Noah
I had convinced myself that it was just another night. Just another pick-up, just another dinner. But as soon as I pulled up to her house, that little lie shattered like glass beneath my feet.
Her home wasn’t cold or ostentatious like so many of the affluent places I’d seen.
No, it was tasteful. With wide windows, pale stone, and flower pots by the door that likely weren’t planted by her hands, but I bet she could name every bloom.
It whispered of old money without flaunting it like a badge.
But none of that mattered. Each detail reminded me that our lives were constructed from entirely different blueprints.
I lingered at the curb, engine humming softly, foot tapping against the side of my bike. The evening breeze offered little relief from the heat twisting in my chest.
Then the door opened, and just like that, I was lost.
Liz stepped out like a vision from a dream I had no right to claim.
She wasn’t adorned in anything flashy or over-the-top.
Just a soft forest green dress—this one was different from the first date, sexy yet elegant enough that my mother would nod in approval.
It hugged her in a way that made it impossible to look away.
Her hair curled gently at the ends, shimmering in the porch light.
She approached me slowly, calm as ever, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around us. For the third time that week, I forgot how to breathe. When she reached me, she smiled.
“Hey.”
Oh, that voice of hers.
“Hey.”
I offered her the helmet, my hand steadier than I felt inside.
She took it, our fingers grazing together, that same electric thrill jolting through me—an undeniable feeling I was trying so hard to suppress.
She climbed on behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, and just like that, she was close again.
Too close, and I was already drowning in guilt before we even hit the road.
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As soon as we stepped into my house, a wave of noise washed over us.
My mom’s voice floated in from the kitchen, music blared from the Bluetooth speaker that Jackson had a knack for "borrowing," and a hint of something slightly overcooked wafted through the air—comforting in that familiar, homey way.
“Is that you two?” my mom called out, and then she popped around the corner, her hands busy drying on a towel. Her face brightened.
“Liz! Oh, sweetheart, you look absolutely lovely.”
Liz beamed back, ever the gracious guest. “Hi, Mrs. Maron.”
“Sherry, please,” my mom replied, enveloping her in a warm side hug. Then she turned to me, her eyes sparkling. “And you—thank you for not being late for once.”
“Just trying to impress,” I mumbled, earning a playful elbow from Liz behind me.
Then Jackson sauntered in, as expected, chewing on something and sporting that annoyingly charming grin of his.
“Ohhh, this is Liz,” he exclaimed, eyes widening in exaggerated surprise. “Wow. You really downplayed it, man.”
I shot him a warning glance. “Don’t.”
He brushed it off, strolling past us with a casual wave to Liz. Then, leaning in just for me, he whispered,
“She’s stunning. Like… wow. You sure she’s real?”
“Go choke on your ego,” I shot back.
He just chuckled and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I lingered for a moment, taking in the sight of Liz tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, chatting with my mom as if they were old friends. She fit in so effortlessly, and that was the hardest part.
Because deep down, I knew this world wasn’t truly hers. She was like a tourist here, a fleeting ray of light in a space I could never keep tidy enough to deserve her.
She didn’t know everything. She didn’t know about the parts of me I carefully tucked away when I shared my life—the things I’d done, the things I might do again if pushed to it, and I understood that when she eventually uncovered the truth, it would sting.
It would reshape us in ways I couldn’t bear to imagine.
But tonight, she smiled at me.
And for just a moment, I allowed myself to smile back.
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Even if I felt unworthy of it all.
Even if this happiness wasn’t really mine to claim.
Even if the guilt lingered, quietly gnawing at the edges of every breath I took.
Dinner at my house was never a silent affair.
Even on nights when the food was particularly good—like tonight—it was always a whirlwind of activity.
Jackson would be chattering away with his mouth full, my dad would be cracking his usual corny jokes, and my mom would flit between urging everyone to eat more and asking questions that no one wanted to answer.
I should’ve given Liz a heads-up.
But she didn’t seem fazed. There she was, sitting across from me, laughing at one of my dad’s stories about burnt lasagna and his clumsy attempts to impress my mom back in the ’90s.
Her eyes glimmered under the warm light, and the way her lips curled up made my heart race, tightening my chest in the most delightful way.
It felt a little dangerous how effortlessly she fit in here.
As if she truly belonged, and for just a fleeting moment, I let myself dream that maybe she did.
“So,” my mom said, casually wiping her hands on her napkin before folding them neatly on the table, “do you like him?”
I nearly choked on my water.
“Mom—” I coughed, shooting her a glare.
She blinked at me, unfazed, as if I were the one being overly dramatic.
“What? It’s a fair question.”
Jackson chuckled, taking a bite of his roll.
“Honestly, I was wondering the same thing.”
“You don’t count,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Liz looked entertained—completely unfazed by the sudden spotlight. She set her fork down, her gaze meeting my mom’s.
“I do,” she said, her voice light yet sincere. “I like him a lot.”
A hush fell over the table.
Then—
My dad leaned back in his chair with a cheeky grin. “Well, hell. That’s more than we usually get out of him.”
Laughter erupted around the table, including Liz’s sweet giggle. I joined in eventually, once my face cooled down enough to stop feeling like it was on fire.
“What’s not to like?” my mom winked. “He’s got decent manners when he remembers, cooks breakfast once a year, and only scowls at people who truly deserve it.”
“Wow, thanks for the glowing review,” I muttered, poking at my pasta.
But Liz smiled at me from across the table—an honest, warm smile—and something inside me softened, even as guilt twisted just beneath the surface.
For the next hour, we chatted like old friends.
Liz shared tales of growing up with too many rules and not enough laughter, while Jackson recounted the time I had a grand idea to build a skateboard ramp and ended up breaking my wrist in three places.
My dad kept refilling her glass, and my mom peppered her with questions, all while sneaking herself extra helpings.
It was loud, chaotic, and wonderfully bizarre. It felt like home, And each time Liz glanced my way, I felt as if I were walking straight toward something I couldn’t have, yet desperately desired.
Because I didn’t know how long this blissful moment could last.
But sitting there with her, surrounded by people who were blissfully unaware of my past—people who still believed in my goodness—I wished I could hold on to this moment just a little longer.
Just a little. Even if it wasn’t meant to last forever. Even if she was saying yes now.
Even if every part of me whispered that one day, she might change her mind.