Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twenty-Seven | Part 1

| photo by Aron Visuals from Unsplash | 

The moon is so bright the trees cast long shadows across the front lawn. But the light doesn't reach the front door of what is soon to be Noah's house. We haven't said more than two words to each other—literally—since I met him at the end of my driveway. And the anticipation of the conversation we need to have has me fidgety. It's all I can do to keep my phone aimed at the metal box locked around the door handle so Noah has enough light to dial in the combination.

If Samantha is right and he left Drew's house because he couldn't deal with what he heard, then him wanting me here now is a good sign. But if he left because I asked him to—before he heard any of it...

Nope. Can't think about that.

I exhale, heavy and long, and Noah stops for a moment to study me before he turns the key and opens the door. Nothing happens when he flips the light switch in the foyer. "No electricity," he says. "This isn't going to be much of a tour."

But there's plenty of moonlight coming in through the windows at the back of the house. I head straight for them—and find the pool I read about in the IM transcripts. It's bigger than I imagined, taking up most of the fenced backyard, and it has a diving board. The glassy-smooth water looks black in the patches where it reflects the surrounding trees, but the rest of the surface mirrors the midnight blue sky. "It's beautiful," I say. "I can see why I wanted to spend so much of my time here."

"Yeah."

My skin prickles because Noah is close. And his tone is every bit as scratchy and soft as I imagined it twenty minutes ago when he texted the word please. It makes me think...

I turn and yes, Noah's eyes are on me. His face is shadowed, but the intensity of his gaze is evident somehow. Like he's transmitting this warm, electrifying declaration that he'd rather look at me than anything else. Which makes me think that maybe he doesn't know I kissed my drug dealer. Because if he did, there's no way he could look at me that way. Right?

He reaches out like he's going to touch my face. I cross my arms over my stomach and he retracts his hand.

"You made that three-legged stool," I say. Instead of asking the question I came here to ask.

"I did," he agrees. And there's a hint of a smile in his voice. "I made it for you."

"It's not crap, Noah. I really like it."

"Yeah? Thanks. I was sort of kidding when I said that, but I could probably make you something better now."

"Okay. But. I liked it before I knew it came from you," I clarify, because I think that's important. Like the dream. "It's one of the few things in my pre-accident room that I did like—besides the room itself. It um...has a lot of windows."

He moves closer—into the light—and his smile transforms. It's dream-smile wide, but there's something different about his eyes. An inquisitive spark that makes me zing, full body. And he's not even touching me.

"I was blown away when you sent that picture tonight," he says. "Because I've been thinking about that all week. Not just the stool, but..." He points to the kitchen, to something I can't see. Until I follow him. "I helped my dad build this window seat the summer I moved here."

The striped cushion lying on top of the built-in bench is hogging all the moonlight. I have to kneel down and let my eyes adjust to the shadow before I can see the detail in the woodwork. "It's flawless," I say, running my fingers over molding that's been cut and fitted into decorative squares. Like three identical picture frames.

"Dad did most of it," he says, squatting beside me. "He's an even better finish carpenter now—and a good teacher. Before the divorce, I used to hang out in his workshop all the time. I was too young to do anything but hammer nails into scrap wood, but after I moved in with him, I started building stuff: a birdhouse for my grandma, a table for Mom. Your three-legged stool. I was really into it—that's why it doesn't make sense that I stopped. I haven't been in the workshop in almost two years."

"Since the phone call?" I ask.

Noah shrugs. "Losing Grandma was hard. Then we basically lost Gramps—for a while anyway. I hated seeing this house get sold, and yeah, it sucked not being able to talk to you about all of it. But back then, I thought I was handling it, you know? I thought my keep-moving-forward attitude was healthy." He shakes his head. "My dad says I was still running from myself."

"Still?"

"You don't remember, but I've told you about some of the problems I had in Georgia—like at school and with my brother."

"You have a brother?"

"Yep. Older. I took a bunch of shit from him growing up—especially after Dad left. I didn't know what to do with all that anger, so I spent a lot of time in the principal's office. My mom got me some help—that's when I started swimming and diving. It kept me out of trouble for the most part." He shrugs again, but this time he's almost smiling. "Things were better after I moved here, but I guess I still had low self-esteem or whatever. That's why it was so easy for me to believe you were interested in another guy—it's the reason it took me so long to ask you out to begin with. I never thought I deserved you."

The way he says the last sentence is like an observation about the past, something that's not true anymore—and I'm so relieved because I couldn't agree more.

I stand and Noah stands. And I wish he'd duck back down where the moonlight can't reach his face. I take a giant step back because I'm familiar with that look, and I can't let him kiss me—even though I want him to. More than anything, I want to grab him and tell him he's an amazing boy who deserves to have anything—everything he wants.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you're going through a lot. I didn't mean to rush you—or even assume that we're still..." He blows out a breath and leans against the counter, eyes on his worn leather flip-flops.

So yeah. This would be the perfect time to ask if he knows. Or tell him if he doesn't. Because it's not up to me. If Noah heard all the unsavory details and he still wants to be my boyfriend, I'm all in.

"Is it getting any better?" he asks. "With your family, I mean."

"Um. Yes. My parents have this new six-month plan: Dad is going to start his own business and Mom is going to get rid of hers, so they'll both be around more. And they've been talking things out—we all have. Sometimes I think we have too many family meetings—we even have them on the days Dad is in North Carolina. He video-chats us." I take a breath to slow myself down, to stop the nervous babbling. "I talked to Samantha today. I'm going start school in a week."

"Ally, that's great," he says—and he means it. But there's something hesitant, and like... "Let me know if you need a ride."

Oh. "Yeah. Thanks, but I'm learning how to drive. Again, I guess. I have my own car. Which you know, obviously, because of the...like...sympathy gifts you left in my glove box?"

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets—looking so rejected I want to scream. Because I'm screwing this up. I am the biggest freaking coward that ever lived.

"Can we go outside?" I ask, because I need the fresh air, the open space. "We didn't make it around to the backyard the other day and I'd like to see the pool. Up close, if that's okay."

"No problem," he says, already off the wall and heading for the back door.