Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Eighteen

| photo by Liza Summer from Pexels |

It takes me a moment to process—because of Noah's question. Why is he asking about my head? And more importantly, why isn't he kissing me right now?

"I mean, your headache," he clarifies. "I was thinking..." Noah swipes his bangs off his forehead—which is so wrinkled. And his cheeks are crimson.

What's obvious to me now is that I totally misread the situation. Noah doesn't want to kiss the girl who lied to him on the phone that day. He doesn't understand that she was like...an impostor who took over and ruined my life.

He points to his car. "Are you hungry or thirsty?" Then he takes a few steps in that direction, and looks back at me with raised eyebrows—until I follow.

"You probably don't want a milkshake," he says, when we're close to the curb. "My mom says sugar is a migraine trigger."

My house is three doors down and across the street. Mom's van is parked in the driveway. And Lindsay is probably off somewhere, doing something I don't want to think about.

But that's the exact thing—the only thing—I need to be thinking about.

"I should go," I say. "I could just walk from here. So, um. Thanks and—"

"Ally. I didn't mean to..." He sighs and shoves both hands in his pockets. "You said the medicine made you feel drunk," he finishes, like that explains everything.

But it doesn't—and I'm almost positive that is not what I said.

No, it can't be, because I don't know what drunk feels like. "I really should go. I need to figure out what's bothering my sister." And really, there's only one person left who might be able to help me fill in the blanks. "I think it's time for me to talk to Samantha."

"Yeah," Noah says. "I could go with you—if you think that might make it any less uncomfortable or whatever."

"Um." It's going to be uncomfortable either way. "Lindsay is doing things that are...unhealthy." And I'm terrified of what could happen if this older guy allows himself to get interested in her—especially if she's drunk or high or both when it happens. "Every time I ask her what's wrong, she tells me to talk to Samantha. And now...after the way she reacted to you at the high school. I'm starting to think it might something to do with me lying to you on the phone that day. So. If Samantha can fill in the blanks, it could be hard for you to hear. It would mean unearthing some of our ancient history."

"Do you want me to go?" he asks. So genuine in his willingness to compromise his philosophy.

"I sort of do. But is it terrible that I'm hoping you being there might make Samantha less likely to talk about everything she knows about me—like the things she mentioned in the text message from right before my accident?"

"No," he says, half-smiling. "You're probably right. But you should go ahead and text her now—she and I both have job schedules to work around. And make sure you tell her I'm coming. Samantha's not somebody I want to ambush."

I nod, get out my phone and open Samantha's thread. There are enough purple-heart messages now, that I'd have to scroll back if I wanted to read the scary text—and I don't. I type: I'm ready to meet you. Noah has agreed to come with me. Which sounds incredibly impersonal, considering this girl has been my best friend for the last three years. So I move the curser back to the beginning and add: Hi Samantha. And finish the text with: When are you available?