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Once the doors shut behind us, the only light comes from a small lamp near the bed.
I have no idea what to do with myself. No idea what to say. Apparently, Noah doesn’t either because we’re both quiet.
Without the fans from downstairs, it’s much warmer in here than the rest of the house. Now that the rain has finally stopped, Noah cracks the window, but it’s just as muggy and hot outside, so he pulls it closed again.
Though I’d love to strip down to nothing, I stubbornly keep my sweater on. We still haven’t worked out the kinks with the sleeping arrangement, so I busy myself with tasks. I check my cover-up and bathing suit—both are still wet. Then, because I feel anxious and weird, I do what I always do.
I’m aware of Noah watching me from his seat on the edge of the bed, but for a little while, he lets me work in peace.
Then, finally, he can’t help himself.
“You have a real problem, you know that?”
“Hardly. You know who has real problems? Meth addicts. Murderers. People who like to collect stamps.”
“What exactly is your goal here?”
“What does it look like my goal is?”
I’m tidying up their attic. Though it’s hard to manage in the low light, I’m arranging their pile of books into alphabetical order. I’m making it so they can easily access the boxes of old pictures and albums if they so choose. If I have enough time, I plan to rearrange the various pieces of furniture so it’s all neat and orderly, either in ascending order by size or, possibly, by function.
“Have you ever thought you might use cleaning as a way to run from your problems?”
“What an interesting thought. Would you help me with this box? It’s heavy.”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Fine,” I grunt as I try to lift it. “I’ll do it myself.”
I’m surely about to throw out my back, but Noah doesn’t run to my aid.
“We could use this opportunity to talk.”
“Okay, talk,” I say, not bothering to look back at him. I’m too busy for idle chitchat. Sprucing up this attic will take me all night, and that’s if I work fast.
He sighs and lies back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head on the pillow. His attention is up on the ceiling as he begins, “So, shrink, it all started a few years ago when I took a job at Lindale Middle School.”
I set the box down and then freeze, curious as to where he’s going with this.
“The teacher in the classroom next door to mine? She’s a real piece of work.”
“She’s polite and generous and most certainly isn’t the problem,” I say, sounding prissy.
“She was abrasive from the start. Like I said, a real piece of work.”
“And what about you? Were you Prince Charming?”
“No,” he admits. “I don’t have it in me.”
Wrong.
So wrong.
Look at everything you’ve done today.
Instead of pointing that out, I keep my mouth shut.
“We were destined to hate each other from the get-go. I can’t remember what exactly set her against me, but does it even matter?”
I’m fully facing him now, invested. “I think it does. For historical accuracy. Future generations will want to know whose bullet started World War III.”
He chuckles and my heart balloons in my chest. He’s the person whose opinion I cherish most. A laugh from him is more valuable than gold.
“I remember once, early on, there was an all-staff meeting. I was new and wanted to be funny and liked. I probably made a bad joke about the overzealous person who took the time to organize the coffee station in the corner. It looked like someone had laid out the croissants with a ruler. They were in such a straight line. Turns out, it was the teacher next door. I think her feelings were hurt. Maybe it all went downhill from there.”
“She didn’t care about that.”
In truth, I don’t even remember that moment. That’s how much has transpired between Noah and me over the years. At this point it’s all a blur.
“But here’s the crazy thing, Doc. Can I call you Doc?”
“I prefer Doctor.”
“Somewhere along the way…in spite of the fighting and the antics and the bad blood…I started to develop real feelings for her.”
Chapter Seventeen
My stomach flips upside down.
I hold my breath, curious to see if he’ll continue. When he doesn’t, I have no choice but to play along.
I cross my arm over my chest, rest my elbow on my hand, and tap, tap, tap my chin—fully in character now. When I talk, I affect my best clinician voice. “These feelings…do they come and go?”
“No. In fact, they’ve only gotten progressively worse. Completely impossible to ignore. They’ve taken over my life here lately.”
I hum like this is deeply concerning. “Troublesome. Any other symptoms?”
“Butterflies. Sweaty hands. Flustered speech.”
“Sounds terminal.”
I step closer and hold out my hand to feel his forehead.
