Page 55 of Backslide
Noah tilts his head, looks at me. Hard. And I think I see a flash of pity cross his face as his expression softens.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t be disappointed,” he says, quietly. Then, he starts digging into a market tote bag that I just now notice he’s been carrying by the handle.
“What’s in there?”
“The medicine for your arm, for one thing.”
“You picked it up?”
“I figured you might forget… in your state.”
“Why didn’t you forget? Didn’t you also take a gummy?”
“I did, stoner. But some of us are not lightweights—and know it.”
Stoner. What he called me on that first day we talked.
When I first met Noah, he never really drank or smoked pot. At least not during baseball season. I guess he has since dabbled and learned his limits.
I open my mouth to protest, but what’s the point?
“Here.” He hands me an unopened bottle of iced green tea.
“You got this for me?”
“No. I got it for me. But if you’re dying of thirst, you can have it.”
I shrug. Beggars can’t be choosers. I take a sip. “I prefer raspberry.”
Noah rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time. But I don’t care—because the drink is cold and refreshing like an oasis in my mouth and, as an added bonus, I have successfully annoyed him.
“This is pretty,” I say, taking in our surroundings, the other duos on benches having no doubt more normal conversations. “How did you know about this spot?”
“I’ve been here before,” he says.
Right. He is a California boy now. He might live in LA, but wine country is just a hop, skip, and a jump for him. I wonder who he’s come here with—girlfriends, friends, the team? I glitch on the idea of his girlfriends. I wonder what they’re like, how many there have been.
But I don’t ask. Because I have no right. Instead I say: “Today is weird.”
“Well, sure,” he says. “Wait. I have something to help with that too.”
And, from the gourmet market tote, he pulls out an individual box of Cheerios.
At the sight of it, something catches in my throat and I almost start to cry.
What is with me today? This week? This year?
How can dry cereal be a time machine? And yet, it is. Shooting me back through the space-time continuum to the day we first really spoke in Ben’s kitchen, before all the hurt and the messiness. Before everything after that. Before now.
Our eyes meet. And there is so much there, I cannot even begin to unravel it. What lies beneath the yellow flecks in his irises that I’d forgotten were there. Years and days and no time at all.
Why is he sitting here with me? Is he tolerating me? Doing his duty by me? Or is it more?
Without a word, Noah hands me the box. I open it and start to eat and, just like that day so many millennia ago, I quickly start to feel more like myself. I scoop up a little handful and hold it out toward him, a peace offering. He takes me up on it, popping anoin his mouth.
I think about telling him about Damien’s question about our romantic past—but why? It’s meaningless and can only cause trouble. I decide to keep my mouth shut.
The breeze has picked up, cooling the damp nape of my neck and my thighs beneath my skirt. It ruffles the hem. Tickles my calves.
