He passes a hand over his face, dragging the skin with frustration.
“It’s complicated, Bea.” It comes out more like a plea than an explanation, but I’m in no mood for more revelations tonight.
“It always is with you.” The bitter accusation slips out before I can shut my mouth. I’m exhausted—by the day, by him, by the relentless tug-of-war between us.
He steps closer, enveloping me in his presence, and I have to fight the instinct to lean into the comfort he offers. “I don’t want to fight,” he murmurs, and his hand reaches out, hovering just short of touching me. “Not with you.”
My breath hitches, and I take a step back, needing the distance to breathe. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” I gesture between us, at the tiny space that seems to stretch wider with each heartbeat. Our words, our choices—they’re pulling us apart even as something indefinable tries desperately to hold us together.
Noah’s jaw clenches. “Is that what you want?” His voice is a low rumble, the sort of sound that usually makes my knees weak. But today, it just makes my heart ache.
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit, my voice cracking. The truth is, I’m as lost in this as he is. “Or, I thought I knew before you told me about your limits. I don’t want to be with someone who limits me from their family because I don’t fit in the picture. My parents have been doing that all my life, reminding me that I’m just a guest and never a part of them.”
“Bea—” His voice is pleading, but I’ve already started. He should have let me go and process my feelings on my own before I was ready to talk. And now, I might say too much but there’s no stopping the train wreck. “We can figure this out. We’ve been through worse.”
“Can we?” I pull away gently, regretting the loss of his warmth instantly but fighting my senses with all my might. “Because it feels like we’re trying to force something that isn’t meant to be.”
“No.” His protest is immediate and fierce. “Don’t say that. What we have—it’s worth fighting for.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Noah,” I find his gaze and hold it. “You’ve just told me this is as close as you let people get. I like you, Noah, but I have to like me more. Someone has to.”
42
Noah
I haven’t beenable to sit still since she left, so I pace. I make tea I don’t drink. I organize my mother’s pill case into perfectly color-coded morning/noon/night columns like Bea does with my calendar and then reorganize it again because I know she wouldn’t use orange and pink together; they don’t match.
I read the same paragraph of some old paperback on Mom’s coffee table five times. I count how many peonies are left alive and decide the one with the broken neck is an omen. Of what? Doesn’t matter. It’s an omen.
Mom dozes in and out with her ankle propped on pillows and soap operas murmuring in the background. When she’s awake, she’s lucid. Gentle. Too observant. She watches me misfold laundry like I’m eight again, then sighs at the ceiling like she and the plaster are sharing a joke at my expense.
On the second afternoon of this, while I’m scratching off a yellow label of the pill case because it’s the wrong day, she surprises me with a question. “Are you going to call that girl?”
My spine goes rigid. “Which girl?”
She gives me the look she used to give me when I was about to get a scolding. “The one who looks like your future.”
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding eye contact. “Beatrice is my assistant.”
“She is also very kind,” Mom says simply. “And your tone was unkind.”
“I was protecting you.”
“I know, my boy. But you are the one who needs protecting.” Her eyes darken with sadness. “I am very sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. I am sorry that I wasn’t there when Ezra needed me. I wish I was stronger to stand up to your father and protect both of you, my little boys.” A small tear escapes her brown eyes, and a giant hand gets inside my chest and squeezes it. “But I think I am better now. I will be better if I see that you are not wasting your life away taking care of me.”
“Mom,” I sigh. “I’m not wasting my life.”
“You are. And I think it’s time you did something for yourself. Go on vacation and take this girl with you. Was she the one who got you all riled up after that secret trip you took with your brother?”
My cheeks start heating up—I told Mom about Ezra’s marriage when we came back, and Ezra only called her for a talk that lasted exactly one minute. She also noticed that I was unusually grumpy after that trip. Maybe Mom’s brain is sharper than I think.
I don’t answer that. I don’t answer anything for a long minute, because my face is hot and I’m suddenly seventeen, lying about a split lip and saying football practice got rough.
“Call her,” Mom says softer. “Use your manners. The ones I tried teaching to you.”
