Silence settled around us.
The café continued: cutlery against plates, machines steaming milk, chairs scraping tile.
Leah reached across the table and held my hand.
“He loved you before he knew what to do with it,” she said.
I shook my head.
“He did. The first time he told me about you, he spent twenty minutes pretending the conversation was about your yard.”
Despite myself, I looked at her.
“What did he say?”
“That his boss was impossible.”
“That sounds right.”
“That his boss never cut corners. That everyone trusted him. That he had these irritating eyes that made it difficult to finish sentences.”
A laugh escaped me.
Leah’s smile trembled.
“He called me two days after your first kiss. He wouldn’t tell me you’d kissed. He said something had happened.”
“He was afraid I’d fire him.”
“He was afraid he’d ruined the only good job he’d ever had.”
“I was afraid he’d regret it.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Then hold on to that.”
I pulled my hand away gently.
“It may not matter.”
“It matters.”
“Not if he never feels it again.”
“He will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. I don’t.”
She looked toward the windows.
“What will you do if he doesn’t?”
The answer had lived in me since Dr. Whitcomb warned that Noah might reject our relationship.
