With those last words, she backpedals, the wool of her boot sock snagging on a protruding nail in the porch, loosening a loop of thread. She stares at it.
A low breeze sweeps across the porch, blowing the stray pieces of dark hair over her long lashes while dry leaves skitter over the wooden deck. I glance up toward the half-moon slowly dipping under the blanket of slate clouds as the first few droplets of rain splatter against the roof.
The horses in the pasture behind the house whinny as the rhythm steadily gains traction and the pattering intensifies.
I look at Lily who’s now staring at me. The wind flicks several raindrops on her face, and I trace them as they roll down her pink tinted cheeks. She studies my uniform, slowly wicking the moisture from the gusting downpour, and I fight the urge to reach out and touch her.
So alone. She’s so alone and living my greatest fear.
“Lil?”
“I’ll stay,” she says, and my shoulders sag in relief. “But it’s for your mom. I don’t want handouts, and I leave when I want to.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll go tell her.”
I move toward the door, turning the handle as she calls out behind me.
“And don’t call me Lil.”
Chapter 14
Lily
This was a mistake. What was I thinking agreeing to this? I’m not a nurse. Hell, my grandparents back home were in excellent shape the last time I saw them, and even though Ms. Sullivan is younger, her health needs are much more.
Part of me wants to be angry with Noah. Guilt tripping me into staying here to help look after his mother when I have zero experience doing so. The other half is impressed. Even I know, from the few interactions I’ve had with her now, that she’s beyond stubborn. She doesn’t want help—flat out refuses it, and Noah is stressing over it.
But why he thinks me being here is a good idea, I’ll never know. Something about what I said that night on the bench resonated with him, and itistrue. At least, it seems like it’d be, but I’m not qualified to take care of a woman with terminal cancer. I can barely take care of myself.
Damn it.
Noah’s childhood bed stands proud against the middle of the back wall as I stand by the threshold staring in. It’s an old, most likely thrifted, queen oak frame with a thin navy-blue and forest-green comforter spread over the top. There’s only one pillow propped up, leaning against the headboard, and the round metalnightstand with toothpick legs looks like one you’d find in a college dorm. A single white alarm clock sits on it. I’m fairly certain if you put anything else on top it’d fall over.
A narrow dresser sits on another wall, a photo of his mother and him leaning in a cheap plastic frame. They appear to be at a beach somewhere. Ms. Sullivan’s tawny hair with light highlights hangs low past her shoulders. She’s in a two-piece purple bathing suit, her arms wrapped tightly around an eight-or nine-year-old Noah. His green swim trunks are plain, but he has a baseball cap securely over his head, his hair flipping outward underneath. It’s different from how he wears his hair now.
A signed baseball sits in a clear plastic cube next to the photo, and I explore the dresser drawers. It’s only fair. He poked through my bag once.
After Noah told his mom I’d be staying, she gave me the tour of the guest bathroom with instructions for how to work the shower. Noah loaded me up with fresh towels from the linen closet and programmed his phone number into my phone. Then he left to get back to Max with the promise he’d pick me up tomorrow afternoon to go talk to the mechanic about my car.
I couldn’t help but feel the loss after he left. Noah has a comforting, protective aura, and even though I’m on edge around him, it’s for a completely different reason.
Ms. Sullivan showed me to Noah’s old room, telling me to raid his drawers for his old clothes she still hasn’t gotten rid of. I dig around drawers full of T-shirts and jeans until I come across a pair of gray sweatpants and a Creedence Clearwater concert tee, its colors muted. The shirt carries a faint, musty smell like old wood and subtle traces of laundry detergent. Despite being worn, the fabric isn’t stiff and in surprisingly good shape for having sat untouched so long.
I chew my lip, picturing Noah, in all his ranger uniform glory, wearing sweatpants and a band T-shirt. I pull my lips into a thin line, fighting the urge not to smile at the thought.
After grabbing a few personal items from my backpack, I open the door and look down the darkened hallway. Ms. Sullivan said she was going to bed, and the door at the end of the hall is shut, the lights off, so I tiptoe into the bathroom across the cold floor. It’s a standard guest bathroom with a shower-tub combo, a hideous floral shower curtain that must’ve been his mom’s clap back after her son moved out, an average white toilet, and an unoriginal vanity.
I eye the shower. It would feel good to take a hot one someplace other than the gym. They do the trick when I’m on the move—clean water, no questions, and cheaper than any motel.
The old shower knob is chrome, dulled and marred by tiny rust spots along the edges. It wiggles when turned, giving a metallic squeak. Then in a grating-to-the-ears whine that crescendos past uncomfortable there’s a hollow groan before the pipes sputter and hiss water against the tub’s bottom. It takes a while, but after adjusting to find the right temperature, steam rises and the flow of water evens out with more pressure than I was expecting from this older home.
After climbing in, I use some of the shampoo to lather my hair, dirty from my hike, and massage my scalp. The hot water soothes my aching muscles, and the tension from the gas station and my broken car dissolves away.
Moving on to washing myself, I use a bar of orange soap, new but dried out, and lather the washcloth I was given, allowing the sudsy terry cloth to glide over my thighs and over the contours of my stomach. It’s luxurious against my skin, the texture slowly scrubbing away the sweat and stench of the day. Gently, I scrub my hands, lingering the pliable fabric over where Noah’sthumb brushed so mildly across my knuckles, and my eyes close, relishing the feeling, pretending I hadn’t ripped my hand away.
“Lil.”
I jolt, spinning around and yank the curtain back. Condensation has covered the mirror, but the door is closed, and as I squint, I realize it’s locked even.
