“Wouldn’t the flames of hell rise up?” I ask. She lunges across the table, spilling the pepper shaker in the process, and punches me on the shoulder. It’s a pain far worse than Grandma’s cheek pinches.
“You know what I mean. If you like him like I think you do, now is the time to shoot your shot. Like I’m doing with Siena! You are capable of genuine human feeling, aren’t you?” she asks.
I glare at her with the intensity of a thousand suns. Of course I’m capable of genuine human feeling, but do I really want to be? Out here? Where everything has a flashing countdown clock attached to it?
“We’re too different. It would never work. I’m going to open myself up for something that can’t and won’t last? Seems like a waste of time and energy,” I say, hoping she’ll tell me I’m right. That the warm, fuzzy emotions I’m snuggling up to are not worth the heartache of losing him when I leave.
“Matthew, I say this because I care, but you need to stop obsessing over what people are going to think of you. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to have every move I make taken out of context and splashed across a trashy website, but I do know what it’s like to get over other people’s perceptions of you.” With her hair spreading out like wavy, black vines on the back of the booth, she closes her eyes. “When I graduated from Wind River High, my friends were leaving for big cities, fashion institutes, and state schools. They had prospective majors and interesting career paths. I struggled in school. I was a middle-of-the-road student, with middle-of-the-road test scores, and more school just felt like a punishment rather than an investment in my future.”
Our stories sound similar. “What did you do?”
“When I told my dad that I wanted to stay in Wind River, keep working at Moon Beans, and maybe try a Havensmith online class in entrepreneurship at some point, he supported me. And when I walked across the stage on graduation day to collect my diploma in front of my other classmates, my friends, and my girlfriend at the time, they all whooped and cheered when they heard my name. I realized that it didn’t matter. Following expectations doesn’t make you a better person. Being the person someone says you should be doesn’t always make you happy,” she says.
I can tell she’s been sitting on this pile of pent-up frustrations for a while. Surprising myself, I offer her my hand on the scratched tabletop, and she takes it. We really are kindred spirits. An unspoken understanding passes between us.
In all my years of friendship with Bentley, never have we had a bond this open or true. I barely know Noelle, and she’s already accepted me, flaws and all. She may be pushing me toward a devastating ending, but at least she cares enough to see what’s good for me when I’m too nearsighted to.
Ella comes back with our Cokes, lemon wedges affixed to the rims, and a plate of pancakes with Fruity Pebbles baked into them. On top is a huge dollop of whipped cream, more cereal, some fresh berries, and a bit of powdered sugar. I’m both disgusted and pleasantly excited.
“You’re about to see God, I swear,” Noelle says. She takes a forkful and a blob of whipped cream disappears down her sleeve. She doesn’t even care. Her eyes light up with intense pleasure at that first bite.
Chapter 23
The Blacktop Tavern is a hole-in-the-wall townie bar.
On Sunday night, the crowd is sizable, and the floor is littered with shucked peanut shells. The air is tinged with the smell of burning thin-crust pizza dough.
Hector spots Noelle and Siena at a high-top table in the corner, just far enough away from the rowdy game of pool happening in the back. I follow him over to it, and something snags in my brain.
This is my first date since Baz and Spencer.
I wonder what Hector’s thinking right now.
“You made it,” Noelle cries, already one drink deep and happily tipsy. Her tolerance must be low. She jumps up and embraces us both. “Sit, sit. We ordered already, but the server said he’d be back when you arrived. Hector, you know Siena.”
“Sure, hi. Good to see you again.” Hector slings his coat over the top of a stool and sits on it.
“Siena’s sister owns the hottest restaurant in Wind River, A Very Fine Vine. Siena works there too. It pairs tasty, Italian-inspired dishes with imported wines. It’s the perfect date spot,” Noelle says, and then shrinks back, her multicolored sleigh-bell earrings jingle-jangling as she goes. She’s said the d-word out loud, making what might have passed as a group hang into a certain setup.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, sitting across from Siena and trying to move past that. When I glance over to Hector, it appears as if he’s chewing on the word as well, biting his bottom lip and pretending to be into the football game on TV.
A handsome guy somewhere north of thirty approaches our table with a pencil behind his gauge-pierced ear and an empty tray in his hands. “’Sup, boys?”
I give him a smile as he produces two menus for us. It’s all standard bar fare from wings to fish and chips. The craft beer specials are listed in big bubble letters on a dry-erase whiteboard hanging above the bar.
Once we’ve put in our orders—a hard seltzer for me and a lager for Hector, a sad-sounding salad and a ribs basket—Gauges leaves, but not without flashing me a toothy smile. It glints in the reflection of the sign behind my head pointing toward the bathrooms. Classy.
As I push up the sleeves of my Fair Isle crewneck, the humidity registering at sweat-inducing levels, Siena looks at my forearm.
“Sweet ink,” Siena says.
I flush hot. On my eighteenth birthday, I insisted on getting tattooed. Bentley took me to the best tattoo artist in Williamsburg. She was a bombshell Amy Winehouse type with droves of jet-black hair and a colorful picture book tastefully curated across her body.
We’d emailed back and forth for a few weeks, trying to decide which one of my amateur sketches I’d like inked on me for eternity. This was a hard decision considering I waffle on almost everything. We decided on an open, ornate birdcage. Left inside is a bouquet of colorful flowers. In the distance a lone blackbird is flying away.
“Any significance?” Siena asks.
“Just pretty, I guess,” I say, not wanting to get into it. Though from the look on Hector’s face, it’s clear he might’ve deduced it’s one of my own drawings. I start to slip it back into my sweater.
