“Hi,” I sputter.
An immaculate blonde with a severe bob and an even more severe look on her face stares at me. She holds onto the edge of the door with one hand and purses her lips. A stack of papers is gripped by her free hand.
“Ember?” Noah calls out. Peeking past the blonde in her black sheath dress, I make out Noah’s legs. A stack of pillows holds up his injured leg, and the other lays flat on the bed.
My eyes switch to the blonde.
“Miranda, can you please let Ember in?” Noah sounds irritated.
Miranda stares at me for another second before stepping out and darting around me. Quickly, I reach out and palm the door so it doesn’t close.
“Ember? Come in,” Noah calls.
I step inside and let the door swing shut. Rooted in place, I stare at Noah. He’s propped up by half a dozen white pillows. They fan out like a peacock’s plumes.
“Hi,” I say.
“She’s my PA.”
I put up my hands and shake my head. “None of my business.”
Noah grins. I don’t want to like his smile, but I do. I especially don’t want to like the laughter in his eyes, yet I do.
“You look mad.” His lips twist with contained amusement.
“I’m not mad.” I fix him with a dirty look.
“Perturbed?”
“Nope,” I deny swiftly with a jerk of my head.
“You never were a good liar.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Noah’s toffee-colored hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back. “It was meant as one.”
I clear my throat. “No news on my mom.”
Noah sighs slowly in response to my non-update.
My hands hang in front of me, my fingers knotting. I’m not certain why I’m here. The thinking, the crying, the what-if’s, they were all driving me out of my mind. Where else am I supposed to go?
Matt’s house.
“I should’ve gone to Matt’s house,” I blurt out. “I don’t know why I’m here. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come.” My hands run through my hair, grabbing at the ends and pulling it over one shoulder. I scrunch my eyes and groan. “Why am I here, Noah?”
Noah’s laughing eyes are gone. His features rearrange as he grows serious.
“Magic.” One simple word, spoken without pageantry, yet it holds so much between each of its letters.
My head shakes. “Don’t. Don’t say that. We were kids, Noah. Hormonal teenagers. Everything is bigger when you’re eighteen. All the emotions are”—I stretch my arms as wide as they will go—“gigantic. They take you over.”
Noah’s mouth sets in a grim line. “You’re arguing too much.”
I point a finger at him. “You still believe in magic.”
“And you don’t?” His voice is loud now.
