I'll Stop the World (80)

But she and Noah weren’t like that anymore. He’d chosen Steph over her. Coming over tonight didn’t mean he cared about her specifically, any more than Justin scooping Karl out of the street indicated any sort of strong emotional bond between the two of them. All it meant was that he was a decent person.

And that she was pathetic.

“I’m fine.” She sniffed and crossed her arms, taking a step away from him. “You don’t have to worry about me, Noah. You can go home.”

“Why would you—did I do something wrong, Rose?”

She almost laughed. You picked another girl.

Instead of giving voice to that thought, she shrugged. “No. We’re good.”

“We don’t feel good.”

Another shrug.

Noah sighed. “Is this really how it’s gonna be now, Rosie?” he said softly. He extended his hands toward her, palms up, pleading. “I miss you. I miss us.”

Rose looked at him, studying his face intently. Did he mean it? She heard Justin’s voice in her head. Seems like they don’t care that much. Which voice could she believe? “I miss us, too,” she said quietly.

“So talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” Somehow, he’d gotten close enough that when he spoke, she could feel his breath brush her cheek. His eyes locked on hers, deep pools of dark brown. It was all she could do to keep from sinking.

“I just . . . don’t know what to do,” she said, her chest tight. Her voice sounded small, swallowed up by the heaviness of the air between them.

Noah’s hands came up to grip her arms, his lips curled into a little smile. “Then explain the problem to me, and we’ll figure it out together.”

His hands were warm and sure against her skin, and she thought his eyes flicked down to her lips, just once, so quickly he may have simply blinked. She breathed in his scent, spicy and safe and familiar, wishing she could stay here in this moment forever. Just the two of them in the quiet, sharing the same space, breathing the same air. No Justin, no Steph, no families or friends or impossible problems to solve. Just her and her Noah.

But he’s not mine.

She blinked, cold reality breaking over her like a wave. She could keep him here, unload all her doubts and uncertainties onto him as she had so many times before, knowing she could trust him to hold them gently. He would have the right words, the right reactions. He would know just what to say. He always did.

But he couldn’t give her what she wanted. She knew it wasn’t his fault, or something to be mad about. She knew he cared about her. But until she learned to be okay with what they were, it wasn’t fair to either of them for her to lean on him the way she used to. Not when all she could think about were all the things they weren’t.

Maybe, someday, they’d be an us again. But today, she wasn’t ready.

She stepped back, away from his touch, and swallowed thickly. “I can’t. I think this is something I just need to figure out on my own.”

His face fell, his expression defeated. “So . . . you want me to go?” He didn’t echo her steps this time, apparently unaffected by the gravity that tried to tug her toward him like insistent hands. The few feet between them may as well have been a chasm.

Rose bobbed her head up and down, and he moved toward the door, shoulders slightly slumped. Protests bubbled up inside her—no, stay, talk to me, ask me what’s going on, I’ll tell you if you ask again—but she clenched her jaw tight, trapping them behind her teeth.

Justin may think she was the voice of denial, but he was wrong. This was her accepting things as they were. Noah hadn’t chosen her; he’d picked Steph. That was the reality they lived in. Time to actually live in it.

So she stayed silent as Noah turned his back on her and walked away.





Chapter Forty-Seven


JUSTIN

At dinner, Mrs. Hanley piles juicy slices of fried ham and creamy mashed potatoes onto my plate, ignoring my repeated insistences that I can’t eat that much.

“You’re too skinny,” she proclaims for the hundredth time, adding a generous helping of greens beside my ham, and finishing off the plate with a thick slice of crispy cornbread. “Didn’t your mama feed you back home?”

“My mom didn’t really cook,” I say, picking up my fork.

“Hmph,” Mrs. Hanley grunts. She smacks the back of my hand with a serving spoon, leaving a splatter of potatoes on my skin. “Boy, put that fork down. You know we say grace in this house.”

“Sorry.” I start to lift my hand to my mouth to lick off the potatoes, but at a look from Mrs. Hanley, I wipe it on my napkin instead, then accept Mrs. Hanley’s open hand. Her wrinkled fingers feel soft and fragile, but her grip is strong as iron.

When Rose first suggested that I stay with Noah’s grandmother, I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t thrilled about it. I’m not great at estimating the ages of the elderly—old is old, has always been the extent of my understanding—but by my best guess, Mrs. Hanley is in her seventies, and has been living on her own since her husband died earlier this year. While I appreciated the free room and board, the geriatric roommate was decidedly less appealing.

But honestly, it turns out that Mrs. Hanley kind of rocks. She’s funny and smart, and she’s lived an incredible life, traveling on buses while her kids were in school to listen to speakers like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, and writing letters and joining protests for issues like voting rights and the desegregation of schools.