But that’s nothing new.
That wouldn’t explain Noah’s desperate need to leave, or the fact that he can’t stop crying.
“The bed,” Noah says suddenly, his voice hoarse. “We should make it.”
I nod, grateful for the task.
We move to opposite sides of the bed and pull the sheets and comforter up in silence. Noah smooths the fabric obsessively, like he’s trying to erase all evidence of our presence. I watch his hands—the same hands that were tangled in my hair just yesterday—as they fuss with the pillows, arranging and rearranging them.
“Do you have everything?” I ask.
Noah looks around the room.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah, I think so.”
We leave the cottage in silence, our bags slung over our shoulders. I place our keys on the small table by the door, then turn to Noah.
“Ready?”
He nods, not meeting my eyes.
I follow him to my car, watching his hunched shoulders, his trembling hands clutching his bag. The early morning air is cold enough to send goosebumps crawling up my arms, but I barely feel it. All my senses are focused on Noah, on the quiet, broken gasps he keeps making as he tries to control his breathing.
It’s still dark, the sky just beginning to lighten at the edges, and the cottages around us are silent.
The trunk opens with a soft click. We load our bags carefully, as if making too much noise might summon Rick or Caroline or anyone else who might try to stop us from leaving.
Then we slide inside, the doors closing with quiet thumps. Noah immediately takes off his shoes and draws his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible in the passenger seat.
I start the engine, but I don’t put the car in drive yet. Instead, I turn to Noah.
He’s staring straight ahead, tears still sliding silently down his face.
“Noah,” I say, my voice low. “Listen—”
I don’t finish the question. I just reach for him, and Noah crumbles against me.
The center console digs painfully into my side as I lean across it, pulling him into an awkward hug. His whole body shakes with silent sobs, and I wish more than anything that I could take this pain from him, absorb it into myself, let him breathe again.
“It’s okay,” I murmur against his hair. “We’re leaving. It’s all going to be okay.”
For several minutes, we stay like that—Noah pressed against me, my hand moving over his back, my shoulder getting damp from his tears. I don’t push him to talk. I just hold him and let him get it out.
Finally, Noah’s breathing settles a little, the shaking easing. He pulls back slightly, wiping his nose on his sleeve again in that heart-wrenching way.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice scratchy from crying. “I wasn’t planning on being this dramatic.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
Noah looks at me, and the pain in his eyes makes my stomach twist.
“Can we go?” he asks, his voice small. “Please?”
“Of course,” I say, shifting back into my seat and putting the car in drive.
We roll down the driveway in silence, the headlights cutting through the early morning darkness. As we leave the property, I glance in the rearview mirror, watching the cottages disappear behind us.
Once we’re on the main road, I reach over and take Noah’s hand. His skin is cold, fingers limp in mine, but he doesn’t pull away. He stares out the window, watching the trees go by.
