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“What’s that?”
“The rush. The adrenaline. The thrill of walking the edge of life and death, like a tightrope. I didn’t have a death wish, but I loved taunting it. When I was throwing myself out of planes or skiing down triple black diamonds…that’s when I felt that amazing fear. That chest-tightening, ball-shriveling fear that you’re right there, about to lose it all. Because only when you’re about to lose it all, do you realize how much you have.”
Noah fell silent, and I watched the bitter anger seep into his face again, edging it with hard lines. But his eyes held a deep melancholy that was more potent than anything else. I remembered reading about the five stages of grief once, how anger eventually gives way to sadness. Maybe what I was seeing in him was progress. Like eating breakfast with me or agreeing to take a walk. My hand itched to take his.
“I know that feeling,” I said. “The rush. Not the same way as you felt it, but…before Chris’s death, I felt it when I played. An immersion so strong, it was like I was outside myself, watching, while the rest of me just…lived the music. Some people call it being in the zone.” I plucked at a stray thread on the seam of my dress. “I miss that.”
Noah turned my direction, his gaze landing on my chin as it always did. “I’m sorry I told you that you were wasting your time. I had no right.”
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s true. I can’t let go, either.”
His head tilted, and the brusque demeanor slipped even as he tried to hold on to it. His brows furrowed as if he were willing his eyes to work. To see me.
“Charlotte…what do you look like?”
I brought my head up sharply. “I told you what I look like.”
“You told me with words and words aren’t always enough.”
I felt my pulse quicken and I glanced at his hands in his lap. Nice hands. Masculine. Long fingers.
“Do you…want to touch my face?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged sharply. “Maybe.”
My skin heated at the idea of his hands on me, and I swallowed hard.
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind. If you think it would help…or something.” I coughed.
Noah shook his head. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up. It’s stupid. I can’t see shit with my hands.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No. That’s just a dumb cliché in even dumber movies.”
“How do you know?”
“I know because nothing will ever compare to just being able to see. Ever.”
“It seems to me that if the rest of your senses are heightened, your touch might be too.”
Noah shifted on the bench toward me. “Are you desperate for me to put my hands all over your face, Charlotte? Do you have a gnarly wart on the end of your nose that you’ve been dying to spring on me?”
“Now you’ve ruined the surprise.”
“Liar.”
“See for yourself,” I said, hoping my voice sounded as light as I tried to make it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. How the hell had I become so nervous? Or why? He was so close, I could practically count the gold flecks in his eyes.
Noah raised his hands, slowly, and I could tell he was nervous too.
“Go on,” I blurted. “Big hairy moles…and a unibrow that would’ve made Frida Kahlo jealous.”
Noah dropped his hands and rolled his eyes. “Will you shut up? I have to concentrate.”
