Page 140 of Backslide
“Well, it always seems to make you feel better,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “So what do the scientists know? Plus, it smells better than hundreds of oysters or wedges of cheese.”
The man has a point.
I cannot believe he is standing here. Actually standing here. Surrounded by so much breakfast.
I am suddenly overcome by nerves. And confusion. And a general sense that, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I might burst into tears. Happy. Sad. Overwhelmed.
I motion toward the couch—kelly-green velvet and my favorite piece—so he can take a seat. So I can at least perform some semblance of normalcy.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. Because that’s what polite people offer.
“Sure,” he says.
“Milk?” I ask. “And a spoon?”
“Obviously,” he says.
As soon as I’m alone in the kitchen, I close my eyes and press my back against the cool steel of the fridge, trying to keep myself calm. My heart is thumping out of my chest.
I need to get my head on straight. I need to calm down. Whatever this is, I need my mind to be clear for it. But the problem is, my mind is never clear with Noah around.
I know I’m not supposed to want him here. I know I said we should avoid each other, cut ties. I know this situation is complicated as hell. But the thing is, I didn’t realize how much I would miss him. Or how much that would hurt.
I exhale, resolved to stay chill. I grab a beer and a cider from my fridge because that’s what I have. And I come back to the living room all casual, holding the drinks up in front of me.
“Which one do you want?” I ask.
“Which one doyouwant?”
“I asked you first. You choose.”
“Fine,” he says. “I choose the Brooklyn Lager. And you.”
I freeze, unsure of what to say next. I part my lips, close them. In a fugue state, I hand Noah the beer. Our hands graze each other. And it’s like an electric shock when we make contact, lightning scorching its way through me.
Decades, years, eons—and this boy still does that to me.
“Thanks,” he says, all cool. Like this is all just the most normal thing. Like he hasn’t just said what he said. And he sits down on the couch. “Hey,” he says. “Mind if I turn on the game?”
What is happening?
“The… okay? But you’re going to need to be more specific because I don’t know what ‘the game’ means?”
“The Yankees game,” he says. “If you hand me the remote, I’ll turn it on.”
I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. As I hand him the remote and he starts scrolling through to some sports channel I’ve never turned on like it’s completely regular, I am out of my body.
Did he fly from LA to sit on my couch and watch sports?
Suddenly, I can’t play along anymore. I can’t pretend this is normal and wait patiently to see what comes next. The shock and thrill of seeing his face is morphing into disorientation tothe point where I remember that this isn’t good for us. This isn’t good forme.
What is he doing here?
“Noah,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Well,” he says, “we’re having a drink and watching a baseball game ’cause I have something I want to show you.”
I am still hovering over him.
