Chapter 9 #2
Noah doesn’t answer. And like I always seem to do around him, I barrel ahead. “They were always Owen’s responsibility, and they remind me too much of him.”
I can see the fluffy white clouds reflected in the crystal clear sea blue of his eyes. “Fair enough.”
I glance down, straightening the delicate gold watch on my wrist, trying to appear casual. “It’s getting a little late. Would you like to come in for a bite to eat?”
Noah stands, dusting the dirt off his fitted blue jeans. “I never turn down an offer for free food.” It’s clear most of the mud isn’t going to come off. “But maybe we could eat it on the porch?”
The image of my cozy screened-in back patio fills my mind.
Owen and I had hung the lights together, and I had potted and cared for fresh herbs in the raised beds he made for me.
How would it feel to share dinner with someone else on our patio?
Realizing that the silence has stretched too long, I quickly paste on a smile.
“I hope you like lasagna.” I move toward the front door.
“Only if it’s burnt around the edges.” I can feel Noah’s presence behind me, firm and sure.
I lead the way through the front door, kicking off my shoes instinctively before remembering Noah might not follow suit. But when I glance back, he’s already toeing off his boots by the mat.
“Bathroom’s second door down the hall on the left. Take your time. I’ll serve the food!” I call, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Back patio okay?” I tilt my head toward the back door, already balancing two plates in one hand, when Noah walks through the door.
“Perfect.” He takes one of the plates before I can drop it. “Smells incredible, by the way.”
I almost tell him I used three cheeses, made the sauce from scratch, and assembled it like a bricklayer with something to prove, but I don’t. No one needs to know I measured the noodle placement like it was an architectural draft. “It was no big deal.”
He stares at the perfectly even dish. “Looks like a big deal. You’re setting a high bar.”
My mouth twitches. High bars are my love language. I once remade an entire casserole because the cheese bubbled unevenly on one side.
We nestle into my worn wicker chairs, plates balancing on knees, Frank curled between us. There’s something about the early evening light, shy of golden hour, that softens everything. Even me.
“Thanks again for the garden rescue.” A light breeze rustles the herbs in their planters, and the porch lights blink on, timed like a memory.
Noah nods, and for a while, we eat in comfortable silence. The lasagna is slightly burnt around the edges. Victory.
Then Noah breaks the quiet. “You know what’s funny? When Owen told me he’d scored your number, I didn’t believe him. I thought you were completely out of his league.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”
“No, I mean it.” A gentle smile skates across his face, warm in the sunlight.
“You’d shown up at my dorm room because your roommate was getting it on, and Owen finally showed up like six weeks into the term after his mono.
I was out at the library and next thing I knew, I was walking in on you talking about Suzanne Valadon with him like she was your soul sister. ”
I laugh. “God, I was insufferable.”
“Maybe.” He grins. “But captivating. With that wild perm and deep brown eyes, I thought you were going to conquer the world.”
A brittle laugh leaves my lips, and its bitterness surprises me. “Yep. That’s me. Taking over the world, one dirty diaper, PTA meeting, and perfectly curated dinner at a time.”
Noah leans close, our arms almost brushing as he stretches across his wicker chair toward mine. “That's not an easy world to conquer. I haven’t found a single person I’d like to enter that world with and now I think it’s a little late.”
The words hang between us like something delicate and dangerous. I reach for my lemonade, trying to swallow the lump in my throat with the ice.
The intimacy scares me, and I retreat. “I forgot that’s when we met.
” I set my empty plate down and start twisting a dark strand of hair around my finger, the wedding band I haven't taken off glimmering in the fading sunlight.
“I remember Owen trying to impress me with bad metaphors and talking over everyone.”
“He was good at making an entrance.”
I nod. “And I was good at pretending I didn’t like it.”
Noah leans back against the wicker seat, the wood creaking slightly beneath his weight. “You two were something, though. Volatile and golden. Like you’d either take over the world or burn it down together.”
My smile is soft now, touched with something else, the wedding band pressing into my finger. “We almost did both.”
“Remember the first night we met?”
My breath catches, heat pooling at the back of my neck.
“How could I forget?” I laugh, but the undertone is nostalgic now, pulled from a place that aches a little.
“I was so sure I had this whole college thing figured out. I knew exactly where I was going with my little map, first week on campus, ready to conquer the world, and I walked straight into the wrong dorm room, not even the right building.”
Noah chuckles, leaning back, his elbows braced on the creaking wicker armrests. “I’d just finished unpacking and was laying down to rest and there you come, sauntering into my room like you own the place, staring at my Pearl Jam poster like it had personally offended you.”
I close my eyes, letting the memory rush back in: the stale hallway air, the too-big map of campus stuffed in my pocket, the unlocked door that I thought was mine, until a sleepy boy with dark tangled hair and a crooked grin sat up in bed and asked, “You planning to rob me, or…?”
“I had made a terrible life choice, choosing West instead of East,” I tease, nudging his ankle with my toe from across the porch. “But you didn’t even yell at me. Just sat up wearing nothing but those basketball shorts and asked if I was there to steal your ramen.”
“Hey. Moving was hard work and I was sweaty and gross and not at all ready to face the communal showers.” He tips his head back, eyes closing, grinning like he’s twenty again.
“And what was I gonna do, kick out the prettiest girl I’d ever seen?
Besides, my roommate wasn’t showing up till the next day, so technically, I had the whole room to myself. ”
“Right.” My voice catches again. “Owen. He is always late. Was always late.”
Noah’s smile flickers, but he doesn’t look away.
“Yeah. But in his defense, he did have mono and missed the first few months. It wasn’t poor planning.
Well, unless you count sharing a straw with Sarah Finney poor planning.
Left me to guard lost freshmen and make sure they didn’t wander into the wrong bed. ”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but the flush rising in my cheeks betrays me. “You practically begged to walk me back. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Quizzing me about my major like I wasn’t two seconds away from dying of embarrassment.”
He shrugs, casual, but his eyes never leave mine. “Couldn’t let you get lost twice. You didn’t even have a cell phone then. Something about it being a tool of the system. Only that brick you called a pager.”
I snort. “God, we’re old. And I was so rage against the machine.” My fingers twist a lock of hair around and around, my wedding band catching the last bit of sunset light.
And for the first time, I wonder, really wonder, what my life might have been if I’d lingered with the barefoot boy and his bad posters and kind blue eyes a little longer, before the golden one swept in with promises big enough to drown in.
I drop my gaze, my throat tightening. “Bet you wish you hadn’t found me that night.” My voice comes out too quickly, too lightly.
Noah’s smile is gentle, edged with something too deep for either of us to touch. “Nah. I liked finding you.”
The warmth between us spikes, bright and terrifying. It scares me enough that I stand up so fast my chair scrapes the patio. “I should, um, top off my glass. You want more?”
He lifts his half-empty beer, eyes still on me.
“That’d be great, B.” He must sense the tension because when I return, he asks, “What do you think is next for you? I have yet to meet someone as passionate about art history as you are. I still know way too many facts about Artemisia Gentileschi’s Baroque raw depictions of women. ”
My cheeks redden, and the flagged email from the Seattle Art Museum flashes in my mind. “Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about what I would like to do since Owen and I got engaged, and I got pregnant with Matt in a matter of seconds.”
“Might be something to think about now.”
We sit with that for a moment, watching as the sun dips lower, throwing gold across the floorboards.
“You ever miss being married?” The boldness of my question surprises me. We’ve never talked about his failed marriage. I know I miss being married, but my partner was taken from me. His left.
Noah rakes a hand through his short, dark hair, his gaze drifting toward the yard like he might find the answer buried beneath the hydrangeas.
"Yes and no," he says finally. "I don’t miss being married to the wrong person. That was… hell." He gives a small, tired shrug. "But I do miss what I thought marriage could be—with the right person. That version gutted me."
His eyes darken, and I immediately wish I hadn’t asked.
“I ended up declaring bankruptcy,” he adds, voice low.
“That’s actually how I got into the mail service.
Freelancing with a lit degree wasn’t cutting it, and Owen—he’s the one who helped me land this route.
He found out your last mailman was close to retiring and pulled a few strings. The guy could charm anyone.”
I blink. “I had no idea.”
Noah nods, then pauses. “Yeah. He was one of the good ones. I don’t think I ever repaid him for helping me put the pieces back together. I meant to. But he was gone.”
“You ever think about that?” My voice is a whisper in the early twilight. “What it means to still be here when someone else isn’t?”
His smile fades into something that mirrors my own broken, battered heart. “Yeah. More than I wish I did.”
Something shifts. I can feel it. A tug between familiarity and something else. Something new. Something full of longing. Something wistful. My brain short-circuits trying to label it.
“Well.” I clear my throat, trying to lighten the air. “If the lasagna’s any good, I do accept praise in the form of home repairs and light gardening.”
He chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Frank stirs and stretches, groaning like an old man. Noah looks down at him and grins. “Frank, you didn’t even contribute.”
“I, uh, I should probably…” I gesture toward the house, or maybe the kitchen. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
He leans back slightly, watching me with a bemused expression. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” The darkness that has seeped into the evening makes it easier to be honest. “You were his friend. You knew us together. And now you’re here trimming my fennel and eating my overcooked lasagna and being nice. It’s weird, right?”
I sense him studying me in the dim light for a long second. “Is it?”
I hesitate. “I mean, I didn’t plan to flirt with you,” I blurt. “Not that this is flirting. It’s yard work and prolonged eye contact.”
Noah laughs. A low, real laugh, warm and deep, and the sound surprises me and also fills me.
Then he quiets. “Do you want to do this again?”
I blink. “What?”
“If you ever need help with the yardwork, or want a friend to have dinner with, you can text me. Now that you've got my number and all.” His grin is a lazy Sunday morning, slow and sweet.
“Which I won’t freely use.”
Noah cocks his head to the side. “Why not?”
I open my mouth, then close it again, then manage to sputter, “I am trying to be appropriate.”
“Birdie. I would never expect anything else but that from you.” His voice is gentle. “But know you can text me about plants. Or lasagna. I won’t read into it unless you want me to.”
And just like that, he stands, stacking our plates without another word, leaving me in the kind of silence that has a heartbeat. I hear his voice traveling from the kitchen out onto the patio. “I’ll pop these in the dishwasher, grab my boots, and let myself out.”
“Oh. You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it.”
His face appears through the screen door, lips set and serious. “Let me help you.”
I’m thankful for the darkness and the fact that he can’t see my obvious blush. “Thanks for helping with the garden.”
He gives me a look that Viv would best describe as a smolder. “Anytime, Birdie.”