“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but the flush rising in my cheeks betrays me. “You practically begged to walk me back. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Quizzing me about my major like I wasn’t two seconds away from dying of embarrassment.”
He shrugs, casual, but his eyes never leave mine. “Couldn’t let you get lost twice. You didn’t even have a cell phone then. Something about it being a tool of the system. Only that brick you called a pager.”
I snort. “God, we’re old. And I was so rage against the machine.” My fingers twist a lock of hair around and around, my wedding band catching the last bit of sunset light.
And for the first time, I wonder, really wonder, what my life might have been if I’d lingered with the barefoot boy and his bad posters and kind blue eyes a little longer, before the golden one swept in with promises big enough to drown in.
I drop my gaze, my throat tightening. “Bet you wish you hadn’t found me that night.” My voice comes out too quickly, too lightly.
Noah’s smile is gentle, edged with something too deep for either of us to touch. “Nah. I liked finding you.”
The warmth between us spikes, bright and terrifying. It scares me enough that I stand up so fast my chair scrapes the patio. “I should, um, top off my glass. You want more?”
He lifts his half-empty beer, eyes still on me. “That’d be great, B.” He must sense the tension because when I return, he asks, “What do you think is next for you? I have yet to meet someone as passionate about art history as you are. I still know way too many facts about Artemisia Gentileschi’s Baroque raw depictions of women.”
My cheeks redden, and the flagged email fromthe Seattle Art Museum flashes in my mind. “Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about what I would like to do since Owen and I got engaged, and I got pregnant with Matt in a matter of seconds.”
“Might be something to think about now.”
We sit with that for a moment, watching as the sun dips lower, throwing gold across the floorboards.
“You ever miss being married?” The boldness of my question surprises me. We’ve never talked about his failed marriage. I know I miss being married, but my partner was taken from me. His left.
Noah rakes a hand through his short, dark hair, his gaze drifting toward the yard like he might find the answer buried beneath the hydrangeas.
"Yes and no," he says finally. "I don’t miss being married to the wrong person. That was… hell." He gives a small, tired shrug. "But I do miss what I thought marriage could be—with the right person. That version gutted me."
His eyes darken, and I immediately wish I hadn’t asked.
“I ended up declaring bankruptcy,” he adds, voice low. “That’s actually how I got into the mail service. Freelancing with a lit degree wasn’t cutting it, and Owen—he’s the one who helped me land this route. He found out your last mailman was close to retiring and pulled a few strings. The guy could charm anyone.”
I blink. “I had no idea.”
Noah nods, then pauses. “Yeah. He was one of the good ones. I don’t think I ever repaid him for helping me put the pieces back together. I meant to. But he was gone.”
“You ever think about that?” My voice is a whisper in the early twilight. “What it means to still be here when someone else isn’t?”
His smile fades into something that mirrors my own broken, battered heart. “Yeah. More than I wish I did.”
Something shifts. I can feel it. A tug between familiarity and something else. Something new. Something full of longing. Something wistful. My brain short-circuits trying to label it.
“Well.” I clear my throat, trying to lighten the air. “If thelasagna’s any good, I do accept praise in the form of home repairs and light gardening.”
He chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Frank stirs and stretches, groaning like an old man. Noah looks down at him and grins. “Frank, you didn’t even contribute.”
“I, uh, I should probably…” I gesture toward the house, or maybe the kitchen. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
He leans back slightly, watching me with a bemused expression. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” The darkness that has seeped into the evening makes it easier to be honest. “You were his friend. You knew us together. And now you’re here trimming my fennel and eating my overcooked lasagna and being nice. It’s weird, right?”
I sense him studying me in the dim light for a long second. “Is it?”
I hesitate. “I mean, I didn’t plan to flirt with you,” I blurt. “Not that this is flirting. It’s yard work and prolonged eye contact.”
Noah laughs. A low, real laugh, warm and deep, and the sound surprises me and also fills me.
