Chapter 30 #3
“I spoke with Owen yesterday. I hope the visit didn’t create a problem.”
“It was intrusive.”
He accepted the answer without flinching.
“I can leave.”
The absence of argument surprised me.
Noah emerged from the sail loft before I responded. He wore work pants and a green overshirt, with a grease pencil tucked behind one ear. The walking pole struck the floor in a steady rhythm.
“You’re the reporter,” he said.
“Elliot Shaw.”
Noah looked at me.
His decision.
I kept silent.
“What exactly do you want?” Noah asked.
“A follow-up story. The collision was covered widely here. People still ask how you’re doing.”
“Why?”
“You survived something most people can’t imagine.”
Noah’s expression hardened.
“My survival isn’t entertainment.”
“No,” Elliot said. “That’s why I’d rather speak with you than build an article entirely from police reports and hospital statements.”
The answer was better than I expected.
Noah tapped the end of the pole once against the concrete.
“No settlement numbers.”
“Agreed.”
“No photographs unless I approve them first.”
“Agreed.”
“No doctors explaining my life for me.”
“I wasn’t planning to contact any.”
“And you include the name of the yard.”
A slight smile touched Elliot’s mouth.
“Fair.”
Noah glanced at me.
“Can we use the office?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stay?”
Every instinct in me shouted yes.
He needed me to choose differently.
“Only if you want me there.”
He considered it.
“I can do this.”
“I know.”
I touched the base of his neck briefly and left them inside.
The office walls were glass, which made privacy incomplete. I worked at the bench nearest the door anyway.
Caleb watched me test the same connector twice.
“You’re eavesdropping with your entire body.”
“I can’t hear a word.”
“That has not reduced the effort.”
Elliot sat across from Noah with a notebook open on the desk.
No recorder.
He asked a question, then waited.
Noah answered slowly. Sometimes he stopped and looked through the office window toward the harbor. Once, he looked at me.
I did not move toward him.
After a moment, he returned to Elliot.
A photographer arrived twenty minutes later. She wore her hair close to her head and carried a camera protected beneath a rain cover.
She waited outside the office until Noah emerged.
He chose the clean-loft doors as the background, positioning himself so the yard sign remained visible behind him.
He kept the pole in his hand.
He did not hide it.
The camera clicked.
The photographer asked him to turn slightly.
When he did, the right side of his head faced the pale morning light.
The scar became visible.
My jaw tightened.
Noah noticed.
He held my gaze for half a second.
Then he stayed exactly where he was.
The photographer took two more pictures and lowered the camera.
“That’s all.”
Elliot thanked Noah.
At the gate, I stopped him.
“What did you ask?”
He turned.
“About memory. Work. Rehabilitation. Home.”
“Money?”
“Only whether financial pressure had affected him. He said the collision touched every part of his life and declined to discuss figures.”
“Good.”
Elliot slid his notebook beneath his coat.
“He expresses himself well.”
I almost disliked him again.
“He knows that.”
“Does he?”
The question stopped me.
Elliot glanced toward the break room. Noah stood inside with a decaf coffee while Owen pointed to something on the inventory board.
“He asked whether I would fix his grammar before quoting him.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d be more concerned with correcting my own.”
Some of the tension eased.
“When will the piece appear?”
“Friday.”
“I want a copy before publication.”
“I can’t offer editorial approval.”
“A copy.”
He considered.
“I’ll send the final version I submit. The desk may change the headline.”
“Thank you.”
He left.
Noah remained in the break room.
Caleb had made him coffee. Owen had pushed a plate of plain butter cookies toward him—the ones no one else ate because Noah always took them while pretending he had no preference.
“How was it?” I asked.
He dipped a cookie into the coffee.
“Fine.”
“Was he pushy?”
“No.”
“Insensitive?”
“No.”
“Did he ask anything inappropriate?”
“You.”
I stopped.
“What about me?”
“How it felt when I didn’t know who you were.”
The room quieted.
Noah watched the softened edge of the cookie.
“What did you say?” Caleb asked.
“That forgetting him was worse than the physical injuries.”
My throat closed.
Noah looked at me.
“I told him memory loss wasn’t only the loss of events. It was losing the feelings that belonged to them. Knowing a person mattered without being able to reach the reason.”
The cookie broke and dropped into his coffee.
He stared at it.
Owen handed him a spoon.
Noah fished out the soggy piece.
“I also said that falling in love with Reid again was the only part of recovery I’d willingly repeat.”
Caleb turned away suspiciously quickly.
Owen pressed a palm to his chest.
“I have suffered a workplace injury.”
“Be quiet,” Noah said.
I rested my hand on the back of his neck.
“Thank you.”
“For upsetting Owen?”
“For choosing me where other people could hear.”
His gaze warmed.
“That matters to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m glad I said it.”
The afternoon passed quietly.
At one, Noah finished his tasks and prepared to go upstairs.
Before leaving, he leaned close.
“I’m going to continue my research.”
“Medical?”
“No.”
Understanding arrived.
“Drink water.”
“That may be the least seductive response possible.”
“Take your medication on time.”
“Worse.”
“Call me if you need help.”
His eyes darkened.
“I’m counting on it.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth and left.
My concentration deteriorated almost immediately.
The internet contained more erotic material than any recovering man with an active imagination needed while alone in an apartment.
I told myself he would probably fall asleep.
At three, I checked my phone.
Nothing.
At four, I checked again.
Still nothing.
By closing time, I had imagined every possibility from a sudden migraine to a fall in the bathroom to Noah discovering some elaborate category of pornography that made our entire history look conservative.
Caleb watched me lock the bay seven minutes early.
“Go upstairs.”
“I’m not—”
“You’ve spent an hour staring through the ceiling.”
Owen pulled on his coat.
“Tell Noah his independent-study proposal has been approved.”
I gave them both a look.
They left laughing.
The apartment was quiet.
“Noah?”
“Bedroom.”
His voice sounded alert.
I found him reclining against a stack of pillows with his tablet resting across his thighs. He wore a soft blue shirt and sleep pants.
Marlowe lay at the foot of the bed, radiating profound disinterest in human scholarship.
Noah lowered the tablet.
“You’re early.”
“By seven minutes.”
“I expected greater precision from your obsession.”
“What are you watching?”
“Nothing at present.”
I glanced at the screen.
A paused video showed two men kissing in a room lit with such deliberate softness that it looked like an advertisement for expensive bedding.
Color rose across Noah’s face.
“I began with articles.”
“And then?”
“They were insufficiently demonstrative.”
“A failure of modern education.”
He closed the tablet and set it aside.
“Come here.”
Confidence steadied the request.
I removed my work boots and sat beside him.
His fingers touched the front of my shirt.
“I learned several things.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Most pornography fails to account for orthopedic injuries.”
“A serious omission.”
“A lot of it looks physically unpleasant.”
“It is staged for the camera.”
“And no one discusses what they’re doing.”
“Also for the camera.”
His fingers reached the first button of my shirt.
“I prefer that we talk.”
“So do I.”
“I like when you ask.”
“Yes.”
“But I also like when you understand without making me explain every thought.”
The distinction warmed my blood.
“What do I understand now?”
“That I’ve wanted you to kiss me for the past three hours.”
I kissed him.
Noah met me with hunger held too long.
His mouth opened beneath mine. His hand slid into my hair. The tablet vanished beneath the edge of the blanket as he shifted closer.
I kept my weight away from his injured hip.
He noticed.
“Closer.”
I moved until our chests touched.
His breath caught.
“Comfortable?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The first kisses were slow. Familiarity rebuilt itself through pressure and breath, the tilt of his head, the way his fingers tightened against my neck.
Then Noah made an impatient sound and pulled at my shirt.
I sat back long enough to remove it.
His gaze traveled over my chest.
He had inspected me with curiosity before. This was different. Desire had sharpened the attention, turning it possessive without becoming demanding.
His fingertips traced the compass tattoo along my ribs.
“Still excessive.”
“You were wrong the first time too.”
His mouth curved.
He bent and kissed the center of the tattoo.
My breath deepened.
Noah looked up.
“Good?”
“Very.”
He guided me onto my back.
The assertiveness surprised me enough that I let out a quiet laugh.
He shifted onto his uninjured side and leaned over me, careful of the hip. His mouth traveled from my throat to my chest. His hand found the fastening of my jeans.
I caught his wrist.
“What’s the plan?”
“Hands. Kissing. Maybe mouths.”
“The full results aren’t back.”
“The rapid-test panel was negative.”
“That doesn’t answer the concern.”
He considered it without pulling away.
“Hands only?”
“That’s safe.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes.”
His expression brightened.
“Excellent.”
I laughed.
He kissed me before I could say anything else.
We undressed only as far as we needed. His sleep pants slid to his thighs. My jeans followed. Cool air moved across heated skin.
Noah looked down at the closeness of our bodies.
There was no shame in his face.
Only wonder.
“I like seeing us this way,” he whispered.
“So do I.”
He touched me.
I touched him in return.
The first movements were awkward. Our arms collided. Noah laughed against my mouth.
“It appeared more elegant in the video.”
“They had editing.”
“We need more space.”
“This bed is enormous.”
“Then you are taking too much of it.”