Noah laughs. “It’s been a while since Max has shared a treat or toy with anyone. Consider yourself lucky.”
My skin prickles and I wrinkle my nose, moving back from the half-masticated bone, but Max just picks it up and approaches me again before laying it at my feet.
Just don’t look at it, I tell myself. Though, the image is burned into my brain.
Max’s pleading eyes stare up at me from his perfect sitting position, his paws touching the tips of my boots. I raise my hand, letting him first sniff my open palm, then I move around to the top of his head and stroke a few long languid pets down his head and neck. I scratch him behind his ear and let out an airy laugh when his hind leg thumps against the concrete.
“Good boy.”
“Braver Hund,” Noah instructs.
“Braver Hund.” I repeat the words with a wide grin stretched across my lips and I catch Noah staring at my mouth. “I do smile, you know.”
He bites his lower lip. “It’s not that.”
Another beat passes, and the loud clink of a wrench dropping to the floor makes us both startle out of our locked gaze.
Noah clears his throat. “You, uh, ready?”
“Sure.”
We walk to the truck and Max loads up in the back. When Noah and I are both in the car, I can’t help but remember Tommy’s words.
“So … like old times?” I ask, curious.
Noah doesn’t seem like the guy to hang around a mechanic’s garage with the likes of Tommy. This isn’t me judging. It’s just I learned a long time ago that pretty people attract pretty people, and I, for one, don’t fit that bill—Morgan does, and that’s exactly the type of person I’d assume Noah would spend time with.
It’s prejudice, I’m aware. I think that’s why I was so taken withhim. He wasn’t from the “Parker” circles or the elite of Ruin, Mississippi. He was dangerous, and everyone kept their distance, but it wasn’t fair to label someone that way. Of course, I was wrong. Majorly.
Noah turns the key, and the truck rumbles on.
“Tommy and I used to hang out in his garage a lot in high school. His dad … his father liked to rough him up. His mom, too. On nights when his dad would come home drunk, I used to ride over to Tommy’s, and we’d stay up until one or two in the morning working on this old Chevy that didn’t run. Tommy’s grandparents had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday. His dad never attempted to slap him around when I was over at his house.
“I think I always felt guilty when he’d show up at school with a few bruises because I had baseball practice or my mom wanted me home that night. I felt guilty I wasn’t there for him.”
I shake my head, irritated for Tommy and annoyed I’d judged the state of his shop when he’s clearly made something of himself.
“What happened?”
“His father started getting hooked on hard drugs and he eventually put Tommy’s mom in the hospital. A restraining order was granted, and she filed for divorce. Tommy’s dad eventually left. I don’t think he’s heard from him in over ten years.”
I tug on my shirt, pulling the hem over to trace the bottom stitching with my thumb. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, but I keep my gaze on my hands in front of me.
I’m not sure I’ve met anyone like Noah—the type of person who truly gives with zero expectation in return. His heart is pure gold. Or at least I hope it is. He doesn’t expect anything from me … right?
Out of the corner of my eye, he relaxes against the seat, head pressed to the headrest behind him, completely unaware of the havoc these small stories of him are wreaking on my heart.
He worries his lip between his teeth.
“It’s not your fault, you know.” I don’t know why I say it. He’s not stupid. He knows it’s not his fault Tommy was abused by his father, but somewhere deep down in my flipping stomach I need to tell him.
He doesn’t look at me, only shrugs. “I know. Still doesn’t sit well, though.”
The silence in the truck stretches on while only the engine hum and Max’s scratching drift through.
A quiet laugh escapes Noah’s lips, and I force myself to look at anything else—the dangling tree branch over the power line,the traffic steadily rolling behind us, the ripped fingernails I chewed off last night. Not him. I can’t look at him—I’m unsure I’ll have the willpower to look away again.
The bell chimes as I exit the back door to the diner, two grilled cheeses in hand and a sad paycheck tucked between my lips.
