Noah
Song of Songs 3:4- I found the one my heart loves. I held him and would not let him go.
I sat on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees, staring at the pile of clean laundry I hadn’t bothered to fold. My chest felt heavy, like all the air had been sucked out of me since Henry left in the middle of the night. I should’ve been showering, slicking my hair back, getting ready for work—but instead I sat there, moping, trying not to picture the empty space in my bed.
My phone buzzed against the arm of the couch. I glanced down and froze when I saw the name on the screen.
Mom
Guilt hit me instantly. I hadn’t called her for weeks. She didn’t deserve that. And after the wreckage of last night, maybe hearing her voice was exactly what I needed. I swiped to answer.
“Noah?” Her voice was warm, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I frowned. “Hi, Mom. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Noah Benjamin Miller,” she said, using the full name that always made me feel like a little boy again. “Don’t lie to your mother. I had this sudden—” she paused, searching for the word—“this intuition that you were in pain. Am I wrong?”
My throat tightened. “I… there’s this guy,” I said, the words halting. “I like him, but he’s got a ton of issues and—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she interrupted, cutting me off in the brisk, no-nonsense tone I’d grown up with. “Noah, you’re too good to be anyone’s second choice. You hear me? You don’t need some damaged man to tell you your worth. You’ve always stood on your own two feet, and you’ll keep doing it. Don’t let anyone drag you down.”
Despite myself, I smiled. The first real smile all day. She didn’t even know Henry, didn’t know the mess in my chest—but she knew me. And sometimes that was enough.
“Thanks, Mom,” I murmured, softer than I meant to.
She exhaled, her voice shifting, lighter now. “So, listen. Rosh Hashanah is coming up. Will you join us this year?”
I blinked, caught off guard. Normally I dodged that question, year after year, but my walls were thin today, paper-thin. “Uh… yeah,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ll come.”
Her delight was immediate, bubbling through the phone. “Oh, sweetheart, that makes me so happy. Your father will be over the moon.”
I rubbed my forehead, but my smile stayed.
“And speaking of family,” she continued, “Hannah’s bringing her new boyfriend over for dinner this Friday. Can you come too?”
“Can’t,” I said quickly. “I’ve got work.”
A pause, then a sigh. “One of these days, you’ll tell me what this mysterious work schedule of yours really is.”
“Maybe,” I said with a little laugh, though it came out tired. “Speaking of work, Mom, I really do have to go.”
“Alright, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I hung up and let the phone drop onto the couch beside me. Then I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For a minute, my mother’s voice had stitched me back together—but already the seams were loosening.
How was I supposed to drag myself onto a stage tonight and dance for men who didn’t know me, didn’t care about me, who didn’t even see the real me?
I curled up on the couch, dragging a pillow over my head like it could muffle the storm in my chest. Then I screamed into it, long and raw, until my throat burned. The sound was ugly, broken, almost feral. I flung the pillow across the room and it hit the wall with a soft thud, sliding down in defeat. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a mile, but all I’d done was sit here drowning in my own damn misery.
What the hell was the matter with me? Henry Forrester was just another closet case. I’d met a hundred of them—men who wanted to taste freedom for a night and then slink back into the shadows by morning. Men who couldn’t bear the weight of who they were. Men who left me emptier than before.
But Henry… Henry wasn’t like the rest. I couldn’t deny the pull between us, couldn’t shake the memory of his hands on me, the way his body gave in even as his conscience fought back. He had a brilliant mind, a beautiful body, and all that Catholic guilt had made him burn hotter than anyone I’d ever touched.
For the first time in my adult life, I’d met someone I thought might actually stand shoulder to shoulder with me. My equal. Not just in the bedroom, but in the quiet spaces too, in the way his eyes saw right into me. And it was killing me—gutting me—to even think about letting that go. But I had to.
I couldn’t build a life out of someone else’s shame.
