Page 16 of Ten Years and Then…
Nora couldn’t help herself. “Thanks for helping him with the ironing yesterday. He was so handsome in that shirt. I’m Nora, by the way. Nice to meet you!”
Poor Anjali didn’t know what to say. She finally settled for, “Nice to meet you, too,” in a small voice, and she headed into West Hall without another word.
Daniel didn’t move for a moment or two; had she gone too far?
“I guess I did say it last night. That I wouldn’t mind being yours. And you know what? I don’t. Not one bit.”
She hadn’t gone too far. Maybe she couldn’t go too far with him. And wasn’t that good to know?
Daniel, a moment later
He hadn’t thought about last night becoming public knowledge. But now it was—Anjali would surely tell her roommate, and it would go on from there. He had no illusions that he was especially popular, but the novelty of it would guarantee that there was talk. Quiet, nervous Daniel Keller spending the night with a girl and not even trying to hide it would surely be good for at least a couple of days of gossip in West Hall.
“It’s funny,” he told Nora as they made their way across the main quad, “I think before yesterday I would have freaked out if I thought anybody was talking about me. But Anjali’s going to spread it around that she saw me walking you home, and it doesn’t bother me one bit.”
She squeezed his hand. “Well, you said you wouldn’t mind being mine. Everybody knowing it is part of the deal.”
“Good. It’ll be really nice to hear people saying how lucky I am.” He stopped, right there in the middle of the quad, and kissed her. “Because I am. And I don’t—I hope—I don’t think it should be a one-time thing. I really want to see you again.” He kissed her again, and she kissed him back, and they stood there in each other’s arms for what seemed like minutes before they broke apart. “And not just for—well, not just for that. I told Bee that you seemed like somebody I could just talk to all day long and never want to be anywhere else. And now I know I was right.”
She seemed surprised—shocked, even. “You said that?”
He took her hands in his. “It’s true.”
“I—I don’t know what to say to that.” She still looked nervous, but she was holding his eyes. “I can’t believe you—anybody—thinks that.”
“Well, I do. And you should believe it, because it’s true.” How could she not know it herself? Maybe for the same reason he could never see what she said she saw in him. Maybe it took someone else to make you see what was in the mirror all along. “So, what do you think? Do you want to see me again?” He was pushing a little bit, but it felt like this was the moment to do it. “Dinner. Or a movie. Or just sitting out here on a bench and talking for three hours. It doesn’t matter, as long as we’re together, right?”
Nora closed her eyes for a long moment, and he could feel her hands shaking. Maybe he had pushed too hard.
She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and answered, “Yes. Definitely yes.” He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She pulled her hands away from him, fished around in her purse. “Of course. Pen but no paper. Wouldn’t happen to you—if you carried a purse, you’d have a little notebook in there just in case.” She reached back and grabbed his left hand, writing on his palm. “Never mind, that works. My phone number. Don’t forget to write it in a notebook when you get back to your room. Not that you would forget. You probably never forget important stuff.”
He kissed her one more time, and put an arm around her and walked her the rest of the way back to Morris Hall. “I definitely won’t ever forget anything about last night. Or anything about you, Nora Langley.”
There was one last kiss, at least for the moment. Then she opened the door and started to walk inside, but she poked her head back out. “Call me later today. Maybe we can just talk for three hours.” She blew him a kiss, and disappeared inside.
He stood there for a couple of minutes, staring at his palm, memorizing her number, just in case anything happened to it on the way back to West Hall.
Nora, ten minutes later
Nora unlocked her door, half-wondering if Kim would be there, and what she’d say if she was. This wasn’t the first time she’d spent the night elsewhere, and while Kim had never said anything about it before, her body language had been somewhat less than warm. Nora didn’t know if she wanted to—or even could—put into words how different last night was from all those other nights.
But she didn’t have to; Kim was nowhere to be found. So she did the only thing she could. She threw herself face down on her bed and squealed in delight, at how wonderful last night had been, at how it had made her feel.
When was the last time she’d had reason to squeal? She had to think hard before it came to her—the fall of her freshman year of high school. The phone call when she got home, telling her she’d won the last spot on the girls’ volleyball team over horrible Brenda Makepeace.
Even thinking of that day four years ago felt like a bad omen. Things had fallen apart almost immediately; she’d lasted less than a week on the team. Brenda’s friends had tormented her, Coach Benson had been a tyrant and nobody had believed her when she said she’d pulled her calf muscle even though they could all see she couldn’t walk more than a few steps without stumbling. So the night before the first game of the season, she’d snuck out of her house to a party she hadn’t been invited to, gotten drunk for the first time, and showed up at the gym hungover the next morning.
Definitely a bad omen.
Except it wasn’t. Daniel would believe her if she told him she pulled a muscle, and he wasn’t a tyrant. He definitely wouldn’t torment her, so, really, she was being silly to even think about it.
He had been so sweet—so much more than sweet. He hadn’t known what he was doing when they were together in bed—not at all. But, unlike anyone else she’d ever been with, he knew it, and did his best to learn as he went. He’d paid attention to her every word, every reaction and tried his best to respond accordingly. And it had been better—still awkward, but definitely better—the second time.
Far more important, though, was everything outside of the act itself. The way he’d held her, the way he’d talked to her, the way he’d made her feel safer, and more cared for, than anyone she’d ever known.
She wanted to tell someone. Had to. But it wouldn’t be during the weekly call with her father, that was obvious. Even if she felt like she could talk to him about anything really important—and when was the last time she’d felt that?—this wasn’t a subject any daughter ever talked about with a father.
Her mother was, if anything, worse. The last time she’d talked about a boy with her was in sophomore year of high school, and that had been a debacle, to put it mildly.
