Enemies Abroad(69)

He asks this question like it’s oh so simple, but the truth is, it’s a big deal. Our relationship is days old and we’re trying to pack it up and ship it to a new continent. Things will change. There’s no way around it. He won’t be sleeping across the hall from me anymore. We won’t have 24/7 access to each other. I sort of expected that after spending every day together for the last three weeks, Noah might need a little space from me, some time to unwind and regroup. Apparently not.

The answer to his question is obviously, a thousand times yes. I would love to spend the night at his place, in his bed (we’ve never been in a proper-sized bed!), but I can’t resist the urge to toy with him a little.

“Hmm…I don’t know. What would we do?”

He glances up from his book and responds flatly, “I thought you could organize my sock drawer.”

“You’re kidding, but that’d be really fun for me.”

He shakes his head in admonishment. “I’m going to get you an appropriate hobby.”

People still have hobbies? No way. The closest thing I have to a hobby is once a month, I do a deep dive into tiny house culture and convince myself I could live that way. I research tricked-out Winnebagos and daydream about Tetris-ing all of my earthly possessions into 125 square feet. Then I remember my current closet is like a pressure cooker but for shoes, and I let the dream slip away.

“Okay sure. Sleepover,” I say. “But let me go home first and shower and unpack. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I have all these dirty clothes in my hamper.”

He nods, turning back to his book. “Sounds good. I’ll make us dinner.”

Noah rents a small white bungalow just a few blocks away from Lindale Middle School in a neighborhood filled with picket fences and golden retrievers and roving bicycle gangs. His Jeep is parked in the driveway, and later that evening, I pull up right behind it and kill my engine.

It’s odd. I pictured hell a certain way—a lot of black and red, fire and brimstone—but this is positively delightful.

Noah has flowers planted in his front beds. His mailbox is painted a happy pale blue that coordinates with his front door. It’s entirely too cheerful.

Maybe I sit in the driveway too long or maybe Noah was anxiously awaiting my arrival because the front door opens and here he comes, walking right up to my car and tapping on the glass with his pointer finger.

“Planning to sit out here all night?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled through the door.

I roll down my window. “For a little while longer, I think. I haven’t worked up the courage to go in.” I point. “Did you plant those flowers?”

“Yeah. From seeds. My neighbor was watering them for me while I was in Rome.”

I picture Noah on his hands and knees, carefully sprinkling wildflower seeds into freshly tilled soil, and it almost makes me want to cry.

Sensing that I might need a little encouragement, Noah opens my door and takes my hand, gently tugging me out of the car. Up we go, along the front walk, him behind me, prodding me along like a captive hostage. Noah waves at a neighbor. Nothing to see here, Bob. Keep pruning your azaleas.

At the front door, I peer inside warily.

Noah laughs and thrusts us both through.

“I thought the only time I’d step foot in your house was in the event of a kidnapping situation.”

“Charming. Can I get your bag?”

“Oh sure. Yeah. I packed light.”

He takes it from me and immediately his arm sags with its unexpected weight.

“Light?”

“Yeah, well…I tossed in a sweatshirt last minute in case you keep your thermostat at a glacial temp, and I did pack my house slippers too because I wasn’t sure what kind of floor I’d be working with. Hardwood—nice. Pine? Or oak?”

He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy inspecting the other stuff sticking out of the top of my bag, curious about what other odds and ends I deemed important enough to bring along with me.

“Oh, that’s a board game, Sequence. It’s fun. And yeah, I put my blender in there too in case we needed to…blend things.”

“I have a blender.”

The thought never even occurred to me.

Noah sets my bag down near the door and looks over at me. His expression is gentle and loving. He walks over and wraps his hand around the back of my neck, gathering me up and tugging me close so he can press a kiss to my cheek. I close my eyes and inhale him.

“Do you want a tour?” he asks quietly, keeping me near. “Or do you want to come into the kitchen with me and help me finish dinner?”

“Dinner, please. I’m starved.”

He takes my hand and wraps it up in his then down the hallway we go, toward a messy little kitchen where it looks like he’s pulled out every ingredient in his possession to prepare dinner.

“I’m making us grilled salmon and twice-baked potatoes.”

“My mom has a good recipe for twice-baked potatoes.”

“Well we’ll have to meet and compare notes.”

“Do you want me to start clearing the dishes and tidying up while you finish?” I’m already moving toward the sink, where a cutting board is stacked alongside plates and knives and measuring cups. I’m a magnet for messes.

“You don’t have to—” he starts to say, but I’m already soaping up a scrub brush. It’s my pleasure, and he knows it.