Page 8 of Backslide
My bad shoulder is not amused.
Just when I lose my grip and almost topple onto the carousel, along for the ride with the Saran-wrapped duffels, I watch a disembodied strong hand grab the Jolly Green Giant by the side handle and lift it easily off the revolving death trap. I can’t see this heroic human through the mess of people, but I exhale and push myself to standing, grateful.
See? There’s still kindness in the world! Or thieves. Who steal bags. One of those.
Ducking through the crowd, I spot my luggage waiting peacefully to the side, away from the fray. See? No one stole it! I’m so relieved that I race up with a singular focus. “Hello, Beautiful!” I say, and caress it as I repeat “Thank you, thank you, thank you” about a million times.
It’s not until he says “You’re welcome” in a deep throaty voice that I realize. And slowly look up, dread settling over me.
It’shim.
For just an instant, I white-out. There is a rush of air that moves through me like a sonic boom. It steals my oxygen, then returns it too quickly. I wheeze. Then work to regain my composure.
Noah stands before me—of course, the picture of good health and relaxed ease. Not only has he made it here to Northern California coma-free, but he looks like he just spent a day at a spa instead of on a packed flight. His hands in his pockets, he is refreshed. Groomed. Handsome as hell.Bastard.
It’s only then that I realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it like a trap.
“Hey, Nell,” he says.
“Eleanor,” I correct him. Because he doesn’t get to use a nickname.
“Okay,Eleanor.” He rolls his eyes. His beautiful hazel eyes—that I want to rip out of their sockets and use as ping-pong balls, I remind myself.
A small part of me, an almost physical pull at my core, has an impulse to hug him, feel the comfort and warmth his body once gave me, pressed up against mine. This man—a grown-up version of the boy I knew so well. I am stunned by the sense that I know him still, every mannerism, every impulse, every freckle. He feels like… family. And so much more.
Luckily, the other part of me, that hates him with the fire of a thousand suns, is way stronger.
“I see you still have a lot of baggage,” he says.
“I see you’re still a cocky tool,” I reply.
And we’re back!
He flinches, visibly. Lifts his chin in the direction of my bag. “Um. You’re welcome?”
“Um. You’re not?”
“Well, this is delightful,” he says, frowning. “Can we at least be civil?”
“Sure,” I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you stay away from me—and my stuff.”
Now his mouth drops open. Nowheis incredulous.
It gives me a real jolt of satisfaction.
“Dude,” he says, his hands raised palms up. “What’s your problem? I was just trying to help. I figured maybe you’d have trouble… ’cause of your rotator injury. I imagine it’s still an issue.” He gestures toward my bad shoulder. And he’s right about which one it is.
“Nope,” I lie, though deep down I experience a twinge of recognition and, fine, maybe the tiniest bit of hurt.He knows me. Just like I know him. Or heknewme. Before he trashed everything.
He doesn’t know me now, I remind myself. Because I cut him out of my life. With good reason. “The rotator cuff is not a thing.”
You don’t know me.
“Okay. That’s great. I was just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t. I’m not your concern.”
“Fine.” He shrugs. “I guess old habits die hard.”
