“How about I carry them in?” Noah asked, opening the back seat of the cab.
“We live on the third floor, Mr. Macho.” I wondered for the millionth time why we didn’t live on the first floor. Lana always said it was good exercise, but she never had to practically drag my drunken body up two flights of stairs.
He looked at the girls dubiously. “I don’t think you’re rousing them. I’ve carried heavier things over longer and rougher terrain, so I think I can manage two girls who each weigh about the same as a feed sack.”
Even with some heavy jostling and the promise of comfortable beds, I could not manage to wake Lana or Amy. Noah gently pushed me aside. “Keys?” I pulled out my apartment key and handed it to Noah. He hefted Amy in his arms and disappeared inside the house.
“Lana, I think I’m in trouble,” I whispered to her passed-out form. “I don’t know how much longer I can resist him. He’s going to be in our apartment. I’m afraid I’m going to attack him or something. I wish you were awake to protect me from myself.” Lana moaned in response, and I stroked her head.
Noah returned and wasn’t one bit out of breath. He hoisted Lana onto his shoulder, and I shut the doors to the truck. The truck’s headlights flashed, and a mechanical beep signaled that Noah had locked the doors. He motioned for me to go first, but I felt really self-conscious that my big butt would be waving in his face. When he refused to move until I did, I heaved a big sigh and climbed the stairs. I hoped he liked juicy round ones.
Noah had placed Amy on the sofa when he came back for Lana, so I led him to Lana’s room. He set her on the bed and went to get Amy. When the two girls were lying side-by-side on the bed, I shooed Noah out of the room and proceeded to take off Lana and Amy’s shoes. I wiped Lana’s face down with a wet wipe so she wouldn’t have to wake up with makeup on tomorrow. I tended to Amy the same way, taking my sweet time.
I sat down on the side of the bed, stalling. I was pretty sure I couldn’t handle Noah alone in my apartment with no buffer. My biggest fear was that I would break down in front of him, followed closely by the mortifying image in my head of dragging him to my bedroom.
I listened for the front door but it didn’t open or close. Instead, I heard sounds of life out in the living room. The faint buzz of the refrigerator filled the air momentarily, and I could hear water rush into the kitchen sink.
Finally, past the point of being rude, I took a deep breath, rolled my neck on my shoulders like a fighter ready to start the match, and went out to face my opponent.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter drinking a glass of water. “Do you mind?” he asked, tipping the glass toward me.
I didn’t mind that he was drinking my water or using my glass. I did mind a million other things. I shook my head, walked into the living room, and sat down in my chair, grateful to at least be in my own space.
He came over, almost hesitantly, and I watched with perverse enjoyment as he sat down on the sex sofa. But maybe he didn’t care. He probably had his own sex sofa where he brought the girls he’d strung along for years. I felt a twinge of something like disappointment that I hadn’t even warranted an invitation to Noah’s sex sofa.
He didn’t say anything and neither did I. Instead I stared at his hands and the complicated wristwatch on his arm. I didn’t know anyone who wore a watch. We all kept time by our phones.
Noah’s watch was thick and had multiple dials and faces. I idly wondered if it kept time or helped him travel through time.
“What—” my voice cracked as I broke the silence “—what is it that you want?”
“That’s a loaded question. A lot,” he said after a pause. “For now, though, to be friends again.”
“Were we ever?”
“When I was three years in, I made E-4. It’s this weird position where you aren’t the lowest person on the totem pole anymore, but you don’t have much real responsibility. The goal for most everyone, I guess, is to make E-5, but you only make E-5 if you re-up or if your commitment is longer than four years. The idea was always to get in, get eligible for the GI Bill, and get out,” he paused. I still hadn’t looked at him, but I heard him lift the drink and take a sip.
“Grace, please,” he touched my hand. I realized he had moved to the edge of the sex sofa, and his body was now only inches away from me.
I was being childish, I knew, by refusing to look at him, by pretending I wasn’t paying attention. Of course I was. I hung on every word. I was embarrassed. So I turned my head and stared at his hand, which was still lightly touching mine. It was enough, I guess, because he continued.
“But I enjoyed being in the Corps. Remember the letter that you sent where you explained that you kept going to parties with Lana but you never felt like you fit in, even after years of being with the same kids?” I looked up, surprised he remembered that, and nodded. His eyes were pinned on me, his face serious. I felt his hand tighten on the top of mine and I didn’t move away. Not an inch. I couldn’t.
“And I wrote you back and told you how the Marines made me feel like I fit?” I nodded again, knowing he was reeling me in but unable to stop it from happening.
“I kept thinking that maybe I didn’t want to get out, that this was the right place for me, forever. Only, there were two things that made think maybe a career in the Marines wasn’t for me.” He paused and took another drink. He was now holding my hand in his, and I was letting him.
There was something almost dream-like about sitting in my apartment where Noah was so close I could smell him. His scent was clean and woodsy, like he had rubbed against a pine tree in the morning. I, on the other hand, smelled like stale beer and a mix of pot smoke and cigarettes from the party. He must have just arrived when we ran into each other.
His hand felt rough but steady, his brown hair was mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it multiple times. Some of the ends stood up. Rather than looking awkward, it invited a touch to smooth down the strands. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my free hand to prevent myself from doing just that.
His forearms were dusted with dark hair and his biceps stood out in relief against the T-shirt, muscled and thick. His jaw and cheeks showed signs of late evening growth, and I wondered if they would feel scratchy or soft against my skin.
My eyes traveled across his jawline up to his lips. They looked soft, but slightly chapped, as if he had been exposed to too much sun or wind.
I was glad my hand was palm down. I suspected that it was sweaty, and I could feel my pulse had picked up.
Each millisecond I was taking a mental photograph. Click. Click. Click. No matter what happened, I knew I would take these images out and look at them again and again. I met his eyes, and they were searching. Crinkles were forming at the corners. He was smiling at me.
I had lost the train of our conversation, but Noah easily picked it up again.
“Anyway, when I read your letter, I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do and I felt…” he paused and looked away from me. I knew what he was going to say. He felt that I was too emotionally invested to merely be friends. I grimaced and tried to pull my hand from under his. He gripped it tighter.
“I know what you felt.” I couldn’t keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.
“Do you? Because I was really confused at that time and could’ve used some enlightenment.”
I tugged again and this time he released me. His hand went through his hair again. A tic, then. A giveaway that he was frustrated. By the look of his hair, he must have been frustrated at least a dozen times today.
I knew I didn’t want to hear whatever lame excuse he could come up with about why he hadn’t wanted to meet me last year. I wanted to know what he was doing here and why he was haunting me around campus.
“Why are you here, at Central?” I specified so he wouldn’t respond with something lame, like “because I drove you home.”
“It’s the Harvard of the Midwest?” Noah countered. The statement sounded more like a question, like he was asking if I bought his response. I didn’t.
“What about ‘Bo won’t move north of the Mason Dixon line,’” I countered.
“I may have lied about the weather to Bo and suggested it was a lot warmer than it really is.”
“He bought that?’
“He’d never been here before.”
“What’s going to happen when it snows? Or the temperature falls below freezing?”
“I may be looking for a new place to live come November, when Bo figures out that the temp gets fairly low. Got a couch?” His smile turned wry, as if he knew I was going to say no, but I didn’t know what to make of this question. It was probably just rote flirtation, no different than washing your hands by habit after using the restroom.
“Yes, but it’s very hard. The couch has seen a lot of activity.”
This time I gave him pause.
“I don’t want to know, do I?” His tone was rueful but not accusatory. I didn’t elaborate.
Perhaps sensing I was reaching my limit for small talk, Noah said, “I remembered you telling me that it was a great school, Ivy League quality but without the East Coast… What did you call it?”
“Ancestry bias.”
“Right, more focused on attracting new blood than maintaining old lines. I couldn’t afford four years, but I could swing two. So here I am. Fresh out of junior college and ready to get my Finance degree.”
Everything he said made sense, but I still felt like he was leaving something out.
I cocked my head to the side and considered him. He wore a calm look on his face, but the skin around his eyes was tight and drawn. If he had been older, maybe he would’ve had furrows in his brow. The light smile he wore didn’t seem to fit the rest of the expression on his face.
“Okay,” I said.
“No more questions?”
“Why lie in wait for me after class today?”
“Ah, well, it took me a week of recon to figure out your class schedule. Last class of the day, last day of the week seemed to make good sense at the time. It wasn’t until I was there and all the other people were around that I realized I had made a shitty decision.”
“Smooth.”
“Yeah, not my best.”
“What about the library?”
“I didn’t want to bother you during work hours, but when I came down as the library was closing, you were gone.”
“Why seek me out at all?” I asked, remembering how I left in a hurry that day, thinking I had seen a figment of my imagination.
“I think you may have figured out from my letters that I don’t have a lot of family. You were the only one who wrote me for my entire deployment, and any good memories I have of those four years are all tied up with you, Grace. How could I not come here?”
There was only one response to this, but I left it unsaid. He knew he was breaking me down, but I wasn’t out yet. If he had truly felt this way, why not meet two years ago? He had talked around the issue, so I let it go. I felt exhausted, like I had run a triathlon or some other extreme physical activity that wears you out so much even your teeth ache from tiredness.
I dropped my head and stared at the coffee table, counting the faint grain lines under the layers of lacquer. If I ran my hand across it, I would feel slight imperfections in the coating as if the lacquer had clotted up in places or an air bubble got painted into the surface. That was our conversation, smooth on the surface but lumpy underneath.
“So now what?” I asked, turning my head to the side to peer at him. Not bothering to sit fully upright, I was unwilling to let him think he was completely off the hook.
“Now, I…“ he paused, ran his hand through his hair.
I finished for him. “Friends?”
“Friends, sure.”
I wanted to know what that meant. Like, would we eat lunch at the café whenever our schedules permitted like Lana and I did? Would we go out for drinks on Thursday after the library closed? Or would we just say “hey” on campus, and shoot the breeze during a party if we happened to be standing next to each other?
“Friends” encompassed such a wide range of relationship interactions, and frankly, it didn’t give me much to work with. But I was too drained from everything that had happened in the past twelve hours to press the issue right then.
Instead of asking more questions, I stood up, withdrawing my hand from his, signaling I was done with the conversation.
“As your friend,” Noah stood, “can I take you out for breakfast?”
“I guess. When?”
“This morning. Nine o’clock.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at the time. 12:10 a.m. I had four unread texts. One voicemail. I stuck my phone back into my jeans skirt. “Nine o’clock?”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said, taking my statement of time as confirmation. I could have turned him down, and we both knew it. I walked him to the door. He opened it and then turned toward me, holding out his hand. “I’m so glad to have finally met you in person, Grace.”