Page 31 of My Star-Crossed Summer

Ethan tosses the Frisbee to Noah, a wobbly throw that he all but dives for. Noah’s right by the end zone, but instead of running across the line, he tosses the Frisbee to Layla, who’s just ten feet away. She catches it and dodges another kid as she bolts across the line and scores.

Together, she and Noah do a funny end-zone dance that earns cheers from the kids and a laugh from Sophie. Noah rips the sweatband from his head and shoots it across the goal line like it’s a rubber band, then gives us some finger-guns. It’s both the dorkiest and sweetest display I’ve seen in ages.

Noah slaps Layla a high-five, and she grins like she’s won a trip to Disney World. My heart just grew three sizes, and I am in so much trouble.

Sometimes when we encounter people from our past, they don’t live up to our memories of them, and we realize that we’re better off with just the memories. Sometimes, though, the opposite is true. I know that we’re the sum of all of our experiences, and I wouldn’t be who I am without mine. But when I look at Noah, and this big-hearted man he’s become, I wonder how different my life might be if I’d done a few things differently.

Starting with not walking away from him on that beach.

The kids take their places as the Frisbee’s thrown into play again, whizzing across the meadow in a bright orange blur. Noah hangs back as his team chases the play, and when he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, time stands still. My eyes track the long lines of his body, and I stare far too long at his ridiculously chiseled abs. My mouth goes dry as I allow myself one moment to fully appreciate those hard edges and solid lines that will haunt me for the next decade.

Noah’s focused on the kids, and I can’t tear my gaze away as he runs a hand through his hair, back and forth, back and forth, leaving it standing up in all directions. He stretches one arm over his head, revealing another tattoo peeking out of his shirt sleeve. His bicep looks like cut marble, and I know I should follow the sound of my teammates’ voices, but my feet are rooted to the earth because despite all the natural beauty out here, Noah Valentine is still the most captivating thing on this mountain.

He places his big hands on his hips, which makes his arms flex in a delightful way that tugs at something low in my belly. Then he turns toward me and his brow arches as his lips curl into a hint of a smile. My heart drops to my feet because he’s definitely caught me staring—and then his mouth falls open atthe same instant that pain shoots through my temple and the world wobbles on its axis.

“I toldyou to pass it to me, instead,” Derrick says, matter-of-factly. He’s deadly serious about winning Frisbee games.

Someone snorts back a laugh, but all I see is Noah’s face, backlit by the golden afternoon sun, the sky a brilliant blue behind him. His stubble’s grown out today, reddish in this light, and his eyes are a deep green-brown. He’s so close I can see little flecks of gold in them. I’d forgotten the way they change color in the light.

“Good job, Tyrone,” a kid says. Ethan, I think. “Death by Frisbee.”

Tyrone has a good arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Priya says. “No one’s dying from a Frisbee strike.”

But in this moment, that idea doesn’t feel so ridiculous, because I might as well have cartoon stars circling above my head and it feels like a rock is poking into my liver.

“Are you okay?” Noah says, kneeling next to me. His brows are pinched with concern, but all I can think about is how my body is tingling all over because he seems to be hovering above me, his face close enough to touch.

That’s when I realize I’m lying on my back in the grass, the kids huddled around me, eyes wide like this is another opportunity for them to collect some data to analyze. Is there an equation that calculates one’s level of mortification over time and what that might mean for her overall success in life? I hear a few chuckles, but most of the kids have the decency not to laugh. Probably, this strikes them as more pitiful than funny, and that idea hurts a whole lot worse.

“Come on, y’all,” Sophie says, clapping her hands. “Let’s give her some air and take a water break.” She tucks her phone into her back pocket, and I say a silent prayer that she didn’t capture that moment in a photo for the web page.

Noah lifts a brow. He really does have epic eyebrows—he might keep his thoughts close to the vest, but those eyebrows make whatever emotion he’s feeling front and center. “How do you feel?” he says, his voice doing that sexy-rumble thing that makes me feel like a match being struck.

“Aside from feeling like an idiot?” I say.

“Harsh, Griffin.” He smiles, revealing that deadly dimple. “I think that means you’re okay.” He moves his index finger back and forth in front of my face and stares intently into my eyes as I track the movement. He’s probably just putting his first-aid merit badge to good use and not using this as an excuse to spend time with me.

Probably.

He holds one hand out toward me, then slips his other behind my shoulder and helps me to sit up. His eyes are still heavy on mine, his palm warm on my back. I shiver when he lets me go.

“Dizzy?” he asks.

“No,” I say after a moment. “I’m fine. The Frisbee just caught me by surprise. Again.” He frowns as if to say he’s in total agreement there. Everything about this week has taken me by surprise—especially him.

Gently, he brushes my hair from my face and says, “Come with me and I’ll do something about that cut.”

When I touch my left eyebrow, my fingertips come away red. That explains the stinging pain that’s coming from somewhere above my brow.

“In case it’s not evident yet, I should tell you that sports are not my strong suit,” I tell him. “Probably should have told you that on Day One.”

He pulls me to my feet. “Don’t sweat it. We all land in the dirt from time to time. It’s how you know you’re playing the game.”

“Not sure I agree with that a hundred percent, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Another tiny smile. One that says we’ll agree to disagree.

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