Page 105 of Backslide
“Now we can be friends!” I say.
“Right.Friends.”
He flips his hand over and grasps mine before it can flee. His forearm flexes and I die a little.
The “friendship” between us is palpable.
So, gently, I take my hand back, reach across the table, and punch him in the arm. Maybe harder than intended.
“Buddies,” I say with a forced grin.
He shakes his head at me. “Nell.”
There’s just too much history and too much distance now, between my life and his. This can’t be a thing. Because I can still feel how seminal this all is and was, for both of us. It’s not light, even if I want it to be.
I realize that’s what Noah meant in the hot tub. This can’t be casual.
Needing something to do, I stand up and start clearing, coming around to his side of the bar to grab the pasta bowl. He watches me move, and I feel a little like stalked prey.
And, the thing is, I like it.
A lot.
Part of me wants him to grab me by my sweatpants pockets and yank me toward him. Send plates flying. Pasta sauce on the pretty wood floor. And me, bent over the kitchen counter.
But I shake my head to let that go. What am I thinking?
I don’t know whether to stop drinking or down the rest of my cider. I go with the latter. Because my nervous energy has ramped up a notch.
We manage to clean up dinner, avoiding contact in the narrow kitchen. But I can feel him like a pulsing inches from everywhere I move.
I had figured we’d hang out for the rest of the evening, but now I don’t think I can handle it. Full darkness has descended outside, even the light emanating at a distance from the general store seems to have gone out, and the wind is whistling past the windows like a tease.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks.
I do. But I shake my head.
“I think it’s bedtime,” I say.
Noah raises his eyebrows. “Tired?”
I shake my head, temporarily forgetting to lie. I have never been less tired. If I sleep for a single minute tonight, it will be a miracle. A croissant with Jesus’s face. An oil lamp that burns for eight days.
“If you’re not tired, why don’t we hang out?” Noah flops onto the couch, pats the seat beside him.
But there is no way. I am not strong enough. And I’m not wearing underwear.
I shake my head.
He cocks his. “If you’re not tired, why go to bed?”
“I’m cold,” I say. Which makes zero sense.
He holds up the throw blanket. I shake my head. “That’s too fleecey.”
He meets my gaze for a beat, then nods slowly—with some version of understanding. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”
For a second I’m not sure if he meanstogether.
