Page 49 of Cluelessly Yours

“Thanks, Mary.”

And then she’s off, heading straight out of the bar after dropping the kind of truth bomb that’s going to be hitting me with shock waves until the end of time.

Mary isn’t someone Noah is dating. She’s a medical caregiver for his sister who I didn’t even know existed.

“So…you’ll stay and have a drink with me?” Noah asks, and I can’t bring myself to answer anything but“Yes.”

“Is Kara your only sibling?” I ask Noah, casually nudging my questions toward a more and more personal territory.

We’ve been here at Bailey’s for hours, and I’ve yet to find a subject I’m not interested in.

We’ve talked about his college days at Columbia and how his roommate’s one friend actually had the FBI come looking for him at their dorm one night because of something crazy he had done and how they never saw him again. Kyle something, I think he said his name was.

He also told me how he ran the New York Marathon ten years ago, only to trip embarrassingly on his mostly numb feet after crossing the finish line and need stitches in his knee.

He told me his favorite color is blue and that he’s never tried sushi and that anytime the weatherman says something likethe wind blows from the east, he thinks of Liam Neeson in the Taken movies.

I know more random things about Noah after tonight than I’ve known in the entire seven months we’ve been acquainted with each other.

And still, I want to knowmore. I want to go deeper and earlier and into more detail. I want to know his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and the things he would change if he could.

And whenever he’s asked, I’ve managed to find the strength to share the same kinds of things about me. Which, for me, feels nothing short of a miracle.

“Yep. She’s seven years younger than me,” Noah states as he sets his water back on the bar. He switched from beer about an hour ago in anticipation of being on call tomorrow morning. “When she was born, she was the light of all our lives. A healthy, adorable baby girl, and the little sister this silly little seven-year-old boy didn’t think he wanted but fell in love with instantly.”

“So…” I pause, unsure if I should ask the question or how I should word it, but somehow, he senses what’s on my mind without my saying a word.

“Everything changed when Kara was about four months old. She had several severe seizures that changed the course of her life forever.”

Oh my God.

“That’s so…tragic.”

“It definitely caused a strain on our parents’ marriage. They ended up divorcing when Kara was about three years old, and my dad took on the role of her primary caregiver.”

“What about your mom?”

“I used to really hate her,” he says quietly, shaking his head as he does. “But as I got older, as I grew up, I realized my mom was simply too selfish, too emotionally immature, to handle such a difficult situation.”

“I think something like that would be hard on any mother.”

“Don’t give her too much credit,” he contests gently, meeting my eyes with a slight frown creasing the corners of his lips. “She’s not like you, Sammy. She’s not like anyone you know. After the divorce, she spent most of my youth continually bringing my dad to court over alimony and support, even though he was the one taking care of my sister. Just because I’ve matured past the point of hating her doesn’t mean she deserves kind words.”

I’m on the edge of my seat as Noah’s already gentle voice breaks around the edges. His life is so much more complicated than I ever dreamed. He’s so successful and vibrant and handsome, I figured his upbringing had been perfect. Easy. Devoid of complications.

I guess that’s why they have that phrase about what happens when you assume.

“When I was fourteen, I permanently moved in with my dad and helped him with Kara as much as I could.” He laughs thoughtfully. “He fought me the whole way. Said he wanted me to be a normal teenager, whatever that means.” He shrugs. “I haven’t talked to my mom since. I know she’s still alive, living somewhere in the city, but that’s all I know and that’s all I want to know.”

“Your dad sounds like a really good father.”

“He was,” Noah corrects, and I frown. “He passed away a few years ago. Heart attack.”

“I’m so sorry.”

My dad is a pain in my ass, but just last week, he sent a care package of a couple hundred dollars, beef jerky, and brand-new Cleveland Guardians hats for the boys. He didn’t call or text, and he rarely does. But he doesn’t have to. He loves me and my kids and finds his ways to show it. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have him or my mom or Brooke to turn to.

Noah, it seems, is very much on his own.

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