AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He was no good right now. And that certainly included being no good for Kristina Moore.
It didn’t matter that he wanted her, cared for her…maybe even loved her.
Maybe? Really, Cortez? Now you’re lying to yourself, too?
Fuck.
Problem was, how he felt didn’t really even matter. Because Noah wanted everything for Kristina. And his definition of everything didn’t include playing nursemaid to him. He might be partially disabled and old before his time, but he had absolutely no intention of putting her in that same position. She was twenty-five—her life and career just blooming. Full of possibilities and optimism. And he was none of those things.
He was nothing.
On a frustrated growl, Noah threw off the covers and pulled his sorry ass out of bed. He made a stop in the bathroom, where he was relieved not to be able to see his reflection despite the disaster that made that possible. He put on some coffee and choked down a bowl of dry cereal, not sure his stomach could handle anything more. The only decent thing about this day so far was that the vertigo seemed to have gone away. Thank fuck for small favors.
When he was done eating, he grabbed his cell off the charger. He’d finally found it yesterday afternoon underneath the edge of his bed, and it’d rebooted to reveal fifteen missed texts—mostly from Kristina, but also two from Josh and one from his dad—the latter revealing that Kristina had contacted his parents after she’d left here yesterday.
Kristina said you’ve been sick. Need anything? Give us a call, his dad had written. And though Noah was a little irritated that Kristina had brought his parents into it, he also respected the hell out of her for doing it—after the way he’d treated her, no one would’ve blamed her for forgetting all about him the moment she’d walked out the door.
Noah also had two voicemail messages, one from Kristina and one from the Art Factory reminding him that the mask class started this morning.
Fucking hell.
He was nowhere near being in the mood. Someone asked him to decorate a mask right now and he was liable to smash it to pieces with a goddamned hammer and call it a masterpiece. It sure as fuck would represent how he was feeling, so there was that.
Noah tossed his cell to the breakfast bar and leaned back against the wall. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering what the hell to do with himself.
You need some way to let this out, Noah.
The memory of his dad’s voice encouraging him to take the art class. To take as many art classes as it took. At the time, Noah had almost been relieved at the idea that maybe something from that course catalog could help release the pressure inside him, even if only a little bit.
Buzz.
Noah glanced down at the cell phone’s screen. Enjoy the class, son. Hope you’re feeling better. Give me a call after.
If Noah had it in him to chuckle, he might’ve just then. Okay, universe. I hear you. Guilt souring the cereal and coffee in his gut, he shot off a quick reply to his father: Feeling better. Thanks.
What the hell. Maybe he’d go after all. He could always leave early if it wasn’t working for him. And it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. And in a twisted way, he felt like he owed it to Kristina.
So, fine. Maybe, just maybe, the class would allow him to get his head screwed back on right enough to have a rational conversation with Kristina. And tell her why what happened between them could never happen again.
The Art Factory was located on the waterfront in Old Town Alexandria, right along the promenade where the previous week Noah and Kristina had walked eating their ice creams. It was a big cement-and-glass structure, and had actually been a munitions factory during the world wars.
As Noah walked in the front doors, he spied a glass case filled with historical photographs, including one with a group of men posing with a large torpedo painted with stars and stripes. The caption read, “The final torpedo made at the Naval Torpedo Station, Alexandria, 1945.”
He chuffed out a laugh, because there was a certain poetry in a former Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technician coming to a former torpedo factory to try to recover from all the damage that repeated blast waves had done to his brain.
The long hallways were glass-filled, allowing him to see into the many classrooms and studios that filled the big building. He found his classroom nearly all the way at the end of one of them.
He hovered outside the door for a long moment, and then he found his balls and walked into the damn room.
Noah had come about three minutes before the class was scheduled to begin, and the room was more full than he’d expected. Fifteen people sat on stools at high tables around the room, and two men in wheelchairs sat at a low table in the front. Only three seats remained open, and they were all at tables where other people already sat.
Noah joined a big Mack truck of a guy with a bald head, shirt-straining biceps, and a thick neck at one of the tables toward the back, because if that guy was okay being here, then Noah should have nothing to say.
The man turned to him and extended his dark brown hand. “Moses Griffin. Everyone calls me Mo. I was First Ranger Battalion, mostly in Afghanistan, but a little bit of everywhere else, too.”
Noah returned the shake. “Noah Cortez. I was in the Corps, Second Combat Engineer Battalion.”
Mo nodded and smiled, and it was one of those grins that was so full of good humor that you couldn’t help but smile in return. “First timer?” he asked.
