I’ll check if the library has it.
My London Fog is ready, so I grab it and head for the door. I’d planned on sitting here to write until my next class, but I can stop by the library instead.
Noah
I have it here if you want.
Me
Are you on campus?
Noah
Home, but it’s not far. You?
This sounds like we went from book recs to him inviting me over to his place. Which makes me unreasonably nervous, because even if there are moments where I think he might see me as someone he wants to spend time with, he always makes up for them by reminding me that I’m the girl who watches his sister, and it’s all transactional. The butterflies in my stomach don’t get the memo.
Me
Just left McConnell. Might have stopped at Words and Lattes for a pick me up
Noah
That’s literally on my street.
Me
No way.
Noah
Big blue house on the end.
I stop dead and nearly drop my phone. The guy behind me shouts something as he narrowly avoids crashing into me, but I don’t hear it. This is way too much of a coincidence.
I look down the street at the house I spent most of my free time in last year, and know I am nowhere near a good enough actress to be there without revealing that. Especially with Noah, who makes me nervous without the added deception. I start typing that I have class on the other side of campus and don’t have time, but it sounds like I’m lying. I consider saying I’m with a friend, or that I only read eBooks, but I make the mistake of looking up, and Noah is there, on the stairs leading to the porch, waving me over.
“Shit.”
I take a deep breath and school my features before walking over, but I think this might be what a heart attack feels like. I tell myself it’s nothing, that I can play it cool for five minutes without even going inside the house, but the curtains are open next door, and there’s not a chance in hell I can stand on the porch for five minutes without Miss Mabel coming out to say hi.
I was dragging my feet, but I speed walk the rest of the way until Noah is right in front of me, wearing a Wolves t-shirt, grey sweatpants, and socks. He must be freezing, but he’s smiling like he’s so happy to see me he doesn’t feel the cold. Or maybe I’m projecting, because as much as I want to get away from this house before I blurt my life history to Noah, the last thing I want to do is move away from him.
“Hey,” he says, still smiling, but he seems nervous. As if he’s also aware I’m at his house, we haven’t spoken in a week, and he was weird the last time we did.
“Hey.” I let out a breath, because as nervous as he makes me, there’s a calmness that settles, like I trust him. Or it just might be the house that feels like home. “You live here?”
Obviously, he does, because he’s here, but the porch still has the furniture we set up when Dallas moved in his sophomore year, the wind chimes Miss Mabel gave them as a housewarming present, and even the coffee table they ‘rescued’ one garbage day. There’s also a burn mark from when one of Dallas’ roommates tried to set the mood and forgot about the candle when they moved things upstairs. If these walls could talk…
The door is already open, so Noah motions me inside and I wonder if my old key still works, or if they changed the locks. My dad was worried that giving the new owners a dozen keys would make it seem like the house wasn’t secure, so he told me to just get rid of mine, but I haven’t yet. Which I now regret.
“The dad of one of the guys on the team bought it for him for school, or as an investment property, so it’s cheap rent, roommates who get it, and easy rides to the rink.” Noah smiles, and I make a point to return it, but my eyes lock on everything that might have given me away.
“It’s a really nice place.” The pictures are gone from the fridge, the furniture looks new, and there are paintings on the wall, with a random sculpture in the corner, that I have so many questions about. Not that there’s anything wrong with the art, it’s cool, but they look like originals, not what you’d expect for college jocks. The wicker basket with quilts and knit blankets neither. “Looks homey.”
“We’re pretty domestic,” Noah agrees. “I made spaghetti and meatballs the other day. Mike made everyone overnight oats for this morning…I’ve lived in worse.”
“My dorm doesn’t even have a kitchen. Just microwave bays. It’s torture.” And it’s not like I can batch cook at home for the week, because the mini-fridge I share with Anna is tiny.
