Page 124 of Backslide
And she is freezing Noah out when he is in all kinds of pain—physical, emotional. When he is a mess because of his injury. When he has lost what feels like everything.
Nellie thinks he can’t take it when things get tough—but what about her? Now that he is no one’s golden boy, she isn’t sticking around either.
She can’t muster up empathy for him. Though he has no plan now. Though he will have to take a gap year. Though he is untethered, floating through space toward a giant black hole.
And so he tries to reach her. A few times. But it’s no grand gesture. He walks by her building, once. Sees her father coming home from work, his jacket slung over his arm. Hides behind a scaffolding pole.
Wonders how much the family knows.
Wonders how this man who welcomed him with open arms—at family dinners, at birthdays, to architectural unveilings, when he needed fatherly advice—would react to seeing him now. Noah can’t face the awkwardness, the probable rejection.
And so he goes home. And he doesn’t try again.
26NELLIETODAY
There is dancing. There is singing—way off-key. There are kamikaze shots I haven’t done since college. There are joints for other people—the ones who can handle it. There is Britney and Kelly and Taylor and Olivia and Patti Smith and Pat Benatar and Queen Bey. There is A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Biggie Smalls, Eminem, a little Nicki Minaj. There are bathroom breaks and late-night pizza orders. There is yelling above the din of the music. There is laughing, hugs, sentimental tears, laughing again. There is Cara’s smile and Sabrina’s snark and Rita’s slightly deranged line-dance moves—enacted even more terribly by Ben.
There is a picked-up breeze, a whistle through the trees. Twinkle lights that sway with the ghosts of parties past. Flower arrangements that topple and are saved. Spilled glasses of wine splashed along once-white tablecloths. The smell of night-blooming jasmine. Cozy table blankets for staying warm during dancing breaks; hair swept into buns when it gets hot on the dance floor.
There is a night. One we’ll remember. And, all the time, I see Noah mostly across the room.
I know we agreed not to mention what’s happening between us to anyone, but it feels like maybe he’s keeping too much distance. As much as I hate to admit it, those old vulnerable feelings are creeping in, just the tiniest bit.
I try to push them back out the door.
I avoid Damien, too. Maybe that’s part of why I don’t see Noah that much. It feels like Damien is an appendage, always lurking at Noah’s and Ben’s side, dark and stormy, yet another drink in his hand.
But I don’t do a good enough job. Because, finally, as we are nearing dawn, light just beginning to encroach on the night’s edges, I collapse into a chair next to Cara with a tall glass of water (not Noah, an actual one).
“I have to pee,” she says to me. “Again. I don’t want to. It sounds boring. Like a waste of time. But I have to all the same.”
“Sad story,” I say.
“Do you have to pee again too?”
I shake my head. “You’re on your own, lady.”
I love drunk Cara. I love every Cara.
“Damn shame,” she mumbles, as she pushes herself to standing, slips her heels back on, and wanders toward the restrooms. “Save my seat!” she calls, before she disappears down the stairs.
I place a hand proprietarily on her chair. Which is unnecessary because I am surrounded by empty seats. And that proves unfortunate because that’s when I feel a shadow overtake me, as someone settles on the other side of me.
“Having fun?” Damien asks.
Iwas, I think.
“Yeah,” I sigh instead. “It’s nice to all be together again.”
He laughs, but it’s sharp and ugly. “Right. Together again. One big happy family.”
I know I shouldn’t take the bait. But he is raining on my parade and, if I can’t escape him, at least I can tell him to shut the fuck up. In the kindest way, of course.
“Is something wrong, Damien?”
“Lots of things are wrong. It’s all wrong.”
I am not a patient woman. And right now I just can’t. I turn to face him. “What’s your problem?”
