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“Are you... visiting... someone?” I ask.
“Actually, I just moved into Mesa View Apartments,” he says. “I’m close enough to work that I could probably bike when the weather’s good, but since Matt’s accident, my mom really hates to hear about anyone biking on the road.” He scoops up some cheesy potatoes for himself and lifts the spoon to ask if I want some.
I nod.
“She used to freak out about everything,” he continues. “You should have heard her when I told her about the last-minute trip to Mexico.” He barks out a fond laugh. “She’s loosened up in a lot of ways since we’ve been spending so much more time together, but road biking still makes her stress.”
“I can imagine,” I say, struggling against my shock. All. Those. Words. More than I’ve ever heard him speak outside of mathematical explanations and hostile accusations. “How is Matt doing?” I ask, grateful to finally know his brother’s name.
His expression softens. “So good. Almost a hundred percent. It’s been incredible.” We finish the buffet line and take our food to a long picnic table. He sits across from me and tells me about Matt’s recovery and physical therapy, how he beat the odds and how hard he had to work to do it.
I’m not even sure I knew he had a brother, before Mexico. I watch him as he talks, and I’m amazed. He looks good, like he’s shed some of the protective layers he always wore before. How many times did I try to break through? He only let me in once—briefly, when he told me about his dad—and now his words are running like the Colorado after a big spring thaw without me even pressing. The Noah I always thought I could see lurking behind his grumpiness has broken free.
I like it.
Not good.
He finishes off his potatoes and washes them down with a drink. I’m much too aware of the muscle in his temple as he chews, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the careful way he folds his paper napkin. The familiar whiff of his aftershave.
Bad. Very bad.
He asks me if I’m still working with Marcus, how he’s doing, how my boys are progressing at the school. I end up telling him about the kid that enrolled this week and the crazy-hard stuff he’s dealing with, careful to leave out names and details for privacy. Noah’s expression tells me he understands how hard it is for this kid—and for me. He doesn’t brush it off as teenage angst or tell me to leave it at work. He just listens, and somehow that makes it lighter for me to carry.
This is the most uncomfortable-comfortable conversation ever. I can’t reconcile this Noah with the one I knew before—the coldly analytical math tutor, the resentful date, the silent critic in Mexico.
We move on to less-serious topics, and I’m in the middle of pointing out and naming other YCS leaders when I feel an arm snake around my middle, followed by a quick peck on my cheek.
“Sorry I’m late,” Alec whispers into my ear, sending a shiver down my arm.
Surprise erases Noah’s easy smile.
My cheeks are hot. Alec knows I hate public displays. “Hey,” I say, easing out of his grasp and taking a hand instead, “look who just moved into town!”
“Aquaman!” Alec lets go of my hand and steps around the table to Noah, who stands up to take part in a lopsided—in height and enthusiasm—handshake/bro-hug/backslap. “How’s it going? Catching up with Grace?”
“Yeah,” Noah says, smiling again, though it’s not the same. “Good to see you.” His tone doesn’t match his words.
Right then, Chris materializes at my side, pulling me away because it’s past time to start the games. He’s right. I’ve been slightly distracted. I stand beside Chris and have him explain each of the stations, then watch as people meander to their game of choice, some choosing to stay at the tables to eat or visit.
“I thought you were going to have nets up,” Alec says with a tip of his chin toward the games when I return.
I shrug. “Outvoted.” I hear my name and see Chris beckoning wildly.
“We need more people!” he yells.
I’d love to decline, but duty calls. Noah hesitates, then, surprisingly, follows along, though his ease of manner has fizzled. And though I’m sure Alec would rather die than play a party game, he catches up and takes my hand.
“What’s the game?” he asks, and when I remember, I know I should have declined, regardless of duty.
It’s the telegraph game.
A couple of other people have come over from the tables, and Chris says we have enough to play now. He splits us into two teams and tells us to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the other team and holding hands with our eyes closed. Alec lets go of my hand long enough for us to sit down, then reclaims it. Noah settles in on my other side, chatting with Alec across me, and my heart pounds so hard I can’t think.
And it has nothing to do with the hand I’m already holding.
Chris goes on with the directions, but I’m not really paying attention until I hear Noah’s voice in my ear.
“I won’t bite.”
