Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Five | Part 1

|photo by The Nigmatic from Unsplash|

Noah's voice isn't at all what I was expecting. It's deep like Dad's but quieter somehow. More relaxed, maybe. I'd need to hear more to be sure. He raises his eyebrows. Like he's waiting for something?

My cheeks go hot because yes, he is waiting—still standing beside his car, holding his phone in the air because he just got my text asking him not to come here.

Do I want him to leave?

The answer is no. With an exclamation point. And that's exactly why I should say, yes. Because this boy is the reason... Not that it was his fault. No. It was me, my obsession with kissing him that turned me into such a despicable big sister.

"You look good," Noah says. "Healthy." He stuffs his phone in his pocket, then swipes his longish bangs to one side, exposing a patch of multidirectional wrinkles in the space where his eyebrows pull together. "You know, because the last time I saw you..." His cheeks turn a splotchy kind of red.

He's embarrassed. And I'm staring.

I drop my eyes to the grey pebble sidewalk and lift my hand to the back of my head, to my scar. The last time Noah saw me, I guess, was right after he pulled my unconscious body out of a swimming pool. But he did try to visit me in the hospital. Mom said he was devastated. So. Maybe all this time he's been worrying?

"I was lucky," I say, dropping my hand. Then I catch a hint of sweaty armpit and cross my arms. "Um. Lucky, because the coma only lasted two days and there wasn't a lot of permanent damage. My semantic memory—that's the part that retains all the facts you learn throughout your lifetime. Is remarkably unblemished." I lift two fingers, making quotes around the last two words, so he knows they didn't come from me. "My neurologist says I can go to school this fall if I want to. He's already sent a letter of recommendations to the high school because of my...I have..."

It's almost funny that I can't come up with this particular word at this moment.

Almost.

"Um, sometimes my brain refuses to cooperate," I say. "I blank out on words and lose track of my—cognitive. That's the word. I still have a few cognitive issues." Obviously. "It's not as bad as it was a few weeks ago, unless I'm stressed or..." Uncomfortable. "I also have a tendency to talk too much when I'm nervous. But that's not because of the accident."

"Yeah," he says. "I'm familiar with the nervous-talking thing."

His smile isn't anywhere close to the one in my dream—it's closed-mouthed and his eyes are a little too squinty—but it's familiar enough to make my arms break out in goose bumps.

"But it's not too much," he adds. "I wasn't sure it was all right to ask about the medical stuff. But I wanted to know. So thanks."

God, that voice. It's familiar, but not because I've heard him speak—there wasn't any sound in the dream, or memory. Or whatever. Noah's voice is familiar because he has a southern accent. Because he moved here from Georgia to live with his dad the same week my family left North Carolina. According to the IM conversations.

"I brought you something," he says.

He opens his car door and my goose bumps go full-body, because I've seen that car. A bunch of times. "You've been here before," I say, walking toward him. "I recognize your car because..." I point in the general direction of my room. "I can see the parking lot from my window, and your car is—it stands out because of the odd-colored door, and... Is your trunk a lighter shade of blue than the rest of the car?"