Page 101 of Backslide
Cara
Oh. Okay, cool. I wasn’t even going to ask.
Sure.
I know that she ran directly to Sabrina and told her that Noah and I are stuck because, a few minutes later, I get a text from Sab with multiple eggplant, taco, and winky face emojis. And that’s when I decide I was happier without service and turn off my phone.
Good timing because dinner is ready!
Noah and I sit across from each other on stools at the small breakfast bar. We each have a cider open in front of us. It’s… intimate. It feels domestic and homey in a way that I both love and hate.
I throw my hair in a sloppy bun. And look up to find him watching me.
“I like your hair like that.”
“Apocalyptic from the rain?”
“No. Wild and like… natural.”
“Thanks,” I smile.
If he thinks I have natural highlights, I am not going to tell him different.
I bite into the pasta on my plate and whoa, this man doesnothave talent in the kitchen—it is all reserved for medicine, sports, and sex stuff—because, somehow, he has messed this up. The pasta is so undercooked that al dente doesn’t begin to describe it.
“Delicious,” I say, as a piece of pasta crunches audibly in my mouth. “Thanks for making dinner.”
He takes a bite too, then pauses mid-chew.
“You’re welcome.” He scratches his head. “I think I may have undercooked the pasta.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Cook the pasta at all?”
His mouth drops open and then he cracks a wide grin, shrugging with his palms up. “I told you I couldn’t cook.”
“No. No.Ican’t cook. You can’t boil water.”
He laughs, loud and big. And it fills up the entire tiny cottage. Completely infectious.
“Fair enough.” He takes a big bite anyway. And I follow suit.
Honestly, the food is bad, but, after our day and in this little house with the rain pouring down outside, it tastes oddly good.
I look at him sideways, wonder about him in the world. Noah, in his twenties, in his thirties, navigating medical school and summer jobs, internships and relationships.
I snag on that last thought. And get suddenly curious. In a dangerous way.
“So,” I say, oh so subtly. “Did your ex cook?”
He looks up at that, wariness in his eyes. “My ex?”
“Well, I mean, maybe I should say ‘exes’? I honestly have no idea. But Rita mentioned someone…”
“Avery,” he nods.
