Page 21 of City of Love

Even as the thought crosses my mind, though, I shake my head. Putting it off would be nice and comfortable, but this needs to happen. So I take one last deep breath and then knock.

The door opens almost immediately, and somehow I know that Noel has been waiting for me. He just stands there, his shrewd eyes assessing me for a second, and then gestures for me to come in.

“I figured you would show up,” he says, standing back.

“Yes, well, I’ve been thoroughly disillusioned,” I say lightly.

I step into the room, and as I take another look at Noel, my nerves suddenly start to dissipate. No, this person in front of me is not a girl like I’ve been led to believe, but am I scared of him? No. Not in the least. Maybe I should be—there’s something a little dangerous about him, I can admit, a sort of glint in his eye that tells me he’s willing to cross the line if it’s for the right reason—but I’m not. The only scary thing is the possibility that our friendship has been a lie. And the only solution to that fear is to talk to him. So I’m exactly where I need to be.

I don’t wait for him to invite me to sit; I perch on the edge of his bed while he goes to the chair at the little desk in one corner, wheeling it over until he’s sitting beside the bed. The subtle scent of some sort of cologne lingers pleasantly in the air, but it’s hard for me to investigate that further without sniffing around like some a dog, so I don’t. Noel has changed into a sensible t-shirt and flannel pants, and I try not to feel embarrassed by my llama pajamas.

Noel just watches as I make myself comfortable. His arms are folded casually over his chest, and my eyes are again caught by the sleeve of tattoos winding around his left bicep.

I’m hit by a wave of embarrassment as I look at him. Not because of my pajamas this time but because of my idiocy. Noel is so undeniably masculine; how did I think he was a girl? Sure, I never saw what he looked like, but a presence like his bleeds over into everything he does—including writing to foreign pen pals. It seems so obvious now as I think back through his emails—the way he writes, the things he says, the advice he gives. How did I miss this?

“All right,” he says, and my gaze snaps to his. “Let’s talk.”

I clear my throat before saying, “I want an explanation.”

He nods. “Thus why we’re talking.”

I tilt my head, and I can’t help the slight twinge of suspicion I feel. Is he really going to be so forthcoming? What was the point of lying this whole time when he seems to have no problem telling me the truth now?

As if he’s reading my mind, he sighs and says, “It’s never been my intention to deceive you, Lydia. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

I roll my eyes. “Says the man who’s been pretending to be a girl,” I say.

He ignores this. “Come on,” he says, gesturing to me. “Ask me your questions.”

“I do have lots of questions,” I admit, my voice grudging.

“I’m sure you do,” he says, the corners of his mouthalmosttwitching as he watches me expectantly.

Taking a deep breath, I just cut right to the chase. “What else have you lied to me about? I want to know what’s true and what’s not.”

He nods slowly. “I’ve told you the truth for the most part,” he says, watching me. His posture is relaxed, but those eyes…they’re sharp, alert. He goes on, “I haven’t lied about anything I didn’t have to, and when I did have to lie, I did it as little as possible. Mostly lies of omission.”

“Lies of omission?” I say, tilting my head again.

“Yes,” he says, nodding, sounding businesslike. “But those haven’t had anything to do with me being male, or with our friendship. There are things in my life you likely wouldn’t approve of—or things that just never came up.”

I arch one brow. “Such as?” I say.

He shakes his head resolutely, and one dark curl falls over his forehead.

“Come on,” I say, dismissing the urge to brush that curl away. I point a finger at him. “Don’t you think you owe me the truth?”

His eyes narrow as he studies me, seemingly searching for something. Finally he sighs. It’s clear he’s choosing each word with care as he says, “I manage an…unauthorized nonprofit organization.”

I stare at him blankly.

He stares back.

“Which means?” I say, because he’s clearly not going to expound on his own.

“Which means that sometimes I operate in…legal gray areas,” he says, his voice grudging.

I roll my eyes. “Oh my goodness, Noel. Are you a criminal? What, do you skim money off the top or something—”

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