Chapter 5 Noah

I'm overdressed.

Everyone else is casual and comfortable. I look like I'm about to sell them insurance or give a lecture on astrophysics.

I wasn't even supposed to go. I'm not supposed to be here.

But just as I finished typing up my piece at the Spruce Press, a very out-of-breath Burton rushed inside and nearly crashed into the side of my desk. "Got plans tonight? Not anymore. We're goin' over to the Strongs'."

I stared at him over my glasses. "The Strongs' …?"

"Just got a call. I got a really good feeling about this. You done with your piece? Good, drop it on my desk, no one's gonna think twice about it tomorrow anyway. Do you need a ride?"

I already felt like I was playing catch-up. "W-Wait, sir …"

"Whatever, I'll pick you up at 7:30. I was told to bring my team with me—and that specifically included you, Mr. Man Of The Hour. Patrick's still glued to his toilet, so I'll just relay everything to him in the morning. Tamika is meeting us there."

"What for? What's happening at the Strongs'?"

Burton leaned in so close he could kiss me. "Everything," he whispered dramatically.

I spent the next two hours at home sweating through about six different outfits before finally choosing a simple yet sensible t-shirt and a pair of nice, neutral jeans.

"No, no, not for the Strongs!" sang my mother when she saw me emerge from my room. "You've gotta dress up for them, sweet thing, not dress down. Where's your church outfit?"

"We don't go to church," I replied.

"But the one you wear when you do. Oh! Shouldn't you bring somethin'? It's rude to show up to a thing empty-handed."

Nightmares of Jiggle-Wiggles sprung my mouth to action. "It's okay, I don't have to bring anything with me. She specifically told us not to." I might have been fibbing. But maybe it was also true, I figured. Between Nadine's chef son-in-law and her own tireless round-the-clock staff, wasn't it a statistical certainty that she'd have every last one of her food needs covered?

"Perfect," sang my mother after I changed.

Into a bland white polo shirt one size too big.

With freshly-ironed Sunday morning khakis.

My mom had been home all day. She didn't even know what had almost happened to me, to her own son. The last thing I wanted to do was inspire an emotional breakdown in my mother thinking her son almost died today. She'll find out with everyone else when the story comes out, I had decided. She thinks I'm just going to the Strongs' for a "newspaper thing", which isn't actually a lie.

"Are you quite sure I can't whip you up a lovely pie or a fresh batch of some adorable Puff-Tootin' Tarts to take over?"

I could not nor would I dare ask what in the hell Puff-Tootin' Tarts were. But I was quite sure they had faces, and I immediately wanted nothing to do with them. "N-No thank you, Mom."

As I headed out the door, she gave me a kiss on the forehead. Burton was already waiting for me, impatiently honking his horn from the curb. "Tell Miss Nadine I said hi!" she hollered out from the front step, nearly chirping.

The whole way out to the Strongs', Burton sang. I tried to ask him if he knew what the event tonight was about, but was quickly drowned out when he belted (and sustained) a surprisingly high note—which even I must admit was quite impressive and pleasing to the ears. I was left staring at the countryside the whole way.

As soon as we pulled up to the Strong residence and got out of the car, we were met by Tamika, who arrived far ahead of us and had a lot of questions. "So are we running the story from today? Are we not running the story? Why did we stop everything just to come out here for snacks? Did something else happen?"

"Nadine's got an idea," sang Burton happily—and cryptically—on his way to the front door. Tamika and I shared a look.

Needless to say, even half an hour later, I still know next to nothing about the reason for us all gathering here. Everyone is standing around the kitchen island with plates of finger foods in their hands. The conversation is flowing—mercifully without any contribution from me, as I am lingering in the back of the living room watching Billy and Tanner's kids play a video game on the big TV. I recognize the game and have never seen it on such a big screen, so my mind is at once trapped by the far-more-appealing activity of watching the kids play. What sane person would choose anxiety-filled and awkward conversation over watching awesome video games on an enormous TV?

"Not hungry?"

I turn. Cole Harding stands next to me.

Even at a casual gathering like this, Cole looks like he walked right off the cover of a magazine, in his light denim jacket and pair of jeans that fit his legs like they were stitched right onto them.

But it's more than just how he looks. Or how his lips hang in anticipation of my answer. The way his eyes search mine—curious, attentive, dazzling.

It's how close he stands. How confidently he approaches me, a guy like him, a guy who already demands such attention when he enters a room, and how he gives me a hundred percent of himself whenever he speaks.

That kind of attention is something I've never known.

Not even at home.

"Or is it the selection?" he asks, and my eyes are on his lips as they move. The way they curl just at one corner when he finishes a question, still hanging open ever so slightly. He says something else, too, but suddenly I'm not focused on the words. Just his lips. Just his smooth, shapely, clever lips as they move.

They're so close to me, too. Did I mention that? Did I mention how close he is to me?

My heart pounds so noisily, I can't even hear the video game anymore. When his lips curl up, his smooth cheeks turn pink, just a little bit, and his eyes seem to sparkle with interest.

Why is he being so attentive?

Is he like this with everyone? Isn't it exhausting, to give so much of yourself to other people every day?

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. He just feels obligated to check on me. That's what it is. As if the incident today has given him a sense of responsibility over me. Or maybe it's that he thinks I'm always in danger. Like if he wasn't here right now, the Strong living room ceiling fan might fall on top of my head. Somehow, just his mere presence is protecting me.

Hasn't he done enough?

Not to mention the pressure of wondering how I'm supposed to repay him for today. Have I ever even been in a situation like this before, being indebted to someone? What do normal people do? Do I buy him chocolates? Tylenol?

"Noah?"

I realize I still haven't said anything. "I'm, uh …" I think I just swallowed my own tongue. I cough, clear my throat, then nod at the TV. "Just thought I'd …" I run out of words, give up on being a human being, and turn back to the game.

Cole's voice is soft. "Oh … o-okay."

He says nothing more. We stand there side-by-side, watching the kids play for a while.

But my concentration is consumed by Cole's presence. I can't hope to focus one bit on the video game when he's standing here, looking the way he is, standing as close as he is, breathing and moving his lips and doing all those distracting, heart-toying sorts of things he seems to do so naturally.

"So, um …" I clear my throat again. "How's your arm?"

Cole seems confused by the question at first. "Oh, right! This. I guess I owe you an explanation, huh? Forgot that the last time you saw me, I was passed out on Main Street." He makes a funny face. "That was … not a great first impression to leave you with. Acting all big and confident one second, then … flat as a pancake."

I find it odd he worries what first impression I have of him. I run through a few possible responses to that, all of them seem too weird, so I decide to just turn my attention back to the TV again.

Cole leans into me suddenly and lowers his voice. "What kind of game are they playing, by the way?"

His body.

Is touching.

My body.

His shoulder against my shoulder. His arm against my arm. Even each word he utters, the breath of his speech, it touches my ears like tiny fingertips.

I can barely breathe suddenly.

Why is he attacking me like this?

"I don't see them at each other's throats," says Cole, oblivious to all of this, "like brothers are supposed to be."

"It's a co-op game," I blurt out too stiffly. "So they play as a team and help each other get to the end of the level."

"Oh. That sounds … different."

Every word he says. Every single word. It's like he's stroking my ear with his fingertips. He might as well be running his tongue across my earlobe at this proximity.

Normal people don't communicate like this.

But why am I not stepping away? "Co-op games are common nowadays," I recite, sounding just like a machine, like the robot I'm always accused of being. "Online gaming and all that."

"Well, that should tell you how long it's been since I've played one." He chuckles. "I'm at the gym so often lately, I haven't had—"

"I've never been to a gym in my life."

"Oh."

We go silent again. Cole makes no effort to move away from me. Our shoulders are still touching.

I can hear every single breath he takes.

After a while, I realize it's almost like music.

His breaths are the rests between notes. Soft and pleasing to the ears. Nearly melodic.

And my ever-pounding heart is the frantic, amateur drummer who can't keep a rhythm to save his life.

The older brother pauses the video game suddenly to give his younger brother tips on how to survive the challenging next level they're about to face.

I'm struck suddenly by their cooperation.

I'm witnessing a luxury I was never afforded as an only child.

"I wonder how different my childhood would've been if I had a brother," Cole says suddenly. I flinch, surprised by his remark, as I was having a similar thought. "But my mom was always of the opinion that one's enough." He lets out a wistful sigh. "You ever wonder how your life would be? If anything about you was totally different? How you'd be like today?"

I keep my eyes on the pair of brothers. "No," I answer simply. "It's pointless to do so."

"It … It is?"

"There's no sense in wasting time wondering how differently our lives could have turned out. It's a better use of our time to deal with the way our lives already are. To accept what we have and make the best of it."

"Oh. I … I guess I see your point." He turns more toward me, which makes him feel even closer to me. I fight my body's instinct to panic. "But can't we use our imagination? What if imagining other possibilities helps us deal with how we turned out?"

It's almost too much. He's too close. Yet I can't bring myself to move. "I've never had a good imagination."

"I could help," he offers.

I don't know when it happened, but my hands are buried deep in my pockets and my shoulders have crept so far up, you'd think I was trying to hide my ears. "I'm fine the way I am," I tell him.

"You sure?"

"With a ninety percent certainty, yes."

"Only ninety?"

"Ninety is a very—" I can barely breathe. "—high percentage. I always leave room for error. It's the—" Maybe I'm allergic to him. Or his clothes. Or human interaction. "—responsible thing to do."

He chuckles, finding that funny, I guess. "I like the way you think, Noah. You're very … precise."

"You have to be precise when you write. Or code."

"Good point." He takes a breath. "So, um … are you ready to join everyone in the kitchen? I think Nadine may be about to tell us what her whole thing is. But if you need more time," he quickly adds, "I'm more than happy to invent a dozen reasons you and I have to hang out here a while longer to watch the Tucker-Strong boys not fight over a game. Don't you worry. I can take on Nadine, delay her as much as you need, just say the word."

I stare ahead.

Again, he acts as my protector. I didn't hire him, but he acts with the devoted focus of someone I surely could never afford. Is he reading my mind? Does he know I'm over here avoiding all of the conversation in the kitchen?

But more importantly: why do I feel like he's still playing the hero? That ceiling fan is staying up there right where it belongs. No picture frames falling out of the sky, either. Risk threat: zero.

Still, my heart races like I'm in danger.

Is my body determining him to be the threat? Cole?

It's probably the guilt of him hurting himself to save me. The longer he's around, the more I feel it. "I'm going to get a plate," I decide abruptly, then dismiss myself from the living room.

And from Cole's side at long last.

That's how I end up among the circle of adults around the kitchen island, positioned rather strategically between Burton and Tamika. No one seemed to notice my absence, and no one notices my appearance either. Hanging out aloofly in the living room was my subtle way of avoiding any socializing—as usual.

Until Cole appeared.

He's standing at the other end of the kitchen island opposite me now. And he appears to be trying to catch my eyes.

But every time we make eye contact, I look away. I decided he is only paying attention to me because of what happened today. If it wasn't for my obliviousness, no one would be in trouble tonight, Cole wouldn't be injured, and for all I know, none of us would be gathered here in this house at all.

Whatever tasty finger foods I placed on my plate have gone untouched. Well, except for one of the carrot sticks, which I keep picking up, taking a nibble of, then putting right back down.

Is it weird that I'm grateful no one else has talked to me or asked me anything so far? I much prefer it this way. Maybe it's why I chose to stand between Tamika and Burton. If any questions are hurled our way, either of them can speak for the Spruce Press. I think it is fair to say the paper—and something related to the incident today—is the clear and obvious reason we're here.

I really wish Mrs. Strong would just tell us why she invited us over, get this whole thing done with, and let us go home in peace. She and Tanner are taking turns telling a story about her mother-in-law who's in town. Billy now and then chimes in with a funny anecdote of his own. Nadine's husband nearby chuckles softly at everything they say, cheeks rosy and a glass of wine in his hand, soft-spoken as ever. Everything is so sweet, lovely, and endearing.

Really, this is just torture.

I look across the island, perhaps to wonder if Cole is similarly exhausted of this banter—only to discover him missing.

I blink and adjust my glasses. Where'd he go?

"Hey."

I nearly drop my plate as I turn to find Cole standing right by my side, taking place of Tamika who was there a second ago, his bright and striking eyes on mine.

"Sorry," he says right away. "Didn't mean to startle you. I just meant to ask earlier if you're okay. I mean, you look okay. Seem it, too. Are you okay?"

Is he wearing cologne? Does he smell this good on accident?

Must be exhausting to be so well-presented all the time.

I try to tell him I'm okay, realize my voice isn't working, then simply settle on a nod.

"Good," he says, graciously accepting my nonverbal response. "I was worried about you all day. I tried finding you at the festival after the doctor discharged me, but you'd gone already." Then he chuckles. "‘Discharged' … sounds a bit too dramatic, huh?"

Worried about me all day? Is he serious? I lift my eyebrows. "You looked for me?"

"I … well, yes." Cole smiles. "I'm glad you're doing okay. That's what I was worried about. Uh, like I said." Then he looks off.

Why is he so worried about me? I don't have a scratch on me.

I glance at his arm. "Is it bandaged up?"

He returns to me. "What?"

"I noticed you're wearing a jacket. With sleeves. I just made a quick assumption, considering the temperature isn't that low."

"Oh. Wow, you're … observant." He inspects his sleeve for half a second, then seems to shrug it off. "No, I just like this jacket. Not covering up any gruesome flesh wounds. I simply wanted to … feel stylish … or something."

He doesn't want to admit his arm is bandaged up. He probably doesn't want me to feel any more guilty than I already do. If that's the reason, that's nice of him.

But why is he being so nice?

And why is he being so extra attentive?

"You don't have to worry," he adds. "I'm totally fine. It looked way worse than it was." Then he leans in toward me. "No necro-asphyxi-itus," he says in a tiny, playful voice.

I grimace.

That's not the word. At all. Not even close.

But what is close is his body once again—right beside mine, arm pressed against my arm, shoulder against my shoulder, and his face astonishingly close. With just a rough calculation, I'd say there's easily room for about six more people to crowd around this large kitchen island before he would be required to squeeze in so close to me. Even then, I'm sure some of us would've taken a step back to allow more space.

Is this normal distance for him?

If we're going to continue communicating, am I going to have to get used to this consistent breach of my personal security?

Do I really mind?

"Alright, alright, listen up!" calls out Nadine. Everyone draws quiet. What else does one do when Mrs. Strong calls for attention? "Everyone is here, and I can't wait a second longer. I have got a genius idea that I absolutely, one-hundred percent, without a speck of a doubt know will be the thing that puts Spruce on the Texas map once and for all."

"Goodness, Mom, haven't you made them wait long enough?" says Tanner. "We're runnin' out of ranch dip!"

Nadine swats his arm. "Shush you." She clears her throat and places her hands on the counter. "Now it's no secret that after the incident today, everyone's talkin' about our man of the hour: Cole Harding. Then Cissy asked me who he's datin' … and that's when I got the idea. The iron's hot. Now's when we gotta strike."

"For cryin' out loud, Mom, the people in this room are gettin' older by the second. Just tell ‘em what it is!"

Nadine grips the counter, leans forward, and finally lets it out: "I want to run an Eligible Bachelors of Spruce Pageant!"