“Tell me,” he says, his tone sobering a little. “Are you the Wilde I would like best?”
The familiar swirling pit opens in the bottom of my stomach, and I drop my gaze to the bar top.
“Sorry,” he says, the apology rushing out in a breath. “I shouldn’t pry. I know you mentioned your parents aren’t here anymore. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
The idea of him wanting to know anything about me or my past leaves me teetering on an edge I’ve avoided for most of my adult life. It’s not that I’m embarrassed of where, or rather who, I came from. But talking about it always leads to other insecurities, the kinds that tend to send people running.
“No, it’s fine.”
I pause, the awkwardness stretching out with the silence. Shoving the embarrassment of vulnerability down, I take a deep breath and keep my eyes trained to the bartop.
“My parents . . . struggled. My mom got knocked up fresh out of high school and my dad stayed, or rather lurked, around out of some backwards sense of obligation. But it was bad—for all of us. They were these two toxic people who fed off each other and ignited the worst parts of the other. My mom, I think, tried at first, for me. But then life became too much and she fell back into her bad habits. I was fifteen when they died, but they’d left me long before that. Nan was the one who made sure I had everything I needed and the only person I consider family. Well, her and now Kara. And I suppose Henrietta too.”
I take another drink before realizing I didn’t actually answer his question. “So, unfortunately for you, whether you like me best or not, it’s just me.”
Noah is watching me, but for the first time I can remember, it is not with the expected look of pity or unease at such a shitshow story. His sea gray eyes track along my face, my skin flushing in their wake, and his lips are still curved in a warm smile.
“I don’t find that unfortunate in the slightest.”
“Who even are you?”
“I can tell you if you want.”
I meant it as a tease, but his response is so lighthearted and pure, I can’t help but be curious. His eagerness to share is an unfamiliar thing, something I don’t normally seek out, but after everything else we’ve covered, what’s the harm?
“Sure.”
“What would you like to know?”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Slinging me the easy ones, huh?”
I twist my glass between my hands and frown at him. “Just answer the question.”
“Pot roast. Like the kind you eat on Sunday afternoons after a lazy nap.”
“You take naps?” I ask, unsure why it surprises me.
“Yes, whenever I can. Can I ask you one now?”
I nod, chewing on the inside of my lip, and shift my gaze to the glass shelves lining the back wall.
“What’s your favorite thing about Portland?”
My chest loosens. That’s an easy one. Encouraged, I prop my chin up on my palm, my elbow pressing into the smooth wood of the bartop. “It’s the perfect city.”
“Oh?”
“It’s true. There’s the foodie scene, a bangin’ arts district, a literal underground historyandwe are no more than an hour from mountains or the beach. Plus, since the climate is moderate, we get as close to all four seasons as you can without piles of snow.”
“I don’t know that weeks of endless rain could be considered moderate, but I suppose I’ll let it slide.”
I make a face, before bounding to another question. “What made you want to be an accountant?”
“I like that there’s always an answer, that even through the mess of it, there is a solution for the problem.”
The answer is so perfectly him—logical and based in the theory he carries so deep in his essence. He doesn’t let me dwell on it long.
