Page 42 of Even Exchange

“At Camp Dickson, right? Like Noah did?” she asks, and I nod. “Oh, he always loved that place.”

“Yeah, it’s really fun,” I say, thinking of the shenanigans I got into with the girls last year.And Jonathan.My stomach sinks at the reminder. The training camp invites a few collegiate football teams, Jonathan’s school included, and given he’s their quarterback… fuck, I forgot about that.

“Noah mentioned you’re majoring in education?” Luna asks, pulling me out of my spiral.

“Yes,” I say, shifting on my feet. “Early childhood education.”

“That’s wonderful.” She smiles wide, filling me with a sense of relief. “It truly takes a special kind of person to have the patience to teach. Especially young children.”

A special kind of person.

If only my mother felt that way instead of seeing it as a passion profession.

* * *

“You gonna give me one of those?” Noah asks as I shove another cinnamon cookie in my mouth during our drive to get my siblings.

“Maybe,” I mumble, a cookie crumb falling out, and I catch it, tossing it back in. “If you give me a really good fun fact.”

“A good fun fact…” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Did you know a Roman emperor burned a year’s worth of cinnamon at his wife’s funeral as a symbol of his grief?”

My face scrunches up, staring at the once delicious treat. “So this is a funeral cookie?”

“Follow-up fun fact,” Noah says, ignoring my cookie conundrum.To eat, or not to eat. That is the question.“The emperor was actually the one who killed her.”

My gaze snaps to Noah. “What kind of fun fact is that? That is the opposite of a fun fact. That is a funless fact.” I toss the cookie back in the container and close it. “No cookie for you.”

He rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. “But you both worked so hard on them. Can’t I haveone?”

“Later.” I wave him off, ignoring his puppy dog pout. “You must be punished for forcing me to lose my appetite.”

“Can’t you just put me in time-out, Ms. Benson?” he says, eyes lighting up as he grins my way, and I squirm in my seat.

Groaning, I yank open the container, holding it toward him. “Just take your murder cookie.”

“Victory!” He snatches one and scarfs it in a few bites, then releases a breathy moan. “Mmm. Quasi meglio del sesso.”?1

I ignore the way his impeccable Italian makes me shiver, even though I have no idea what he’s saying, and opt to change the subject. “You were right, by the way.”

“About?”

“I love your mom. Can we go back next weekend?”

Noah side-eyes me. “This is why I don’t bring friends home. They end up liking her more than me.”

“Noah’s mom has got it going on,” I sing to the tune of the catchy 2000s hit.

“Please stop.” He cringes. “You’re good at so many things, but singing is not one of them.”

“Noah, can I come over after schoooool?” I belt off-key.

“Stop it!” he begs with a laugh, pinching my side.

I yelp, flinching away. “Hey! Focus on the road.”

“My apologies.” He places both hands on the wheel. “Ten and two. Ten and two.”

“Thank you.”

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