But Noah, caught or not, doesn’t waver, his expression as impassive as ever, like he never actually cared whether or not his self-assigned bodyguard-mission was stealth or not.
I lift my chin in my trademark defiant attitude—even if, not-so-deep-down, I know Noah doesn’t really deserve it—but I can’t quite bring myself to let go of whatever pride the night has allowed me to retain.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” I spout, more aggressively than I mean to.
Noah simply shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “I’m just walking here, Liza.” He gestures to the ten-foot safe-zone between us. “But if you don’t want me in your space, I’m not going to force the issue. Not my style.” If he means to set himself apart from Jonah, it’s entirely unnecessary, and I suspect he knows that.
I also doubt he actually believes my issue is that I don’t want him in my space—that I might not want him around.
I mean, who wouldn’t want him around?
I sigh inwardly. I just don’t want him to feel as if his presence—his protection—is necessary. Like I need a guardian. Like I’m some kind of incompetent, helpless little girl. A burden.
That is the absolute last way I want Noah Reed to see me.
I’m eighteen years old, same as Noah, and I wish there was a way for him to know that what happened tonight with Jonah was the exception, not the rule. That I can take care of myself.
Most of the time.
“Just go back to the party, Noah. You’ve done your duty; you can keep your superhero status. I can make it from here,” I snark.
I’m surprised by Noah’s light-hearted chuckle. “Oh, I know you can.”
But he doesn’t turn back to the direction of the party. In fact, he keeps following behind those ten feet of distance, as if he wants to prove he respects my boundaries, even if I’m not the one who actually set them. It softens my heart more than I’d like to admit.
I stop walking.
Noah stops, too, holding his position like some kind of sentinel.
I blow out a deep breath of air, releasing, with it, at least some of the stress of the night.
“Well,” I concede, gesturing to the sand beside me, “if you’re going to walk with me anyway, I guess I rather you not stare at my ass the entire time.”
It’s as much an invitation as I can muster. Not for much, just to walk with me rather than behind me. But it’s all I’ve got right now.
Noah laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. One that soothes away even more of the evening’s unprecedented violence, the persisting soreness.
“Well, I wasn’t complaining...” His eyes linger on my behind a moment longer than he seems to intend, before his eyes shutter, seemingly shaking something off. “But...”
He takes just a few long steps, which is all his six-foot-two frame needs to make up the space between us. He chews his bottom lip before lifting it into that same playful half-smirk I caught a glimpse of earlier. “I think I will take you up on that.” He shrugs. “I definitely look less creepy this way.”
My laugh hides my internal thoughts, about the irony of Noah appearing creepy, while Jonah has everyone fooled.
Noah and I walk in stride, saying nothing of substance, until we reach my family home.
He knows which one it is. He has since we were kids.
I shoot Noah a half-hearted smile—which, despite my sincere gratitude, is all I can muster—before starting up the walk, and around to the side door.
Noah doesn’t say a word. But he doesn’t just leave either. He waits until he sees me securely inside, and I watch surreptitiously from the side window as he turns and heads west, which is most decidedly not in the direction of Jillian’s party. I’m careful not to disturb my mom, even if I know she’s surely waiting up.
5
I stay in bed for three days.
Fortunately, my mom has been swamped at work, and hasn’t had a free moment to question my story about a particularly rough summer cold.
I feign sleep when she gets home in the evenings and comes into my bedroom to check on me. But I don’t have to do much acting, anyway.