Page 139 of Backslide
Honey Nut. Apple Cinnamon. Multigrain.
Multigrain?
I turn in a circle, my apartment transformed. And it is only as I do this that the shock begins to dissipate and reality dawns. Who else could have done this? But did he orchestrate it from a distance? Or is he…?
When the doorbell rings, I cross back toward it in a daze.
“Who is it?” I ask, not daring to look through the peephole.
“You really don’t know?”
His gravelly voice hits me hard. I brace my forehead against the door.
“It’s best to be safe,” I say.
“It’s Mike,” he says. “From the oyster farm.”
“Oh, thank God. I thought it was someone creepy.”
I turn the lock and open the door. And there is Noah standing there—in all his tallness, maybe less relaxed than usual, handsome as always. A bit worse for the wear.
His denim shirt—the one I love—looks a little rumpled. His perfectly worn pants look like they’ve been through a thing or two.
Most likely a flight.
But it’s in his face that I see the true toll. There are new dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks look drawn. His five-o’clock shadow is nearing midnight.
Right away, I want to step toward him, draw my fingertips along his jawline, kiss his cheek scar, his forehead, his lips—curved as they are in a small smile.
But then I remember. This is not Sonoma. We are not together. And there are four hundred boxes of cereal behind me in my apartment.
How will I eat them all?
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I glance behind me. “I’m guessing you already have.”
“Your landlady is very kind,” he nods. “A bit of a romantic. Not good with security.”
Fair enough.
Is there anything this man can’t talk his way into?
When we were growing up, Noah was so accustomed to being a god among boys. That high school athlete. That star. Can you ever outgrow that? That entitlement? That expectation?
I step back and let him pass through. Not because I miss him and seeing his face sends a fusion of joy and heat rocketing through me. Not because I am so fucking relieved that he’s here that birds are singing in my head. Not because I still remember what it felt like when he pressed kisses down my side all the way from my rib cage to my ankle. But because when someone sends you enough Cheerios for a lifetime, you should at least hear them out.
That’s just etiquette. Emily Post says.
I close the door. And then it’s the two of us. Alone in my apartment. The one where I live as grown-up me. And it feels like two worlds—two versions of me—colliding. Like the quietest explosion. He feels alien and like he belongs at the same time.
“Nice place you’ve got,” he says, glancing around.
“Thanks,” I say. “It usually has less of a supermarket warehouse vibe.”
He swivels his head to look at all the boxes. “I just wanted to make sure that, if you’re ever freaking out, you have plenty of reinforcements.”
“But I thought oats don’t actually mitigate the effects of weed?”
