“Hey, you.”
I say, stepping forward to embrace him, and when his strong arms pull me in, I instantly relax because there is something about the way Noah holds me that has me believing that everything is going to be okay.
“Hey Tor.” His deep voice rumbles through his body, and I feel the vibration against my cheek that’s pressed to his firm chest.
“I missed you,” I confess, the words slipping from my lips so easily, and my spine stiffens in fear that my confession was too much, but when he tightens his hold as if he can’t bear to let me go.
“I missed you too.” My shoulders soften, and I take a second just to soak him in and smile as my body relaxes in a way that only seems to happen when I’m in his arms. I swear, one hug from Noah Jones could heal just about anyone.
We finally break the hug as I step back and nervously chew the inside of my cheek and clear my throat.
“You’re looking good Tor—” He stops, clears his throat, and adjusts his baseball cap. “Well, you’re looking well."
My cheeks heat at his compliment. In therapy, they talked about the importance of self-care, so every day I make a conscious effort to do something that makes me feel good. Do my hair, cook a meal, paint my nails, read a book, and by doing these small things, slowly, bit by bit, tiny pieces of me have started to come back together.
“You could have waited in the truck,” I say, locking the door to my apartment.
“What, and let you carry your suitcase down that stairwell and risk breaking a nail. No chance.”
I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove and point to my suitcase with my freshly manicured nail.
“You might wanna put your back into it with this one,” I joke.
“Give it here,” he says, reaching for said case, which he lifts with one arm, and clearly, the weight of it takes him by surprise when he drops it.
“Jesus, woman, how long are you staying in Texas? This thing weighs like a hundred pounds.”
“I did warn you,” I sing as I lock the door to my apartment.
“I’ve carried kit bags for a team of five lighter than this,” he says with a tight voice as he hauls my case over his shoulder, and I follow him down the stairs and out to his truck.
He opens the passenger door and gestures with his arm for me to get in.
“Such a gentleman.” I hum playfully. His truck is so high I have to use the step on the edge and the pull handle inside to heave myself up. He closes the door and puts my case in the trunk.
His truck smells of him. Mint and cedarwood. I buckle up and let my body sink into the worn leather of the seat.
He jumps in and fires up the engine, country music blasting through the speakers.
“Texas, here we come,” he declares with a grin.
Nine hours in, and we have stopped twice so I could pee, get more gas and snacks. I’ve eaten two bags of Sour Patch Kids, a bag of Cheetos, and drank a too-large cup of cream soda, a bottle of water, and a coffee.
I fidget in my seat and cross my legs.
“You need to pee again, don’t you?” Noah says, eyes focused on the open road. The sun has begun to set, and we crossed the border into Alabama nearly an hour ago.
“No,” I say tightly.
“Really?” He gives me a side eye.
My body sags in defeat. “Yes, okay, I need to pee. Like really badly. I have since we hit Alabama. Happy?” I spin my head to face him.
A grin spreads across his face.
“Well, I’m not surprised. You’ve been drinking like a fish,” he jokes, and I slap his bicep, noting its firmness.
“Cheetos make me thirsty. Please, can we stop at a restroom?” I plead.
