Page 92 of Finding Noah

I barked a condescending laugh. “My father shot his father! Right in front of him! This kid watched his father die because mine happened to be loaded. To him, I was the bad guy! Do you not get that?!”

“You were a little boy!”

“Oh my God, now we're talking in circles,” I grumbled with a shake of my head. “So was he, Meg. That's all he was too. He was following orders, no different from me.”

She snapped her jaw shut, pressing her lips into a tight, terse line and crossing her arms over her chest. She inhaled slowly, then exhaled before saying, “I just think you could accomplish the same thing by finding him on-on-on … I don't know—Facebook or something and sending him a message.”

“Yeah, I could,” I agreed. “But this feels more personal to me than that. This kid and I … I don't know how to explain it to you to make you understand, but that night shaped me, Meghan. I am who I am because of what happened that fucking night. And I don't know that I can just shoot off a fucking message on Instagram or some shit, hoping he reads it, and call it a day. I need to look at him. I need to see that he turned out okay. I don't expect you to get it—”

“I'm sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don't. I can't. I understood you needing to find these people, their information, and I supported you one hundred percent. But this idea of, what? Meeting him face-to-face? This is insane! You don't know what type of person he might be!”

“You're assuming I'm even going to find him,” I gritted out.

“And you'd go up there, assuming that you won't?”

I laid a hand over my mouth, dropping the iPad onto the bed. We weren't getting anywhere, and I was mad. Mad at her. Mad at Seth. Mad at the entire fucking universe for every shitty thing that had ever happened to me.

And I knew what she was saying made at least a little bit of sense—I wasn't an idiot—but it wasn't good enough. It didn't feel right. And there was nothing I was going to do to change her mind about that—I saw that—and that … that infuriated me. I didn't need her to understand; I just needed her to support me. And she wasn't going to.

So, I stood up, circled the bed, and got under the covers. She watched my every move, and I felt her eyes on my back as I rolled over to face the wall.

“Noah,” she said softly.

“I don't wanna talk any more tonight, Meg.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I want to say I'm sorry—”

“Fine. You said it. Now I'm going to sleep.”

She was quiet, and I closed my eyes, knowing there was no sleep to be had tonight. But I just needed to think. I needed to mull this over. I needed—

“I'm sorry I can't back you up on this,” she went on, and I squeezed my eyes shut to her voice. “I love you too much to let you risk your life—”

“You are making a lot of assumptions right now,” I said. “And one of them is that you don't think I can handle shit myself.”

“It's not like you're going up there with a whole squad of people. You'd be alone. And you don't know what you'd be walking into.”

“Neither do you, Meg,” I muttered. “Please stop, okay? I'm not going anywhere right now.”

“But you are going,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And there's nothing I can say to change your mind.”

God, she sounded so sad, so worried. It encouraged an ache in my chest to grow while I simultaneously thought of how ridiculous it was that she could just assume the worst about someone neither of us knew anything about.

“No,” I answered.

Then she sniffled loudly, and I knew she was crying.

I couldn’t take it when she cried.

I rolled onto my back, turned to face her, and said, “Meghan, come on. Don't—”

“You don't want to talk, remember?”

In a hurry, she climbed out of bed, headed out the door, and down the stairs. A few seconds later, the TV was turned on, and I knew that no amount of trying would get through to her now.