When in Rome(33)

The bedroom door opens a crack and I don’t even bother pretending to be asleep. Three pairs of eyes blink at me, and I raise a hand in a weak wave. “Hi. I’m alive and I heard all that.”

They push the door open all the way and groan. “Sorry. We were trying to be quiet,” says Annie. She’s wearing a pj set covered in cartoon bananas.

Madison hops onto the bottom of the bed wearing a bright tie-dyed hoodie, turquoise joggers, and glasses with bubblegum-pink frames. She props herself up on her elbow and rests her head against her knuckles. “So…sleeping pills, huh?”

“Madison! Don’t pry into her life, that’s rude,” Emily reprimands, flashing me an apologetic smile.

“No, it’s okay. I thought I was taking my other prescription for a headache but I totally forgot that I had also stuffed my sleep aid in my purse earlier this week. I usually only take it when I’m visiting another country and have horrible jet lag.” I shake my head. “I feel so bad that I caused so much trouble last night. I’m really sorry, guys.”

Saying I feel like an idiot would be an understatement. My eyes drift to the angled chair again.

Emily perches on the side of the bed, wearing a sophisticated, satiny lounge set in burgundy. She tucks the covers around my feet like I’m a burrito. “If it makes you feel better, you were only trouble for Noah and Anna-banana.”

And now the banana pj’s make more sense.

I look up at Annie. “I’m really sorry. And also, I thought your name was Annie?” She shrugs with a soft smile. “Annie. Anna-banana. Either one. They’re both short for Annabell.” I don’t think anyone’s name has ever fit someone as perfectly as her name fits her. Soft. Southern. Kind and welcoming. It’s not fair that they are being so hospitable and I’m doing nothing but taking from them.

I decide to give a little of the thing that’s hardest to give—myself. “Well, my name is actually Amelia. Rae is only a stage name.”

All three of them exchange guilty looks. “We already know,” says Madison. She raises and lowers a shoulder. “Wikipedia is such a little snitch. You can find every celebrity’s name and home address on that thing.”

I laugh because here I thought I had this great secret about myself—and turns out, it’s been public all this time. That’s what I get for never googling myself. Suddenly, I wonder what other deeply personal information is available out there. If only Noah had a Wikipedia…

My eyes drift to the chair again. “Umm…so…Noah? Is he mad? I imagine he is since he kicked me out.”

“Noah didn’t kick you out,” Annie says in a soothing tone. “He wanted you to stay here last night because he was afraid you wouldn’t feel safe knowing you’d slept all night in his house when you were pretty much unconscious.”

His woodsy eyes flash in my mind again. You’re safe.

The teeny tiny crush I’ve been harboring for Noah flares into something a little terrifying and consuming. Why can’t he be like the others? It would be easier to disregard his actions if he had made sure he was here when I woke up so he could gain all the credit. But no. Just like the first morning I woke up in Rome, Kentucky, Noah is nowhere to be found.

The odd thing is, if I had woken up in his house this morning, I wouldn’t have felt unsafe. There’s just something about Noah that feels honorable. Grumpy as hell, but honorable no less.

“Where is he now?” I ask, looking around like maybe he’ll pop out from behind the door or something.

“Oh, he didn’t want you to know he’d been here all—OW! Would you quit?!”

I look over just in time to see Annie’s fingers reeling back from the underside of Madison’s arm. “He had to go to work,” she says like a soft little springtime butterfly. “But he said for you to stop by the shop when you’re feeling up to it. Has something he wants to talk to you about. I can drive you in on my way to the flower shop if you want. I don’t open until eleven on the weekends.”

My stomach flips inside out. And whether it’s out of excitement or dread, I’m not sure yet. There’s still a good chance Noah’s going to tell me to pack my bags and hit the road two days early.



* * *



—

After scarfing a bowl of cereal, finger-brushing my teeth, and running a brush through my hair, I turn on my cell phone for the first time. I’m told by Madison that if I stand on her bed and wave my cell phone around the ceiling for a minute, I’ll be able to gain a bar. And she’s right—it works. I finally get a bar of service, and along with it, sixty-seven text messages, and thirty-two emails. Most of the texts are from Susan, a few are from my mom.

I hate the hope I feel that maybe her texts will be about something mundane or simple like:

Saw this random flip-flop on the street and it reminded me of the time you got your foot stuck in a public toilet and had to leave the mall without a shoe! Miss you! Call me soon to catch up!



Nope.

Mom, 7:02 a.m.: Hi sweetie! Are you at your Malibu house this weekend? I was hoping to go stay there for a bit. LA is feeling cramped. Bleh.

Mom, 7:07 a.m.: You’re probably busy with friends this weekend. I’ll email Susan instead. Hugs!



I shouldn’t, because I’ve learned from history that my mom doesn’t care anymore—but for some reason, I find myself typing out a response to her.