Page 47 of Backslide
But, as expected, the rest of the group has the patience of a preschool class. That is to say, none. And when I mount the steps and board with Noah following close behind me and pause at the front to get my bearings, it’s to hoots and hollers.
“What took you so long?” Damien calls from the back. “Play doctor on your own time!”
“Who’s playing?” Noah jokes along.
“Yeah,” quips Ben, popping up from the front seat. “Noah’s the real deal!”
Cara—dressed in a white eyelet frock presumably to reference the bridal theme—grabs her husband’s arm and shoots him a meaningful look. He sits back down, chastened. She smiles up at me.
“Sorry, CB,” I say. “My shoulder is acting up. I had a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Oh, no!” she says, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay to come? Please don’t feel obligated to join.”
“I’m totally okay to come.”
“Good. Because I was going to make you come anyway.” She grins, leaning in toward where I’m standing in the aisle. “But seriously, are you okay?”
She makes a not-so-subtle gesture with her head toward Noah.
“I’m fine,” I say, glancing begrudgingly back at him. “Noah actually called in some prescriptions to the pharmacy in town for me, so that should be helpful.”
“See?!” Ben says. “The real deal!”
Cara shoots him another look. He shrugs like,what did I do?
“Hurry it up!” Damien complains. “Some of us have places to go and alcohol to drink!”
That guy.
I make my way down the aisle, praying for a decent seat, like this is a middle school field trip and I’m the odd one out. The last thing I want is to sit at the back of the bus with Lydia and Damien and the other troublemakers.
Thankfully, Sabrina offers me a lifeline, waving me over. “For you,” she says, removing the tote she’d been using to save the seat across from her.
“You’re a saint,” I say, and she nods in agreement, humming angelically.
Beyond relieved, I drop onto the cool leather and sigh.
Until Noah comes up short beside me.
“No,” I say, as he eyes my adjoining seat. Like I’m supposed to make room.
I cannot sit next to this man. No more close proximity. Not after the humiliation I just endured in the suite. Not with all the discombobulated feelings currently swirling in my head and seeping into my body like something venomous. My brain is packed so full of crap, it needs its own decluttering show.
“Um,” Noah says, tilting his head to look down the aisle, “I think this might be the last free spot.”
“It’s not free,” I say.
“It looks free,” he counters.
“Maybe stand?” I suggest. “You’re health conscious. You’re a doctor. Haven’t you heard? Sitting is the new smoking! Think of this as a standing desk. But in motion.”
“Eleanor,” he says. “C’mon.”
“Forget that! Come back here and sit with the cool kids!” Damien shouts, cupping his hands like a megaphone. “Lydia says you can sit on her lap!”
“Or on her face,” I mutter.
If Lydia was anyone else, I wouldn’t judge her for being on the prowl. In fact, I kind of admire that kind of brashness and wish I had more of the free spirit in me. So, I don’t blame her for wanting to bone. I just blame her for wanting to bone Noah—and anyone else I show a modicum of interest in.
