Unlike the neighbors, I actually care what Noah thinks. I guess even the most ruthless, bloodthirsty sharks need a pal.
I’m immediately embarrassed that he’s picked up on my simmering annoyance, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Noah is one of the most perceptive people I know, especially when it comes to hidden emotional states.
He’s damn near supernatural, but I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge at leastoneexplanation for Noah’s heightened perception: that I’m so calculated that it makes anyone seem borderlinepsychicwith empathy.
I let out a long sigh, shaking my head. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “It’s cute that Marlo started calling you that. It’s just …”
“You wish you could spend more time with her and you feel personally slighted by how much she likes me.”
I nod.
“Well, I can think of one way to fix that,” Noah says. “Work less.”
“Do you have any idea how much my rent is?” I counter.
“So rent a smaller place, she doesn’t need all that stuff.”
“She doesn’tknowwhat she needs,” I reply sternly. “People have no fucking idea what they actually need.”
This moment hangs between us, and in the silence it gradually dawns on me who I’m talking to.
“I’m sorry,” I continue, shaking my head. “Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re so good to us.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Noah replies. “You were good when I really needed it.”
“Copper Ridge Cheer Squad forever,” I chirp with a nod. “Go, Falcons.”
“I’m talking about the cancer, Poppy.”
I sit with this for a moment. “Yeah,” I finally say, leaning back in my chair.
I haven’t even brought up the Eddie Michaels accident, yet here we are, bathed in the shadow of the grim reaper. That’s life in a nutshell, I guess: we all get to choose our ownpath, but eventually each journey ends up at the same spot.
A glorious orange-and-purple sunset blooms behind us, flooding the horizon with its melting vibrance. The sky is no bigger here than it is anywhere else, but for some reason the desert makes itfeelthat much more massive.
Noah seems to notice at the same time I do, and for a moment we just sit and appreciate the view.
Eventually, I pull out my phone, handing it over to Noah as my face morphs into a pleading, puppy-dog expression. No explanation is needed, just one simple word. “Please?”
Noah rolls his eyes and snaps a series of pics while I hoist my drink. He hands the phone back and I quickly make my post.
A waiter comes over and tells us the specials, adding that this place is known for their breakfast cookies and they’re available all day. He then asks for our drink orders.
I get a French 75 and Noah opts for a beer, which is a pretty good summary of our sensibilities.
The waiter leaves and I settle into my chair. The tension I carry within my body never leaves me, not entirely, but in this moment I feel the slightest hint of relaxation, like I’ve briefly surfaced.
I can only imagine how Noah feels.
“How was treatment this week?” I ask.
“Radiation sucked,” he informs me, “but they’re seeing results.”
“That’s great!”
“I show up for my appointments. I take my pills,” Noah says. “I’m still rubbing that cream on my scar.”
The cream—yet another unexpected perk of having all these adoring followers. You never know when one of them will be in the position to hook your friend up with a clinical trial for cutting-edge melanoma treatment, along with access to some of the best specialists in the area.
