“I know.”
We sit in silence for a minute, surrounded by strangers who are all still pretending they didn’t cry.
“I miss him.” My voice cracks on the last word.
Noah nods. “Me too.”
He leans closer, enough for his shoulder to press against mine. “He would’ve loved this night.”
“He would’ve roasted Blaze within an inch of his life.”
“And made us sit through the whole thing anyway. Out of respect.”
I glance at him. “He always made you tag along with us, didn’t he? He’d guilt-trip you into bad college poetry.”
“I didn’t go for him.” His voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear his response. “I went for you.”
I look at him then. Really look.
And that’s when it hits me: this isn’t new for him. This feeling. This care. He’s been carrying it for years. Quietly. Without condition.
And I wonder how long he’s known. How long he’s waited without saying a word. Without needing anything from me but my presence.
My healing.
Chapter Twenty-One
The rest of the poetry reading passes in a blur.
I hear words, yes, snap judgments and metaphors about bees and moonlight and someone’s extremely complicated feelings about their stepfather’s saxophone, but none of them land. Not really.
All I can feel is the weight of Noah’s hand on my shoulder. The press of his knee against mine. The echo of that poem ringing in my chest like it found something hollow and struck it just right.
When the last poet takes a bow and the crowd disperses toward the door, I stay in my seat for a beat longer.
“Ready?” Noah’s hand is still on my shoulder, sending fire down my spine.
I nod, but I’m not. Not really. Not for whatever’s buzzing under the surface.
We walk out into the night, cool air brushing against skin still flushed with leftover emotion. The streetlights hum. Someone down the block is playing jazz from a second-story window—a saxophone, weirdly enough.
Noah opens the car door for me, and I give him a look but slide in anyway.
The ride home is quiet, but not awkward. It’s charged. Likesomething alive is pacing between us. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel at red lights, and I watch his profile, how his jaw tightens, how his throat bobs when he swallows hard.
I wonder if he’s going to say something.
When we pull into my driveway, neither of us moves.
He kills the engine, but the truck still ticks faintly, cooling off between us.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, acutely aware of the warmth pooling between my legs and the guilt pooling in my chest. “It’s just?—”
“I know.”
A pause. A breath.
