NOELLE
Eventually, I give up trying to distract myself.
No amount of scrolling through my feed is going to keep me from listening too closely to the low hum of their voices spilling down the stairs.
It’s pointless pretending I’m not caught up in it. My body is way too wired to settle down, let alone get lost in anything else.
So, I peel myself off the couch and drift back toward the kitchen.
My arms wrap tight around my middle, using the pressure to try and squeeze the restlessness out of me.
When that doesn’t work, I go about starting a task I can actually control: making dinner.
I roll up my sleeves again, tie my hair in a messy knot on top of my head, and start pulling open cupboards like I’m on a mission.
Pasta, canned tomatoes, garlic clove, olive oil all get cradled in my arms and carried over to the counter next to the stove.
It’s not going to be five-star-restaurant fancy, but at least it will get real food into everyone’s stomachs.
The real four-course menu will come later this weekend when Dad’s home and I’ve got actual groceries to work with.
Finding a pot, I set it on the stove with a couple cups of water in it and dump some pasta into it.
The liquid hisses as it heats, steam curling faintly into the air once I crank the burner more.
The rhythm of chopping garlic takes over, the sharp bite of the blade hitting the cutting board oddly comforting.
The sizzle as it hits the oil in the pan pulls a sigh from me, tension easing just slightly from my shoulders.
While I’ve never been anything close to a chef, I’ve always liked the ritual of cooking.
There’s something comforting about the rhythm, the predictability, the quiet sense of purpose it gives me once everything’s all said and done.
Maybe that’s why I keep finding myself in the kitchen whenever my thoughts start to spiral out of control, even when I’m at college.
It’s a place where I can create something that makes sense even when it feels uncertain in the beginning because somehow it always turns out fine.
I hum softly, a Christmas tune I can’t remember the lyrics to, the melody wobbling in and out of key as I reach for the spoon to stir the sauce, and my mind drifts as I work.
If I’m being honest with myself, there’s another reason besides how attractive they all are that I’m finding hard to ignore.
It’s the way they look at me, not inappropriately exactly, but with the kind of attention that makes me feel, I don’t know, seen.
I can’t remember the last time a guy made me feel that way. Let alone three of them.
It’s not like they see me that way though.
Why would they?
To them I’m just Noelle, Richard’s kid.
The girl that’s supposed to keep them entertained until their friend returns from saving lives.
I’m too young for anything but polite smiles and small talk.
And yet, despite every reason not to, some reckless part of me wonders what it would feel like to be seen differently by them.
But how exactly?
