Chapter 7 Noah

It's after taking a long shower (to wash off the longest car ride out of the Spruce countryside in recorded history) that I huddle at last over my notebook with just the desk lamp on, writing out all of my questions for Cole in the morning.

This process is a lot easier when I'm preparing questions that someone else will be asking.

Why did Cole insist on me being the interviewer?

More importantly, why did I give in?

I write one question out. Then I stare at it and imagine myself asking the question. Then I scribble it out with a scowl. I do this no less than forty-two times. I'm on the second page of making my list of interview questions and don't even have the first one.

Every time I imagine myself asking him the question in real life, I see him sitting right in front of me.

Sitting too close.

His eyes pierce me with expectation. He notices I'm awkward and gives me a gentle smile to try and soothe me, which in most circumstances would be nice, but to me feels more like needlessly torturing your food before you eat it. No one should be allowed to have such a power-commanding smile like that.

Then, beyond all reason, he will actually answer my question.

And he will answer it well.

And I will forget to write anything down, because my eyes are defenseless against his spellbinding gaze, which will trap me like a tiny butterfly in a net, fighting feebly as I lose my strength. I will inevitably be his. Captured and helpless and ready to be eaten.

But before I'm his meal, I'll be humiliated.

My dying thought will be: I should not have agreed to be his interviewer.

There is another possible outcome. He could be nice. Gentle. Understanding. Carrying no butterfly net behind his back.

When I'm awkward, he'll save me by rewording the question on my behalf. When I trip on my words, he'll understand what I intended and graciously answer the question I meant to ask.

I guess on second thought, maybe he's the perfect person to have my first interview with.

There's a gentle knock on my door. I turn to find my mom poking her head in. "Sweetie, it's so late. Thought you'd be asleep by now."

I cover my interview questions with another nearby notebook for some reason. "I'm … I'm doing a newspaper thing before bed."

"Oh. This late?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Can I get you a glass of milk?"

"I'm fine, Mom, thanks."

"You sure? How'd the thing at the Strongs' go?"

I can still feel Cole as he came up to my side while I was in the middle of watching the boys play, then stood there close—too close. I can feel myself standing by him at the kitchen island, too, when he appeared out of nowhere and became a third appendage I did not know I wanted. I can feel the weight of his arm as he threw it over my shoulders when Nadine started talking to me, tugging me against his side. Did it count as a hug? It was almost a hug, right?

Then when he caught me out front before I headed out.

Staring me down in the dark with his impassioned eyes.

Turning me into his interviewer before I could properly resist.

Against all explanation. Against better judgment.

Do I even remember anything else from tonight? Did the long car ride with Burton there and back happen? What did I even eat at the Strongs'? Did they serve food at all?

I can't stop my mind, so I talk. "Mrs. Strong wants to run some events that highlight local Spruce bachelors. Pageant, auction …"

"She wants to do what now?"

"I've been unofficially assigned one of the …" Well, that's not true. No one assigned me. I assigned myself. At Cole's insistence. "I am going to be writing about one of the bachelors. An interview. I have to come up with questions."

"Well, that sounds dandy! Who's the bachelor? Do we know him? Is it your sweet, single dentist?"

"It's Cole. He's …" I feel my heart flutter saying his name. Why did my heart flutter? That doesn't make sense. "He's my age. Cole and I went to school together."

"Cole …" My mom goes quiet for a moment, her eyes seeming to teleport to another dimension. "You don't … You don't mean … Lauren Harding's son, do you? Cole Harding?"

Hearing the rather sudden change in her tone concerns me. "Cole Harding, yes. Why?"

Her eyes go astray. She appears deep in her mind suddenly. "Oh. I … I didn't think …" She shakes her head. "I didn't think you two were still friends."

"Friends? What do you mean?"

"Never mind." Suddenly my mom is happy again, purging all unpleasant thoughts from her brain. "That sounds wonderful, my dear, and I think you're going to do a terrific job."

"Cole and I used to be friends?"

Now it's my mom who's become the bug caught in a net and trying feebly to break free. "Don't mind what I said. Yes, when you were kids. It was … why are you looking at me like that? It was a long time ago, sweetie, just forget I said anything."

"But I'm interviewing him in the morning."

My mom goes strange again. "You are?"

"Yes. I already told you I am. I'm writing up questions. I have to interview him at his house." I fidget with my pen in hand. "I'd rather someone else do it, because I … I feel like I'm no good at this whole … talking and questioning stuff. People always look at me strangely and wonder why I stutter so much."

After managing to wipe away her troubled expression, she comes into my room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed near the desk. "I know, sweetheart, I know, ever since you were little. For some people, it's easier to come out of their shells. For others, not so much. But you know what? It doesn't matter which kind of person you are. Just do things your way, alright? Even if your way involves stutterin' and shyness and speakin' fluent Gremlish."

I eye her. "Now you're just making up words."

"You'll be fine." She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze before rising from my bed. "Now I'm gonna leave you to it. Try not to stay up too late, alright? Oh, and …" She stops at the door, a finger tapping her chin. "When you go there tomorrow … over to Cole's … could you maybe tell … um … no, could you maybe say … well …" She shakes her head. "Never mind. Goodnight."

"Mom?" I try, but she's already seen herself out with nothing more to say, gently closing the door. I'm left staring at the back of my door, wondering why she got so weird about everything.

Then I try to imagine myself playing with Cole as a kid.

With gorgeous-eyed Cole Harding and his striking smile and perfect teeth, who I had always assumed would have nothing in the world to do with someone like me.

Why can't I remember it?

I turn back to my desk, dazed, adjust my glasses, and unbury my notebook, revealing the nearly blank sheet of paper in front of me. It waits for me to fill it with bold and interesting questions.

I don't suspect I'm going to be getting much sleep tonight.

It feels like the morning comes with the blink of an eye, and at once I'm at my destination. Cole Harding's house, like most places in Spruce, is well within walking distance from my own. I make my way up the front pathway, tug on the strap of my camera (an older one of my dad's I brought from home, since I haven't had time to run to the office and grab a replacement for the one that got smashed at the festival), swallow down the bile made from my anxieties, and finally bring my finger to the doorbell.

The second the chime goes off, I hear a dog barking. That's soon followed by someone calling out to "shut that dang yapper up", then a harsh bumping noise, and finally glass shattering.

I stare at the door, eyes wide.

Was this a bad time?

The barking goes away. I hear the shuffling of footsteps. Then I stand there for a while longer as I listen to brushing noises and a few muttered words I can't make out. "I said I'm sorry," someone rather sharply replies, promptly followed by a soothing hush, then more silence.

I bite my lip, worried.

Is this normal?

Just when I'm about to give up and hightail it in the opposite direction, pretending I never showed up to do this at all, the door swings open and a cheery Cole appears. "Good morning!"

I take him in.

Of course he is immaculate.

I would have expected him to look at least a little bit sleepy or unprepared. But I clearly underestimated him yet again. In a crisp plaid shirt and khaki shorts with a belt, with his hair cleanly parted and face freshly shaven, Cole looks ready for a television spot or first date. He'd make a lasting impression.

Did I say first date?

This isn't a date.

This is an interview. A professional interview for my job.

Besides, I shouldn't have expected less. He knew I intended to bring my camera to get some candids of him in his house. Of course he made an effort to look his best. Everyone in Spruce may see the photos we take today.

Still, his appearance makes me feel like I should have given a lot more thought to my own. I feel underdressed in my loose shirt, cargo shorts, and baseball cap. Why am I even wearing a baseball cap in the first place? Because the colors match my shirt? I don't even like baseball.

"Please excuse the broken vase," says Cole with a wince. "My dog got … a little too excited when she heard someone at the door. We basically starve her for attention all day long. It's terrible. I'm a bad dog daddy. She's been contained, no longer a threat, any and all foreseeable vase-breaking crises have been averted. Come in!"

He steps back, opening the door further. I take my first step into the house, notebook hugged to my chest where the camera hangs heavy. In the front entryway, I see a neatly-swept-up pile of shattered porcelain next to an empty table, which I assume once held said vase. The entryway opens to the living room, where Cole takes me. Everything is surprisingly clean and orderly, as if the house was recently staged to be sold, totally picturesque down to every detail. Even the throw blanket on the back of the couch is wrinkle-free and perfectly in place.

I don't know what it is about all the cleanliness here, but I find it calming to my otherwise racing mind. Maybe when I get back home, I should straighten up a few things in my own house.

I just stepped foot in his house and am already thinking about going home. Typical me.

Cole leads me to a pair of armchairs that rest near a set of tall windows overlooking the backyard. "Are these okay? I considered us doing this outside in a pair of nice wicker chairs, but thought it might get warm. Oh, I haven't been outside, I just realized. Is it—?"

"It's temperate."

"Temperate. Sounds nice! Anyway, if you get bored or want to stretch your legs, or maybe your camera's thirsty for a lovely new environment, we can move out to the garden. Just say the word!"

I smile. Or at least I think I'm smiling. Sometimes I forget to. "I think this will be fine. Can we start?"

"Oh. Uh … yes! Of course, yes, we can start. We can just … dive right on in. I was going to get you something to drink, too, if you wanted anything. I can put a bowl of, uh … nuts or chips out, too. Won't be anything fancy like we had last night, but—"

"I had a granola bar at home."

Cole smiles, appears to decide not to delay any further, and sits down in one of the armchairs. Even the way he sits is so regal and practiced, like he took a class somewhere on how to properly sit in a chair that makes him look both strong, elegant, and utterly gracious. I find it both impressive and confusing. Are these sorts of qualities something that develop over time, or was Cole somehow born acting this way?

The precise way in which he sits also draws attention to the strength of control in his arms. He's toned and clearly strong, but not overly muscled. There is something careful and calculated in his movements, even when he does something as simple as sit in a chair. It makes me wonder how much care he gives everything else in his day-to-day life.

The care he took in putting his arm protectively around me at the Strongs'.

The speed at which he charged across the street to embrace me and protect me at the festival.

Even the delicate way in which he focuses his eyes upon me, like he's even careful with the strength of his gaze.

"Noah?"

I come out of it. "Sorry." I take a seat in the other chair, then make a surprising discovery of how mysteriously soft the cushion is as it attempts to swallow my body into it like it's hungry. I have to battle gravity to free the majority of my butt out of its greedy, cushy grasp, which is a bit trickier to do than it sounds, as I lack the aforementioned muscular finesse that Cole clearly possesses.

"You alright there?" he asks in the midst of my struggle.

"Perfect," I grunt, then finally manage to position myself on the hard edge of the chair, right at the front, free from the cruel humiliation of gravity and soft cushions, and sit upright. "Now we can start." I already gave myself the pep talk on the way here. I'm ready to be the professional interviewer. I'm ready to do the job and make Burton not regret allowing this to happen.

I open my notebook and prepare at last to begin.

Only to realize, with total bafflement, that my notebook does not appear to contain my interview questions.

It contains a recipe for something called "Cute Tutes".

I stare down at it, mortified. Two cups heavy cream. Twelve tablespoons of butter "or maybe more". Six "or seven or so" large eggs, separated. Sixteen ounces of semisweet chocolate chips "or maybe Kisses or MMs, I'll decide later". Forty-four ladyfingers. Rainbow sprinkles "totally not optional". Half a cup of "those cute edible ball sprinkles I used for the Grumpy Lumpy Elf cookies last Christmas". This isn't even half of the ingredients.

"Are you okay?"

I look up from my notebook. "I … I think I … I brought the …" I look back down at it, as if I might've been mistaken. Nope. There's even a hand-drawn illustration my mom apparently did of a Cute Tute. There's nothing cute about a Tute. What the hell is a Tute?

I flip through the pages. More recipes. More drawings. How'd I grab the wrong notebook? It was right on my desk. I even almost fell asleep on it around three. Was I really that tired this morning? I finally slap it shut and stare ahead blankly, at a loss.

"Is something wrong?" Cole asks me.

"I'm afraid we can't do the interview."

"Oh." His eyes sink. "Why not?"

"My questions. I left them at home … the whole interview."

"Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good."

I clutch the notebook in frustration, causing it to bend in my grip. I pull my glasses off my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I apologize. If you don't mind, I think I'll be back in fourteen and a half minutes, maybe fifteen. I'll return with the right notebook. Sorry about the inconvenience." I try to stand up, but realize I've fallen back into the chair somehow despite my efforts. Freeing myself yet again proves far more difficult a task than it ought to be, as the soft and squishy armchair keeps sucking me right back down into it.

The moment I finally achieve freedom, Cole has stood up at the same time, and our faces nearly collide, mere inches apart, startling us both.

I stare into his eyes, frozen.

He gazes back into mine.

"Do you really need them?" he asks, his voice soft as butter.

My eyes swim in his, baffled. I'm nearly cross-eyed from how close we're suddenly standing. "Of … Of course I need them. How can I do the interview without any questions?"

"We can just … talk," Cole suggests sweetly.

"Talk?" I blurt out, like I'm allergic to the word.

"Yeah." With his face so unnecessarily close to mine, I notice every subtle movement. When he draws breath. When his lips curl at the corners, appearing amused. When his eyes widen ever so slightly, indicating surprise. "We can make this easy," he says with that Cole-brand confidence, showing me just how easy everything comes to him, even speaking words. "You and I can just chat about whatever comes to mind. How's that sound?"

Then Cole has the audacity to smile.

That dashing, perfect, movie-screen smile.

Pearly whites. Flawless lips. The faintest hint of dimples at the corners of his mouth. The way his face lights up like the sun when he smiles, pouring all of his beauty and charm onto me with such laughably minimal effort.

"Don't you want to chat freely with me, Noah?" he asks, his smile deepening.

Why is he being so irresponsible with that smile of his?

Doesn't he know how it can affect people around him? How it can be confusing?

How it can be devastating?

The next second, he grabs his thigh and hisses out, dropping right back into his chair. "Oh, fuck!"

I take a step back, alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Ch-Charley! H-H-Horse! Fuck!"

Without thinking, I drop to my knees in front of the armchair, at his feet. "Here?" I ask, placing my hands on his left upper thigh where he seems to be helplessly and feebly grabbing at.

"Higher!" he squeaks like a chew toy.

I slide my hands up his thigh a few inches. "Here?"

"H-Higher! Urgh!"

My hands slide into his shorts. "Uh … here …?"

"Almost! Almost! Fuck, this is a bad one …!"

My fingers slide even further up his shorts.

The top of my hand grazes something else.

Something firm yet pliable.

His bulge.

Through his underwear.

"Here?" I ask meekly.

"Yes!" he groans. "Right there!"

I completely ignore what else my hand is brushing up against as I dig my fingers into his thigh, massaging and working out the knot causing Cole such unrelenting anguish. He grits his teeth the whole time, hissing through them, eyes squeezed shut. I apply as much tenderness as I do strength. I can literally feel the tightened muscle with my fingers, how they've knotted up like a baseball.

The more I massage, the more my fingers graze his privates.

"Mmm, yeah, yeah … that's doing the trick," he groans.

What trick, exactly?

Am I working out his charley horse or getting him off?

Both?

"Just tell me if I'm pressing too hard," I state in a level voice, determined to stay focused on the task.

You know, the task with my hands up Cole Harding's shorts.

Kneading his muscled upper thigh like dough.

Pretending I'm also not partially massaging his balls by proxy.

If I knew this was going to be part of the interview …

"You are doing it perfectly," he says in an erotic moan I'm not sure he intends, head rocked back, jaw slack, lips hanging open.

"Okay," I flimsily mutter back, continuing to massage.

My eyes wander to the crotch of his shorts, where I watch the bump of my hands underneath them gyrating around. I had sorely underestimated how close they are to his cock. A passerby could easily mistake the bump in the fabric as merely an extension of the already generous gift God gave him in the genital department.

Yes, I said it. Cole has been gifted.

"Mmm, I hate getting these …" groans Cole from above. "They are the worst …"

When did my heart start racing? It's galloping like I just ran a mile. It can't be healthy for my heart to race this much for such an extended period of time.

I'm not used to sexually-charged cardio exercises like this.

Come to think of it, I'm not used to the normal ones, either.

"Just relax," I urge him in as soothing a voice as I can muster. This doesn't come naturally to me. "Keep your mind off the pain."

I'm not sure that's a very fair request.

Telling him to keep his mind off of his cramping thigh.

With a pair of hands up his shorts.

"I've got this wicked one in my lower back I get sometimes," he starts telling me. "And now and then one in my left calf. Don't know why, but they just wake up with a vengeance whenever they want to, usually after I come home from a workout. Like I did this morning. Did I mention that? I did a workout this morning. Got up super early. Had to focus my brain. You ever go to the gym?"

"Um, no."

"We should go sometime! Since I work there, I can get you in. It's a fun way to relieve stress, even if you're not there to get all buff and stupid-ripped. No one needs to be stupid-ripped. Y'know how many benefits you gain mentally just from a little walking around? All the healthy chemistry it does to you? Miraculous."

My eyes drift to his crotch again.

I mean, it's right there. Right there in my face.

Next to my moving hands, too.

Which keep brushing against it.

And I'm not entirely certain whether I'm meaning to.

Surely Cole is as electrically aware of what's happening. After all, it's his royal jewels my hands keep thieving subtle touches of. How is he not reacting? Why is he talking about working out?

He returns his hands to the back of his head, cradling it as he keeps it rocked back, talking to the ceiling. "Wow, you must have the magic touch, Noah, I swear …"

I am literally staring at his crotch. Is my face growing closer to it? How is that happening? Are his balls a pair of magnets? Is his dick a tractor beam? "Thank you," I mutter absently.

"Really, no one's been able to ease a charley horse of mine like that so quickly. Especially not one in my thigh."

I have no control as my face grows closer. "I'm glad to be of … of service."

Even his bulge in these khaki shorts is beautiful. Like art. Not egregiously huge. Shapely and inviting. Well-rounded. Perfect.

And my face is like a ship being helplessly drawn to shore.

Slamming into the docks is inevitable. All my crew members are panicking, running around the deck, trying to stop it.

Captain, this ship is about to crash.

There's a shrill yelp from outside the tall window.

Suddenly I'm sober again. The CPU has rebooted. Firmware is updated and running smoothly. I retract my hands from his shorts at once and stand up, alarmed, as I turn to the tall window.

Cole's dog, who apparently was banished to the beautiful prison of their large backyard as a punishment for the vase, has made a timely appearance, standing proudly in the flowerbed just outside, panting and happy and staring at us with interest.

I barely notice when Cole rises from the chair and stands next to me. I swallow, then say, "It seems like she wants attention."

Cole gazes at me, bringing his face close to mine once again. "You can tell Porridge is a she?"

"You mentioned her gender when I first came in."

"Oh." He lets out a soft, breathy chuckle that raises tingles of delight up and down the back of my neck. I can't hope to explain that reaction. "You're very observant, Mr. Reed."

Every word he utters sends tingles up my neck, actually. "It should also be noted that she clearly lacks a …" I stare into Cole's eyes. "… penis."

"Oh." His voice softens even more. "Valid point."

It is also a valid point that I've now indirectly touched Cole Harding's penis.

And we both know it.

As we stare into each other's eyes.

Is this part going into the interview, too?

Cole tilts his head suddenly. "By the way, do you mind that we're standing so close?"

I open my mouth to speak.

Then stop.

Is this a test? Is he testing me somehow? Why does this feel like some sort of test?

There's a look in his eye, a challenging look.

My heart may be racing and I don't know what to do with my face, but I don't want to be the weird one here, so I answer, "No," perhaps a notch louder than intended.

Of course I can easily step back from him, or edge a bit to the side, or sit back down in that squishy trap of an armchair. I am by no means coerced into this situation of absurdly close proximity to Cole and his body and his inhumanly beautiful face.

But for some reason, just like before the charley horse that had my hands up his shorts, my legs refuse to move right now. I stay precisely where I am, rooted to the spot like a stubborn oak tree. Each time Cole takes the subtlest of breaths, I hear it, and up and down the back of my neck, I feel it too, like electricity.

I feel it like the potent pull of the tractor beam he apparently installed in the general vicinity of his crotch, which was nearly successful in drawing my innocent face right up against it.

Why am I not moving right now?

Why isn't he?

It's the Strongs' living room all over again. Like we're a pair of magnets, opposite ends constantly pulled together, determined to collide despite all efforts.

"Good," he says after a moment, and his smile grows.

What the hell is on Cole Harding's mind?

The dog—Porridge by name, as I just learned—lets out another shrill yelp, as if to remind us that she's the one who demanded our attention and helped put a merciful end to our intimate charley horse massage session.

"Hey, here's a good idea," says Cole with a snap of his fingers. "How about we take her on a walk around the neighborhood?"

I blink. "You need to … to walk your dog?"

"Why not? We could do the interview as we go."

"I …" My hands fumble with the notebook, nearly dropping it. It's practically sandwiched between our bodies, considering that we're standing so close. The camera, too. "I need to write things down. To take notes. How can I—" His face is so close to mine. Why aren't either of us stepping away? Is this normal for him? Is this how he has conversations with his friends? Do they mind? "How can I do that while walking?"

Cole gives an innocent shrug. "You have your phone on you, don't you? Isn't it normal to record interviews? That way, you can listen back to it later on and quote me down to the syllable."

"Of course I was going to record us. I just … I meant …" Quite suddenly, I realize I have no point to make. Why not just record it without taking notes? Obviously this is what the others do when they interview people. It's more natural. It allows for the dialogue to flow uninterrupted.

Provided you're a normal person who understands how to let dialogue flow.

Or make any at all.

But Cole is confident about this walking idea. And something about his confidence makes me trust him.

And so: "O-Okay, let's walk your dog then."

"Let's walk my dog," agrees Cole, grinning.

Minutes later, the pair of us are strolling down the street. Cole holds the leash of a much calmer Porridge, who seems less excited about leading the way than she does just to be out of the house for a while. The distant murmur of the crowds attending the second day of the crafts festival can be heard several streets over, though neither of us pay it much mind. I guess we've seen enough of it. The mild air drifts past us, neither hot nor cold. The sun is out, but obscured by enough clouds to not feel like fire upon our necks. It is basically a perfect day.

And I'm still burdened with unrest. Suddenly I miss standing close to him in the living room—his living room or the Strongs'. At least when we were standing within ridiculously close proximity of one another, my anxiety had an easy-to-explain reason.

Out here, my nerves are everywhere, and I have no idea what to blame for them. Springtime allergies? Sunlight? Conversation?

How do I start this damned interview? Can I even remember the first question I came up with? I must have reworded it twelve times, yet none of the words come to mind, not even the first one. I can't even remember how I fell asleep. Did I fall asleep? For some reason, all I can think about is that moment my mother came in and the things she unintentionally revealed to me.

How Cole and I apparently have a history with each other.

Walking alongside him as we are, I have an even harder time believing that the strange pair of us were even close to resembling playmates. How is that even possible? Cole whistles while he walks along the path. His every step radiates with confidence. His smile is a gift he gives to the sky, to the trees, to every passing car on the street. Everyone is his best friend. Who has time for all of that boundless energy? I don't. Maybe my mom had it wrong.

"So, how about—" starts Cole.

"Did we used to be friends?" I blurt out instead.

Cole turns to me. "Friends?"

I wince. I can only take so much bottled-up anxiety before it starts spilling out of my mouth. "Sorry. That isn't … it's not one of the questions I had. I just … My mom said something last night, and … it doesn't ring a bell."

"You don't remember?"

I stop and look at him, surprised. "You do remember?"

"Of course." His face lights up. "We would hang out in either one of our backyards while our moms day-drank and talked shit about people around town. Or at least I assume that's what they'd do. Who knows what they really talked about." Cole chuckles. He turns to me. "You really don't remember at all?"

I somehow remember the mint green dress my kindergarten teacher always wore—maybe some odd association I formed and can't forget—but nothing comes to mind about spending any time with Cole as kids. We had no mutual friends in school. We had no classes together, either. Nothing in common except for us being human beings, and even that's debatable where I'm concerned.

"No," I finally say. "Not a thing."

Something in Cole's eyes deflate.

I think he's disappointed that I can't remember.

I'm just about to apologize when he quickly brushes it off. "Y'know what? Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago. I don't remember a whole lot myself."

I get the strong suspicion he's playing off just how much he remembers. I bet it's a lot. Why can't I remember anything …?

"I mean, we were basically begrudgingly pushed at each other because our moms were besties," he says. "That's the gist I know."

I snap my eyes to him again. "They were besties?"

"Used to be, apparently." Cole tenses up slightly. "Um … don't read too much into that. I don't know anything else. We're getting to know each other now, right? That's what counts."

"Okay," I mutter absently as Porridge rushes up to the base of a tree and begins to investigate it, sniffing around. We stop to let her explore. I decide I'm ready to start the interview—the actual interview. "So, um, the day … the day that you saved my life …"

"Yesterday."

"Right. Yesterday. Um … What would you say was going on … uh … wait, no. What would you say went through your head when you, uh, when you saw me and … ugh, this is worded so much better in my notebook at home … well, actually, you must've seen the picture frames falling first, and … and that's what made you—"

"It was your face I saw first, actually."

I look at him. "Really?"

"Yep." He peers back at me. "I was just minding my business, enjoying the festival with Nan … and there you stood, right across the street. I caught sight of you and …" He gazes off with a shrug. "I was instantly pulled back, thinking about all the times I passed you by in the halls of Spruce High, how many times I didn't say hello … and how I should've said hello."

Is Cole being funny? None of this makes sense. "What do you mean? We didn't know each other in school."

"We might not have been close," agrees Cole, "but it doesn't mean I didn't know who you were. Doesn't mean I wasn't curious about you. All the time," he adds in a mumble, then chuckles. When he chuckles, his eyes sparkle in the sunlight. I'm mesmerized as I listen to him. He smirks. "I'm observant, too, y'know. Good thing I was observant yesterday, otherwise I wouldn't have seen you and charged across the street to do what I did."

I find all of this information too much. I don't even know how to respond. What to ask next. What to think.

"By the way," he goes on, "did you ever notice me back then?"

Porridge stops sniffing at once and looks up at me, as if she's also somehow interested in my answer.

"Of course," I tell him absently. "Everyone noticed you."

"Really? I wasn't sure. You were always kind of …" Cole makes a gesture with his hands around his head, the leash wiggling in his grip. "… trapped up here all the time. That's how it seemed to me. I think I was too intimidated to approach you."

I stare down at the ground.

He was too intimidated to approach me?

"I always wondered what was going on in your mind," he says. "I mean, not to sound like a stalker, but I was always curious about you. The quiet guy in his shell. You were a shy one, Noah Reed."

"I just liked to keep to myself."

"It's okay. You can be shy. You can keep to yourself. As long as you're happy in the ways that matter, that's all I care about."

I can't pull my eyes from the ground suddenly.

How did I not know Cole was paying so much attention to me all this time?

Is he this attentive with everyone in his life?

"Hey, Porridge," calls out Cole in a singsong voice, then turns serious. "You done with your big criminal investigation? Find any evidence? Dead bodies? Narcotics? No? Good girl." Porridge starts panting and dancing happily, though I'm not entirely convinced she understands.

Then we're off again, strolling down the road.

And I stare ahead, still thinking about Cole noticing me back in the day. I find myself trying to recall if there's any time back in school that I noticed Cole, too. He always seemed so far away. At the school dances, he was across the room with the cool kids, miles away. In the cafeteria, sitting with the popular kids, tables and tables away. In the hall, always crowds upon crowds between us. I'm sure even our lockers were worlds apart.

Yet Cole makes it sound like he had his eye on me the whole time. Like he was aware of me back then. For as observant as I claim to be, how could I not have noticed?

"I feel pretty foolish," says Cole suddenly, "that I didn't even know you worked at the newspaper. I guess I've been in my own head since graduation. How long have you worked there?"

The answers come automatically. "Three years this May."

"Really? Wait. So you got hired right after graduating?"

"As an intern, yes. My grandpa used to run the paper before Burton's dad took over. It was the place I would escape to each day when school let out. There was always work to do there."

"Your grandpa? Really? I obviously haven't been paying much attention to anything. My cousins have a farm I help out at from time to time. I think I spent a solid year after graduation just being their unpaid farmhand, doing this and that, fading away like a blade of grass in the field. Farm work is tough and thankless work, I'm telling you. Tough and thankless. Hey, hey, easy girl," he calls out to Porridge, who started to get jumpy.

I imagine him out in the fields of a farm.

Working hard under the sun.

Shirt long since taken off, tucked into the back of his pants, hanging like a peacock's tail.

Sweat glistening across his sunburnt skin as he hacks away at the land with a hoe, one swing after the other.

Stopping to wipe his brow of sweat, flicking the tiny beads off, diamonds in the sunlight. Stretching his muscles.

Then gazing my way. Spotting me.

"Tell me, Noah," the real Cole says, invading my gloriously imaginative thoughts about him working the field, "do you enjoy your job at the paper? Y'know, I heard you are a wizard with your photography, according to Tamika last night."

"I … I don't know about that." Seriously, I can't wipe the image I gave myself of shirtless Cole sweating in the fields. Or did he give me that image on purpose? Is that why he mentioned the tough, thankless work on his cousins' farm? "Most of the … uh … the ‘magic' comes afterwards at the computer, really. Just me, Photoshop, and a keyboard and mouse."

"I think you're amazing, Noah."

"Not really."

Cole Harding. Shirtless and hot. Sweating in the Spruce, Texas farmlands. Gazing at me from across the gently swaying grass, having stopped to give his hoe a moment's rest.

A glorious smile breaking across his face. Lifting a hand to wave at me. Me, hardly able to breathe.

I wonder if farmhand Cole gets charley horses, too.

I wonder what he'll ask me to massage.

Where in the hell are these thoughts coming from?

"Is that what you're looking for in another person?" he asks. "Someone who's as much of a wizard at something as you are?"

I keep staring at shirtless Cole in the field. "Wizard? No. I … I don't need a wizard for a boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? Ah, okay, didn't want to presume. I'm gay, too."

"I know." Then I snap out of it, bringing my eyes to the very real Cole in front of me. "Wait a sec. We're supposed to be talking about you. Not me and wizards and what I want in a guy."

"But what do you want in a guy?" he asks.

And when he asks, he turns toward me.

His presence once again demanding my full attention.

His space once again invading mine in a way that takes hold of my pulse and sends it racing for its life.

I close my eyes to shut out my view of Cole and his confident stare. "We're supposed to be doing an interview about you, not—"

"Wasn't our agreement just to talk?" he asks, a note of humor in his voice. "Y'know, like a pair of guys just walking the dog and having a chat? Besides, isn't this as good as an interview? You and I are getting to know each other. That's priceless."

My eyes open. "Priceless?"

"I have always wanted to get to know you better, Noah." His eyes skip down my face, as if to take me in. He smiles. "I'm really enjoying my time with you."

I turn my head away, panicked. "Thanks."

The dog tugs on the leash suddenly. Cole smiles at me, hardly noticing his arm being yanked by the dog, then tilts his head. "Do you think it's too late to drop out of this whole pageant thing?"

That catches me off-guard. "Drop out?"

"Don't you think it's a bit …" He squints upward, thinking of the word. "… demeaning? Wait. Is this off the record or on?"

I gasp. "I forgot I'm supposed to be recording this!" I slap my hands to my pockets in search of my phone.

"So … it's off the record?"

"Nothing is on any record right now, apparently. Damn it." I pull out my phone and quickly thumb through it for my audio recording app, which I apparently haven't used in ages. "I was too distracted. I can't believe I forgot. Earlier, I was—"

Distracted by images of shirtless, sweaty Cole in the field.

Working his hoe.

Gazing at me with his stupid smile.

"Maybe it's better all of this stays off the record," Cole insists. "I know we're supposed to be doing an interview, but I'm having so much more fun just talking to you. Do you want to continue this at the park? We're kinda headed in that direction anyway."

I stop swiping through my phone—which I just discovered has only 8% battery left. Seriously? I forgot to charge my phone last night, too? But all concerns about recording and phone batteries have suddenly become secondary. "What did you mean about the pageant being … demeaning?"

Cole shrugs. "Maybe I don't feel good representing Spruce like some kind of ‘Ken doll' eligible bachelor, or whatever Nadine has in mind. I feel like it's … sending the wrong message." He turns to me. "Don't you think this whole thing reinforces some backwards idea that beauty is all that matters?"

"But I thought you wanted to do it. You told Nadine—"

"I didn't technically agree to participate," he points out with a lift of his eyebrows. "Everything just happened so fast, Nadine was on a roll last night, and … I felt like I just had to go along with it to make her happy, even if it made me feel kind of … gross."

I stare off, totally thrown by Cole's confession.

How could he let everyone believe he's fine with this when he fundamentally dislikes the entire concept?

"Nadine is trying to make up for setting me up with a guy this past Christmas, and it went all wrong. But I don't want a bunch of guys from every neighboring town showing up on my doorstep. I only want one guy."

"One guy?"

"The right one."

I stare back at Cole, silent, surprised again.

Porridge tugs on the leash once more. And just like last time, Cole hardly notices, despite being jostled by her efforts, his pretty, dreamy eyes glued to mine, half a smile clinging to his face like a last hope. It's like the image of his own imaginary shirtless farmer is hovering at the front of his mind, whatever dream guy he thinks is the "right one".

I grip my dead phone tightly. "Well, maybe this pageant can bring the right guy to your doorstep. You just have to have faith."

"What if the right guy's already in my life?"

I squint at him, confused. "Then … Then why haven't you said anything to him?"

"That's what I'm trying to do."

I blink. What does he mean by that?

My phone complains at me again with a sad little chime. I look down at it, then sigh. "Nothing's going right today. All I needed to do was bring my questions, ask them, and record your answers. But I showed up with the wrong notebook, a dead battery, and no clue anymore why I'm here at all." I pocket my phone and squeeze my notebook with increasing frustration. "If I was a responsible person, I wouldn't have let you talk me into doing this at all. It's a mistake. It should've been Tamika here. Not me."

"Wait, wait … Noah."

"I'll just go home. Sorry for wasting your time. Enjoy the rest of your morning with your dog." I turn to make my way back.

Cole rushes in front of me. "Aren't you the least bit curious who I was talking about earlier?"

I sigh. "Do you have any idea how mad Burton's gonna be?"

"Our interview isn't ruined. Noah, I'm trying to tell you—"

"He's looking for any excuse to get rid of me, and now—"

"Hey, there's this beautiful invention called e-mail. You can shoot me the questions when you get home, I'll type up answers, it'll be pain-free and devoid of the social interaction you despise. Easy as banana cream pie, alright?"

"Cole …"

"You never answered my question earlier."

"What question?"

"What do you want in a guy?"

I notice Cole's dog has settled down, no longer tugging on his leash to run off, but sitting by his side instead and staring up at me expectantly, as if wondering the answer to Cole's question, too. Or she's just patiently waiting to go to the park and couldn't care less.

I gnaw on my lip as I drop my gaze to the pavement. For some reason, I find myself actually giving his question thought.

Maybe the answer is important to me.

"I want someone who won't be indecisive like me. A guy who knows what he wants. Says what he wants. I want a guy in my life who will take the lead. Who can show me confidence in his words and his actions." I let out a breath. "I want a guy who will … who will show me how to no longer be afraid."

Then I meet Cole's eyes, my answer finished.

He seems to be processing what I said.

His lips pucker in thought as he considers me, his eyes never leaving my face. "Sounds like you need me to make the first move. Well, Noah Reed … how's this for a first move? I like you. I've liked you for a long time. Since I can even remember. And seeing as you want a guy who shows you confidence in his words and actions …"

Cole takes hold of the back of my head, brings my face to his, and presses his lips against mine like his life depends on it.