Page 37 of Backslide
Steeling myself, I let my eyes drop closed again. If I made it through last night, I can make it through this whole trip, I tellmyself. I can hide behind Sabrina and Rita. I can chat with Cara’s boring college friends. I can drink more wine—if I can stomach it again. Most importantly, I can avoidhim.
And I can keep my spinout to myself.
Only, can I really? Because I could swear I dreamed about Noah’s stupid denim shirt. And him tugging it off his broad shoulders. Or—ugh, worse—was that a drunken daydream while I was still in that liminal state between sleep and wakefulness, hearing him return to his room with a click of his door shortly after I climbed into bed? I cringe. Why was I envisioning what he was doing on the other side of our living room? Like I don’t violently hate him.
Lord help me.
It’s safer to open my eyes. So I do.
With my good arm, I reach over to a switch by the bed and turn on the light.
And, in the full illumination, I have to admit the room really is sweet. Even from my compromised position. Against the backdrop of white vertical shiplap walls, the furniture is unfussy and neutral, the couch a cushy textured oatmeal linen. A cheerful green-tea throw collapses neatly over one arm. You can almost hear it yawn and stretch.
Sprigs of lavender, buckeye pods, and their wildflower friends jut from a speckled bud vase, quirky and upbeat. Like they’ve been gathered by nymphs from a nearby meadow. On the coffee table, which looks like reclaimed wood without being blocky, is a ceramic dish bearing house-made salted caramel truffles—each also adorned with sprigs of lavender and rosemary.
And if I wasn’t hungover enough to dry heave, I would start my day with one. It is vacation, after all.
Everything feels rustic but pristine and it’s an occupational hazard—my art director brain that never fully turns off—that makes meinstantly think about how I might switch out the thistle rug and add an additional bedside lamp. Then this would be a lovely place to shoot.
Great natural light.
For people with actualjobs.
But no time for that. Because I have to attempt to drag myself out of bed and get myself dressed—with one functional arm. It’s been years and years since my shoulder hurt like this, and I can only vaguely remember what to do about it—especially while far from home.
Now, I pad through white barn doors into the bathroom, equally bright and cheerful, with a contemporary egg-shaped tub that is most definitely calling my name later in the trip. According to a letter-pressed card by the sink, even the marbled hand soap is made on-site.
I manage to brush my teeth and smooth my hair a bit, at least. I bury my nose in that soap—notes of berries and simpler times. Then I return to my bedroom in search of coffee. Sadly, when I check out my little snack nook, there is only tea. But lord knows I’m not going into the common area and risking running intohim. So, as much as my hungover body is dying for a heavier dose of caffeine, I make myself a sad cup of Earl Grey, dunking the tea bag with my one good hand.
Clasping my mug, I slide open the glass doors and step out onto my private patio.
It’s lovely. Which is a theme here. The air is warm and fragrant. Under a tree canopy, Adirondack rocking chairs overlook vineyard fields, neat green rows that seem to smile up at me as they reach toward the sun. I place my cup on a simple side table as I walk toward the railing to get a better look. The sky is an unmarked blue that’s reserved for only the most special San Francisco days but is de rigueur here. And I am so consumed with the view that, when a low voice murmurs “Morning” from behind me, I startle and almost fall to my death off the deck.
I whip around to find Noah sitting in a chair to my left, and I do it too fast to remember to be mindful of my arm. Before I candecide whether to respond politely or growl at him, I am clutching my shoulder and yelping in unbridled pain.
Apparently, this terrace is less private than I thought.
He jumps up and crosses to me, setting his coffee cup down.
Of coursehehas coffee. See? I am overachieving. Even through the pain, I can resent him.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks, standing in front of me. All tall and… ugh.
“It doesn’t,” I squeak.
He doesn’t even bother to shoot me an impatient look. “Nell—Eleanor. Whatever your name is.Where does it hurt?”
At a loss, I gesture with my other hand toward my shoulder.
“Sit for a second, okay?”
I am resigned.
I let Noah lead me to one of the rocking chairs. I collapse into it in defeat as it reverberates.
He kneels in front of me. And, as he settles in, I take the opportunity to observe him from above. He’s in a gray T-shirt and athletic shorts, both a perfect fit. And he has clearly recently returned from a run because they’re both clinging to his body ever so slightly.
Maybe he doesn’t play sports anymore, at least not in hopes of a career, but he has definitely kept himself in fighting shape. The California sun has done him well too. His chest is lean. His arms are toned. His legs are tan, except where I note—with a pang—a large scar at his knee.
