Page 87 of Intermission
He laughs. “You’ve never evenmetmy mom.”
“Then we’re even. But I imagine your mom as being very nice.”
“She is, actually.” He smiles. “I think you two would get along really well.”
I turn my attention back to the little cave so I don’t dwell on the differences between our mothers. “Do you think anyone else has ever discovered this little pocket? Apart from rodents and spiders, I mean.”
“Hard to say.” Noah shrugs and lets the flowers fall back into place. “But... maybe it’s just been waiting for us to find it. Maybe it’s ours.”
“Ours? You mean like this is ‘my’ waterfall?”
“Yeah. We could leave each other notes and stuff here when we can’t get together.” He winks. “Nothing romantic, of course.”
“Never that! But stuff would get wet, wouldn’t it? And honestly, I’m not sure I want to stick my hand in there and root around.”
“You’re right. Besides, leaving papers in there would be likelittering, sort of. And I’ve already broken the law once today.”
“And I’m your accomplice.” I nod and examine my fingernails, which are a little dirty from sorting the muddy flower stems. “I need to wash off the evidence.”
Over by the stream, I stick my open hands in the water, palms down, and watch the play of sunshine, shadow, and water cast lines on my skin. “The water’s still pretty cold. I thought after the last week it would’ve warmed up.”
Noah crouches beside me and puts his hand in the water. “It is cold.” His hand slides beneath mine and my fingers curl down, weaving through his. “Better?”
“Better.” But it’s not the water temperature I’m thinking about now.
“Good. After all, how can one keep warm alone?”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“No, King Solomon. It’s fromEcclesiastes. Revised Noah Version. And...” A strange, strangled sort of laugh exits his lips. “And it’s really inappropriate, considering...” He clears his throat. “But it came to mind.”
“Are youblushing?”
“Probably.”
“Over a Bible verse?”
“Look it up when you get home, and you’ll know why. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Your ears are seriously pink! But you saidEcclesiastes, right? I thought Solomon wrote all his embarrassing lovey-dovey stuff inSong of Songs.”
Noah gives a comic groan. “So did I.”
I’ve never seen him so flushed. I want to laugh, but I practice mercy instead and change the subject. “So, were you serious about leaving notes in...” I squint, trying to remember what Noah called the miniature cave, “in the Dutchman’s pocket?”
“Sure, why not?” He gives my fingers a squeeze. “It could be like our personal mailbox. We could find an old jar or something to keep the notes from getting wet or lost. Or taken by giant snake-eating spider-rats.” He grins and bumps his shoulder against mine.
“You just had to go there, didn’t you?” Minus the creepy-crawlies,it’s kind of a cool idea, though. Sweet. Whimsical. Like Noah. “Our own personal mailbox. I like it.”
Light and water dance over our joined hands, but regardless of how romantic it looks—feels... is—I can’t let myself dwell on those thoughts and the danger they present.
As friends, Noah and I can be together.
We can’t be anything more.
Not yet.
With a hard swallow, I untwine my fingers from their happy underwater home and then rise and shake the water from my hand. “We probably shouldn’t—”
