, but I didn’t.
Instead, I just said, “Thanks for bringing me. Really.”
He looked at me, all the way through, then smiled. “Anytime.”
I went upstairs, climbed into bed, and didn’t even bother to check my phone.
For once, I didn’t need to.
I fell asleep thinking about model airplanes, and what it meant to have someone show up for you, over and over again.
And when I woke, I couldn’t wait for Saturday.