That summer was the first time the girls and boys started hanging out together after camp. When we’d all meet up at the back courtyard where of the club’s boardwalk, and spin bottles or share the one or two cans of beer someone stole from their parents’ cabana.
Or played Truth or Dare.
It was Randy, rather than Jillian, surprisingly enough, who dared Noah to kiss me, not the other way around. And while everyone laughed, cheered, and teased, I expected him to make some excuse why he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. In fairness, we were still at that awkward age when, though some of us most decidedly did want to kiss the other, we sure as hell weren’t going to admit it.
But Noah didn’t even hesitate. He crawled across the circle we were all seated in, and pressed his lips to mine, long and hard. He tasted like cherry ices. Unfortunately, I was sent into near shock, and by the time I was fully able to even register what was happening, he pulled away to taunts of “get a room!”, and Randy’s “I dared you to kiss her not glue your face to hers!”, and, of course, a round of pre-teen hoots and laughter.
But what strikes me now, all these years later, isn’t that kiss. Well, not only that kiss. Even though only Jillian and I knew it was my very first. What I can’t stop wondering about is several rounds later, that very same afternoon, when, still recovering from having Noah’s lips on mine, I chose “truth”.
“What is your absolute favorite beach activity?” our friend, Matty, had asked me.
I answered truthfully. “Fishing.” It was the one thing
my dad and I regularly did together, and we’d loved it. “Not off the jetties, though, so maybe it’s not technically a ‘beach’ activity, but going out on the bay. Definitely my favorite,” I’d explained, referring to my favorite daddy-daughter activity—the one we’d always taken part in together, at least once a week, every summer since I could remember.
It’s been years since I’ve had the chance to do that, though. Not since my dad went out to pick up our sushi dinner from Nagahama—our favorite Japanese spot one town over in Long Beach—and some asshole blew a red light, ending his life, without so much as bothering to stop to see the damage he’d done.
And he’d done serious damage.
The two-seater sports car he rarely got to drive, being a family man and all, was crunched like an accordion, my dad’s very fragile, human body with it. And despite my mom and me both following up with the local police department regularly, even now, years later, they still have yet to catch the asshole.
8
Randy’s house is located on the bay, with a small dock in the back, where he keeps the fishing boat he got for his birthday last year. I saw it docked when he had a party last year, but I’ve never been on it.
“Fishing?” I ask, as if I hadn’t heard him right.
Noah’s grin widens with self-satisfaction, and I know. I know, without a doubt, that he remembers. I stare out at the space between houses, where I can view the Atlantic West Bay, avoiding his gaze, unnerved by my sudden vulnerability.
He’s just trying to cheer me up after the other night. He probably feels responsible or something, simply because he was around that night, and happened to be the one to intervene. Still, the thought means the world to me, more than it probably should, and, for some reason, I’m not sure I want Noah to see that.
As if he notices my discomfort with my feelings, he doesn’t push the issue. He simply says’s “come on”, and makes his way around the jeep to open my door for me.
Jonah has never opened a door for me. Maybe that should have told me something a long time ago.
I take Noah’s proffered hand, ignoring the heat of his touch, of the way his palm squeezes mine, as I climb from my seat, hating and loving the way his other hand supports my waist as I hop down to the Randy’s paver-stone driveway. I avoid eye contact. I’m feeling too much right now, more than the situation probably calls for, and it’s humiliating. Noah is just trying to do something nice, and my stupid heart is being ridiculous by trying to make it into something more.
“Hey,” Noah says, sensing my strange change in mood. He waits until I meet his eyes, and I wish he’d just let me be a coward for a minute. “You know, we could do something else if you want. I just thought...”
“No.” I stop him. I get over myself, letting him see me in earnest. “Fishing is perfect, Noah. I...” I swallow hard. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Before I know what’s happening, Noah draws me up in his arms, hugging me with all the kindness and support I haven’t felt in a long time, and I let him. I let myself lean on him. I let him comfort me. About Jonah, or my dad, or whatever else, I’m not quite sure. I’m not sure it matters. All I know is he wants to be here for me in this moment, and in this moment, I decide to let him.
His fingers softly trace the bruises on my neck and upper arm, and his muscles tense, but I only press my face into his chest, sucking in all of the comfort I possibly can, being selfish and needy in a way I've spent my entire life avoiding.
“I’ve never liked him, you know,” Noah whispers into my hair. “But I don’t think I’ve ever hated him—ever hated anyone—until this very moment.”
I don’t know why his words are so perfect, but just like his arms, they slip around me, making me feel cared for. Protected.
He finally releases me, and we stand there, awkwardly for a moment. But Noah breaks it expertly. “So are we going to fish, or what?”
Hell yes.
9
“Yes!” I squeal, jumping in victory as we measure my latest catch, four inches larger than Noah’s.
They were both bluefish, so it’s not as if they’re actually worth keeping. Bluefish taste horrible if you try to cook them, so it’s all about the sport of the thing, but I become competitive easily, and, what can I say? I love winning.