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Noah rolls her eyes and face palms her head. “Wow—what a line. Do you use it on all the ladies?”
“It wasn’t a line. It’s true,” I insist. “But yeah, the ladies like it.” Dammit. Why am I flirting?
My glasses slip down the bridge of my sweaty nose, and I push them back up. The hottest months may be over, but Alexandria hadn’t gotten the message this morning, and it’s smoldering.
“Did Maggie get settled in?”
“I think so. Mags is hard to read with this stuff. She’ll be fine, but—I just want her to like it here, you know?”
“She’ll be okay. Rainey’s been asking about Maggie for the last few days. It was good to see you again. We should get them together again soon.”
I agree. “Hey . . . I realized I don’t have any way to contact you to arrange playdates. Should we—I mean—can I get your number? It’s fine if you don’t want to share it. I just thought it may be easier to coordinate.” My mouth blabbers senselessly, disconnected from my brain.
“I don’t mind exchanging numbers. It slipped my mind last week. When the girls want to play in the future, this will be easier than stalking each other everywhere our girls go.” She offers a small laugh, and the sound thaws a part of my soul that’s been frozen for months.
I pull my phone out and she takes it from my hand. I watch as she adds her number to my phone, her thumbs entrancing me as they move across my phone’s screen, and then calls her phone with mine.
“There. Now you’ve got my number, and I’ve got yours. I work a lot during the day, so it’s easiest to text me.”
Glancing at the phone she placed back in my hand, I see she added herself into my contacts as ‘Playdate Noah.’
“I can do that. Are you on your way to work now?”
“Nope. Today’s my last day off, but I’ll be back in the office tomorrow morning.”
Thinking of Noah going about her daily life, and realizing even after spending two straight hours talking I’ve barely scratched the surface of knowing who she is, makes me want to peel back all her layers and memorize her core. I get the feeling there are a lot of layers there. Entertaining the thought of spending more time with Noah fills me with a terrifying sense of disloyalty to Hannah.
We can befriends, I remind myself. Adults have friends, and I need friends. With our girls’ new friendship, it’d be nice to be friends and have genuine conversations while Maggie and Rainey play—beats bumbling through dreadful small talk.
“Would you want to grab some coffee?” My invitation is impulsive. I’m prepared for her to decline—half of my mind thinks it would be better if she did. My head’s all over the place this morning.
I watch her think through having coffee with me, sensing it’s not a clear cut ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ She probably has a boyfriend and is searching for the right words to let me down gently. Taking in the sight of her, I feel ridiculous. Of course, she has a boyfriend. She’s beautiful and funny—who wouldn’t want a partner like her?
“Sure, that’d be nice. There’s only one coffee shop on this side of town, though. I’ll meet you there. I need to walk home to grab my car.”
“Walk? You walked Rainey to school this morning?”
“Yes. Did you see what a mess the parking lot was?” Noah smirks, and I can’t help but laugh. Her presence is grounded and playful, leaving me smiling and amused more than I thought I ever could be again.
“Would it make more sense for me to give you a ride to the coffee shop and drop you home afterward?”
“Sure it would . . . if I knew you weren’t a serial killer,” she deadpans.
“A serial killer? You think I might be aserial killer?”
“You never know—I’ve seen those Netflix specials. It’s always the nice guys, the man-next-door type who leave a trail of bodies, leaving the neighbors saying, ‘he’s the last guy we would have ever expected.’”
I shake my head at her, but play along. “You don’t know me yet, but I promise I’ve nevermurderedanyone. Hell, I can barely kill a spider.” I wait for her reaction before adding, “Besides, none of my family’s neighbors know me, so you don’t have to worry about ‘it can’t be him’ interviews on the local news.”
I must seem believable, because Noah follows me to my SUV. Before opening the passenger door to climb in, she says, “You know that’s what a serial killer would say, right?”
We chat about true-crime podcasts and Netflix specials on the short drive to the small coffee shop on the corner. I restrain myself from getting out and opening Noah’s door—I don’t think friends open each other’s doors.
Noah’s still on a roll, hurling jokes and jabs in my direction as we reach the coffee shop’s counter. Looking over the menu, she turns to me and says, “Please tell me you’re not a PSL guy . . .”
“Pumpkin spice latte? Me? No way.”
She steps up and rattles off a complex-sounding coffee order to the twenty-something behind the register. Fueled by her banter, I tell the barista, “A medium-size PSL please, light on the cream.”
