6
I climb into Noah’s bright yellow Jeep Wrangler, the top down and windows wide. Classic summer boy.
“We’re not going to the beach?” I ask.
“Not exactly...” He glances at me between safely watching the road ahead, as we drive north, toward the bay instead of the ocean.
Three blocks later, Noah turns onto Alabama Street, and the beginnings of anxiety take hold deep in my belly and on the telling surface of my skin. “Are you taking me to Randy’s?”
Part of me revels at the idea of being alone with him, but most of me is ready to jump ship at the thought that this was his plan. That he might think that now that Jonah and I aren’t together anymore, Noah might just be trying to get me into bed, like I’m easy or something.
“Not exactly...” Noah repeats, and I throw him a confused look that only incites an pleased smile.
A gust of wind blows through the open jeep, my red waves flying all over so that I can barely see, and I let out a giggle as Noah glances at me, amused. Until he isn’t.
He does a double take, his smile fading instantly as his brow furrows in a quiet fury I struggle to make sense of, just as he pulls into Randy’s empty driveway.
I blink at him in confusion until Noah sucks in a hard breath between gritted teeth as the back of his large hand feathers along my neck, ever so gently, and I know.
I momentarily forgot about the fading bruise in the precise shape of Jonah’s massive palm, a tell-tale reminder of reality, and just how bad the other night was. How bad it might have been had Noah not come to my rescue.
Somehow, still, his touch affects me in ways I can barely understand, and my eyes flutter closed as his callused fingertips tenderly examines the damage.
“I could kill him,” he mutters, his soft tone completely at odds with his meaning.
“I think you almost did,” I breathe, before re-meeting his gaze.
It earns me a small, sober smile from Noah, and, for some reason, just this makes me feel like a million bucks.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Noah says meaningfully.
“I know.”
“He never did.”
And while a part of me had always known that, something about hearing it from Noah, who has no real reason to believe it so fiercely, and yet somehow does, makes me finally, truly believe it.
The intensity of our locked gazes are too much all of a sudden, and I look out the open window, and gesture to Randy’s seemingly empty house in question.
“He’s at the beach,” Noah explains.
It does nothing to answer my question, though, and then a trace of Noah’s smile returns as he explains. “Well, smartass, we’re going fishing.”
7
When we were all about twelve, we played an epic game of Truth or Dare.
When I say epic, I mean it. Because we’d played that game--that year, at least—more times than I could count.
But this time, this time it was different.
Jillian had known about my crush on Noah since the days when we were stuck at the club’s day camp from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon. When we’d detour our routes to activities with the express purpose of passing the group of boys Noah and Randy—whom, incidentally, Jill was always a fan of—was in.
We’d rush to the girls’ bathroom to fix our beach-hair, cover up any acne with the minimal makeup we used at the time—despite the effort being a ridiculous endeavor at the beach—and apply sticky lip gloss we’d regret as soon as we got back to the beach, as the unrelenting grains of sand would inevitably adhere to our shiny mouths.
Some days we’d miss them. Most days, though, we’d time our moves perfectly, and with our stares concealed by dark, trendy sunglasses, we’d strut our pitiful, new curves, carefully acting as if we didn’t even know the boys were there as we passed.
Most of the time they were more concerned with sports, particularly beach volleyball, to notice that girls even existed, let alone us. But then there were the times when they’d look. When they’d elbow each other in some inside joke that made our barely adolescent selves cheer in triumph, as soon as we were far enough out of sight, that is.