Silence answered me. There were no steps from inside that I could hear. No call to see who was at the door. Nothing but quiet.
I gave it another few moments before I rang it again. Standing here was almost like being at an abandoned haunted house, I thought. When I’d come home with Noah before, this home had been alive, part of him. But now it just seemed . . . dead. Or at least as though it was in a state of suspended animation.
Fifteen minutes later—after I’d rung and knocked and even used my cell to see if Noah might answer—I gave up. He either wasn’t here—which made me look pathetic for not just leaving right away—or he didn’t want to see anyone. It was frustrating because he had no idea that I wasn’t coming simply to offer sympathy or to pick up our burgeoning relationship where we’d left off. I had no way of letting him know that he needed to talk to me now. The whole thing was a vicious cycle, and I didn’t know what to do next.
I climbed into my car again, defeated and exhausted. It had been a long day, and I wasn’t any closer to knowing what I was going to do than I’d been three weeks before. Maybe it was time to acknowledge that I’d done everything within reason to inform Noah of my pregnancy. Maybe this was a sign that I had to make the painful decisions on my own.
Ten minutes after I left his house, I was sitting at a red light when my phone vibrated with an incoming text. Keeping one eye on the light, I glanced at the screen, my heartbeat picking up speed. Noah had sent me a text.
I turned into the gas station at the corner as soon as the light changed to green. Parking off to the side, I swiped to access his message.
Noah:Alison, I’m sorry for everything, but it’s better that we don’t see each other again. I’m not in a good place, and you deserve so much more. I wish you nothing but the best. Be well.
A lump rose in my throat, and I thought I might cry. Instead, though, an unfamiliar sense of fury rose up in me. So Noah was dear Johnning me via text, was he? I deserved better. Damn right, I did. Wishing me nothing but the best. I should ‘be well’.
“Fine,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Just fucking fine. If he doesn’t want to hear from me, then he won’t. And you, Noah Spencer . . .” My voice rose in the silent car. “You can just go fuck yourself.”
3
Noah
I sat in my recliner, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe.
I’d been sitting here in this chair . . . for hours? Days? I wasn’t sure. It was easy to lose track of time when you were drowning in despair. One hour blended seamlessly into the next. Wasn’t there a line in Shakespeare about that?
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day . . .
I’d been on the edge of restless sleep when a shifting in the light against the far wall had caught my eye, and I’d heard the gravel in my driveway. Someone was here. No one had been to my house since the medical car service had brought me home two weeks ago. I’d told everyone I knew to stay away, or I ignored their calls, their texts, their fucking pity parties. I didn’t need them.
But I was curious now about who was defying my keep-away order. Maybe it was just a delivery or someone wanting to sell me something. If it was, they could just fuck off for all I cared.
From my recliner, I could see the one part of the driveway, and as the car slowly ambled through my small window of vision, I went cold. I knew that car. It belonged to Alison Wakely. She’d driven me home in it after the wedding, and she’d also driven it to my house and then to the restaurant when we’d gone on our one beautiful and perfect date.
My stomach clenched. I’d finally read Alison’s texts once my mother had surrendered my phone when I was still in the hospital, but after the news about my career, I didn’t care about texting her back. I didn’t care about anything or anyone. The Noah who had met and begun to fall for Alison was dead now, as dead as Angela was. That Noah had had hope, had started to believe life could go on. This one was bitter and angry, and there was no way I was letting him get anywhere near someone like Alison. It was better that she believed I was an asshole who’d decided he didn’t need her. Better for everyone.
I lay still and listened to the sound of her footsteps climbing up the porch steps. Seconds later, the doorbell rang.
I didn’t move.
When it rang a second time, I flinched.
Even if I wanted to see Alison again, to talk to her—which I desperately did—I couldn’t let her see what I’d become. My house was a pit of trash, half-eaten food, dirty dishes, discarded clothes . . . and me, a man who couldn’t even fucking shower himself, so he smelled like a pig.
My phone rang, and out of instinct, I looked at the readout on the screen. Alison, clearly trying to see if I’d respond to her now that she was outside my front door.
She was so close. If I wanted to see her, to talk with her, all I’d have to do is drag my ass to the door and open it.
But I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t going to do it.
When I heard her steps retreating, her car starting up again, the sound of it driving away, I turned my head into the reeking cushion of the chair and wept like I hadn’t done since the dark days after Ang had died.
I couldn’t leave any possibility open in my mind that Alison and I had a chance. I had to make a clean, harsh break right now so that she’d go away, stop trying to get in touch, and get on with her life.
My finger shook as I typed out the text. After I hit send, my stomach rolled as though I was on a rocking boat, about to lose my lunch over the side.
Alison was beautiful, kind, and perfect. A man like me—ugly, broken, and defeated—he didn’t belong with a woman like her.
I’d never deserved her. Now, more than ever, I realized that truth.
