Page 112 of Backslide
Cara
Was it torture?
I consider that question: Has being with Noah been torture? A little at first. And then it’s been a dream. But there’s more punishment coming down the pike when we part ways, I let myself admit.
Part of me wants to confess it all to her, share in ways I have historically been hesitant—the good and the bad. But that would involve revealing so much at once—the truth about Alfie, the truth about the hot tub, the truth about last night. And this is her big day. Or un-big day.
I will not make this about me.
Also, the last twenty-four hours with Noah have been so special, as if protected by some kind of magical force field. I kind of want to keep them to myself, at least for a little while longer. I’m afraid, once they see the light of day, weather the storm of other people’s eyes, questions, thoughts, they’ll start to morph and fade. And I can’t have that. Because I need them to carry me for a bit.
Nellie
No worries! We did just fine. Almost behaved like adults.
It’s true-ish.
Noah eventually gets up, though he tries to fool me back into bed at least twice more.
Outside, the sun is indeed making an appearance, but it’s a bit overcast intermittently here—marine layer fogging up the sky. There’s a chill in the air that I know will lift once we make our way back toward the estate.
We get dressed to both of our chagrin. We go for a walk, down tiny wildflower-lined streets to a flat sandy expanse of beach that is almost entirely our own—a best-kept-secret spot. We laugh and tease and hold hands and chase each other like idiots. The sea air styles my hair.
We return our key. We leave. We pick up the flowers at the flower farm, regretfully declining the tour of the meadows and the floral design class Cara had booked for the day before. We’re short on time. Next, we pick up sea salt honey, chestnut meringue, andwineberry pies from a bakery that smells like joy, but decline the sourdough-bread-baking experience.
And though we don’t get to have the incredible dinner with Rhode Island clam chowder and fried saltines on the water at Nick’s Cove, we do pick up the world’s best breakfast sandwiches with eggs and apple-smoked bacon from a counter restaurant along the road that Cara texts us to try.
She has missed her calling as a travel agent, as much as that’s still a job.
And so we are driving up the coast inhaling our sandwiches, the rental car’s trunk packed with local delicacies, when I finally get up the courage to have “the talk” with Noah. And by “courage” I mean that for the past few miles, I have been staring at the side of his ruggedly handsome face willing myself to broach this topic without ruining the trip at the very end.
“What?” he says, finally.
“What, what?”
He tears his eyes away from the road long enough to shoot me a cut-the-crap look.
“You’ve been staring at me mournfully since the vineyards reappeared.”
“Grapes make me sad.”
“Said no one in history.” He sighs. “Out with it. Whatever it is, you’re going to say it eventually, so you might as well cut to the chase.”
When I don’t speak, he lays a hand on my thigh and squeezes lightly. I never want him to take it away—which sends my mind down another perilous neural pathway.
I can’tneedhim.
I will do this! I clear my throat. “Noah, the last day with you has been… so special.Youare so special.”
“Uh-oh. Is one of us dying?”
“No!”
“Okay. That’s a relief. Continue then.”
I exhale. “When two people are attracted to each other…”
“Oh!” He grins. “I get it. This is a sex talk. You don’t need to bother. I already know how it works… although if that wasn’t obvious last nightandearly this morning, maybe I have bigger problems.”
