He glances up at the sky and squints. “Sunny. Few clouds.”
“Oh. Yes. Um, I knew that.”
We stand there for a beat, quiet, except for the distant sound of Frank licking his own paw.
Noah runs a hand over the scruff on his jaw, and I watch it a little too long. It’s a very attractive jaw. And a very attractive hand. Why is that suddenly a thing I notice? My stomach flips with nerves and guilt. Always guilt.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Have you ever auditioned for one of those, uh, hot USPS mail delivery calendars? I don’t know if they have one, but if they do, you could definitely make a little extra cash. Not that you need money. I don’t know your finances. I meant—it would be a favor. To the calendar industry. And housewives everywhere.”
There’s a silence so thick it could be cut with the edge of my embarrassment.
Noah chuckles and then laughs, an actual laugh, deep and low, that sends heat rushing to my cheeks.
“I’m not flirting,” I blurt.
Why did I say that? How did those actual words come out of my actual mouth?
I wince and scramble. “I mean—I am, I guess. But not on purpose. It’s part of this, uh, grief dare. You know how I am with dares. A thing my widow support group is doing. Like exposure therapy, but for sadness. And romance. And personal growth.”
Noah raises an eyebrow, clearly trying not to laugh. “Romance?”
“Not romance…” I continue helplessly. “I’m not saying we love each other.”
Did I just say love? Backtrack. Backtrack now.
“I mean, I’m not objectifying you. You’re not a piece of meat. Or a calendar. Never mind. This isn’t about that. I’m trying to show up for myself. Not looking for something extra on the side. That sounds like I meant something, uh, inappropriate. I didn’tmean that. Of course, nothing inappropriate. Calendars are not inappropriate.” Oh my God, I need to stop talking.
Noah chuckles again, the sound warm and deeply amused. “I think the last time I saw you this flustered was when we got separated from the group during that five-day class trip to Washington, D.C.”
“I was right to panic!” I point a finger at him, grasping in desperation onto the topic change. “We were supposed to be studying Public Policy and Institutions, and I was not about to get a bad grade because I couldn’t read the bus schedule. I hated that class.”
Noah pulls his lips into a dramatic pout. “Wow. That was the only class we ever had together, and I’m not going to pretend I’m not a little crushed that you hated it.”
I smirk. “Okay, the best part of that class was you. Happy now?”
“Marginally.” He leans back, shuffling a few pieces of mail between his hands. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who confidently led us in the wrong direction for three metro stops before realizing we were headed toward Maryland.”
I groan. “In my defense, I’m pretty sure there’s some bus schedule gremlin who enjoys seeing people get on and off at the wrong place.”
Noah just beams, continuing on, “And then we tried to call the chaperone, but your phone was dead and mine was… Damn, I don’t remember where it was.”
“That was the same problem we had back then. You never could keep track of your phone. I’m pretty sure we found it in your checked luggage.” I roll my eyes. “Who does that?”
“An optimist!” His hand is on his heart. “I believed in the structure of the itinerary.”
“And yet there we were.” I start laughing as the full memory floods my mind. “Stranded, hungry, and terrified we were about to end up on some missing students flyers.”
But even then, under the city lights, shiveringon a park bench, I was only half-panicked because Noah was there. I always felt safe with him.
“Speak for yourself. I was more scared of you stabbing me with a pencil because I asked to be partnered with you when you wanted to be partnered with Lucy Fennec.”
I shrug. “You weren’t wrong. She got the best grades in the class, and you wore a corduroy suit jacket, ironically.”
“It wasn’t ironic.” He purses his lips, clearly pretending to be offended. “It was practical. And you weren’t complaining when it stopped your shivering on that park bench, remember?”
I smile despite myself. “Yeah. I drowned in that thing. It smelled like Calvin Klein and spearmint gum.” I don’t tell Noah that I still love corduroy because of that stupid jacket.
He chuckles again, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Still, not a terrible night. We walked ten miles and discovered an all-night diner with cinnamon pancakes the size of your face.”
