When in Rome(38)

My mom only likes me for my money.

I’m drowning and no one sees me.

You don’t like me anyway.

Ohhhhhh I hate all those words. They’re so raw and vulnerable they make my skin itch. And that’s why I lie right through my pearly white teeth. “No. I don’t remember.”

He studies me closely, and I must have a better poker face than I realize because he seems to believe me. “Well, you—” Before he can finish, there’s a knock on the door. Noah looks out the window at the same time I do, finding two middle-aged men peering through the door. Noah ignores them so I do, too. Especially because I have got to know what he was going to say. The way he left it lingering has me terrified that I’m not remembering everything there is to remember from last night, and maybe I pulled my pants down and mooned him or something. Or worse…did I hit on him?!

“You’re killing me. What did I say last night?” I ask as blunt as the knife edge piercing my gut. Dramatic? No. Not when there’s a potential memory of mooning hanging in the balance.

He scratches his neck, the exact appendage I want to strangle at this moment until he tells me what I said and did.

“You told me you were…” He looks up, seeing my horrified expression, and then smiles softly. “Tired.”

Noah has a poker face, too. We might as well be wearing neon visors and clutching cards to our chests. We stare at each other, wondering who will fold first. If I admit to knowing I never once said the word tired to him last night, then he’ll know I remember my blubbering vomit of emotions and we’ll have to discuss it. I’d rather not. And I think he’d rather not as well.

“Ah—tired, yes,” I say, pushing my poker chips into the middle of the table. I call.

He grins. “So I was thinking…in light of you being so…tired—”

Our conversation is interrupted again by more knocks on the door and I want to groan. A small crowd of townspeople are starting to gather out there. “Should we let them in?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head and then frowns at the window where at least ten people have gathered, gesturing for Noah to open the door. “No!” he says sternly. “I’m closed for lunch. Go away!” He swats at the air but they don’t flee.

It’s hard to focus but I’m determined to hear where this conversation is going. Noah has the same thought so he adjusts his chair, positioning himself so his back is to the window. I do the same. Now we’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. This is excruciating.

“Anyway…I, uh…I thought about it, and I’m okay with you staying with me until your car is fixed.”

“You are?” I ask, turning my face to look at him. We’re so close I can see the tips of his eyelashes.

He nods—poker face still in place. “The guest room is yours if you want it. And…” He gives his throat a big uncomfortable clearing. “If…you want a tour guide, I moved some things around and have some free time now.”

Now I’m blinking as if someone has just flashed a camera in front of my eyes. “All because I’m…tired?”

My mind autocorrects that word tired to lonely, and I think it’s doing that in Noah’s head, too, but he’s too kindhearted to say it out loud. He’s playing along in a way that makes me feel safe and I just want to know why. Anyone might have heard my sloppy speech last night and chosen to look the other way. What I said to him is messy and complicated. Instead, he’s choosing to extend a hand to me in the water. I see you.

Still, past experience has me wary to believe his good intentions. “Are you planning to sell the story of my visit to a tabloid? Did someone offer you an exclusive?”

He looks deeply offended. Maybe even angry. “No.”

“The pill I meant to take last night was a migraine medication. I’ve been getting them from all the stress and my doctor says I should take more breaks and get more rest, but I chose medication instead. That’s a pretty juicy story, are you sure you don’t want to sell it?”

“Why would I do that?” His voice is stern again. Irritated that I won’t believe his kindness.

I laugh sharply. “Because anyone else in the world would. My own mom has sold personal stories about me to tabloids on multiple occasions.” I didn’t mean to say that last part, and I wince lightly at my slip. My poker face falters a hair and I think he can see my cards.

Noah’s eyes are soft when I look at him. He shakes his head the tiniest amount. “Not me. I would never do that to you.”

Oh no. Those are good words. Too good. I feel my heart trying to suck them all up at a frantic pace. It’s dangerous to let myself believe him, and yet, I do.

I’m not sure what he sees in my face, but it causes his expression to soften. He lays his cards faceup and he has a winning hand. “You can trust me, Amelia. I won’t exploit your tiredness.”

And now, I’m beginning to think he’s not wrong about that choice of word. I am tired. Tired of loneliness. Tired of distrust. Tired of being taken advantage of. And tired of hiding myself from everyone all the time.

“Okay,” I say, while looking down at my pie and scooping a bite onto my fork. If I say more than that, I’ll cry. And I’ve had enough vulnerability for the last twenty-four hours without needing to add tears to it as well.