3. Noah

3 /

noah

I knew I should have packed a few more things to bring home over break. Sure, I would have had more laundry to do since literally everything I own up at campus needs a good wash, but at least I wouldn’t be sifting through two drawers of jeans and sweatpants and a few hangers of T-shirts and sweaters to find something remotely classy to wear to this concert I’m crashing tonight.

To be fair, going to the concert was Anthony’s idea. He’s still got a thing for his ex-girlfriend, and he found out she’s in town and planning on going. I’m not real keen on flirting with his sister in front of him, but it was hard to turn down his invitation. Especially after accidentally— maybe not totally accidentally— catching a glimpse of Frankie in those fucking sexy little panties.

I flip through the hung shirts in my closet one more time, hoping something new will appear this time around. When it doesn’t, I give in and head down the hall to my parents’ room. My mom sits in the middle of their bed with her laptop and a messy pile of notecards.

“How’s the book coming?” I ask as I hang in the doorway.

She pushes her reading glasses down her nose and peers at me over the red rims.

“You know, I think at this rate, I may just finish it within a year. Maybe two.” She pulls her glasses off, flips the screen shut, and pushes the computer to her side. She’s a legal assistant at a big firm downtown, but she’s always dreamed of writing a book. My dad bought her a new laptop for their anniversary two years ago, and she’s been pecking out the words for her first novel here and there ever since.

“It’s not a race.” My words make her mouth inch up on one side. She used to say the same thing to me when I got frustrated while working on my math homework at the kitchen table. I hated that I was stuck working on something I wasn’t good at while my friends were outside playing. But some things take time.

“Who made you so smart?”

“This woman who is the next great American author.” I get her to blush but also to stand and pull me in for a hug.

“I’m proud of you,” I say over her head as she folds into my chest. My height came from my dad’s side.

“Thanks, kiddo.” She pats my chest softly as she backs away, then looks me up and down. “You look nice.”

“Do I?” I quirk a brow and look down at my black shirt, stuffing the hem into the waist of my dark blue jeans.

“You always look nice in dark colors.” She brushes her palm along my right arm a few times, probably removing lint from my mostly sweatshirt wardrobe.

“Thanks. I just wish I brought home a button-down or two. You think I could borrow one of Dad’s?” My eyes squint with my question because I hate asking her to dig into his stuff when he’s deployed. She never says anything, but I sense that it makes her miss him. My dad’s been in Kuwait for nine months. I won’t see him until spring break, maybe.

“I know just the one,” my mom says, tapping her finger against the center of my chest.

I follow her to the closet, where she pulls out a black fitted button down, the sleeves already unbuttoned and ready to roll up a quarter of my arms. I smirk, seeing the near-permanent creases in the fabric.

“Yeah, I gave up getting him to iron his clothes a long time ago. He says he spends so much time holding an iron for his military uniform that he is protesting all other ironing,” she says, pulling it from the hanger and holding it open for me.

“I’m just going to wear it the same way, so it’s fine.” I pull my T-shirt off and slide my arms in one at a time.

I button it up, leaving the top two undone, and turn to face my mom. Her eyes crinkle at the edges, and she smiles as she straightens the collar and tugs the shirt down at the bottom so it sits just right.

“You look so much like he did at your age. Same size, too. It’s uncanny.” Her eyes well up, but I don’t say a word, instead letting her wipe the evidence away while I pretend I don’t notice.

“Thanks, Mom.” I drop my hands in my pockets as she takes a step back. Her eyes flit to mine then back to the center of my chest as she taps a finger to the side of her mouth.

“One last touch,” she says, moving to her dresser and opening the top drawer. She pulls out my dad’s watch case and opens the lid, pulling out the black and silver Tag Heuer.

“Mom, I can’t?—”

“ Shh .” She grabs my wrist and tugs it into her so she can slip the watch around it. “Your dad doesn’t care. And it’s a nice touch. Besides, you’re trying to impress someone. This watch? It’s impressive.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone.” I pucker my lips and tilt my head a hair, trying to sell the lie. My mom’s gaze holds mine, though, and it takes her about two seconds to conclude I’m full of shit.

“Noah, you’ve been trying to impress that girl since you hit puberty. I wish you realized you didn’t have to try so damn hard. Frankie’s already impressed. She’s been in love with you since sixth grade.”

My mouth hangs open just enough to make me look guilty. Because I am guilty. But I don’t think I’ve been as obvious as my mom says. I didn’t start to think of Frankie in that way until high school.

“I don’t think it’s like that, Mom. It’s just nice to see her. It’s been a while and?—”

“And since you kissed her this summer, things are . . . different?” She quirks a brow and knocks me back a step with that hammer drop only she can give.

“How—?” She saw that?

“I was on the couch by the window, working on my book. And you guys didn’t exactly hide it. You stopped under the streetlight.” She shrugs one shoulder and flashes a knowing, one-sided smile.

I run my palm down my face, then pinch the bridge of my nose, relenting to the fact that my mom always knows everything.

“Pretty sure I blew it after that,” I admit. Might as well get some advice from an expert on forgiveness. My dad is a big romantic, but he’s not great at remembering things—like anniversaries, birthdays, and dinner plans.

“I’m pretty sure you know how to get the girl, Noah. I’m not na?ve. And I see the comments on your social media.”

My neck heats at the thought of my mom seeing the love I get from female fans. Sometimes they don’t keep the overt propositions like the one I got yesterday to my DMs. But I never really brought my high school girlfriends home to meet my parents for dinner or anything. I mean, I snuck a few into my room, and I definitely went on “camping trips” in the Bronco.

“Just be yourself. That’s the guy Frankie grew up making starry eyes at.”

I nod and wear a polite smile, but I’m not so sure being myself is going to cut it. And then there’s Anthony.

“I don’t think Anthony wants her making starry eyes at me.”

“Well, Anthony doesn’t get to decide who his sister looks at or how.” My mom shrugs and moves back to her bed, pulling her computer onto her lap and gathering the spread-out notecards into a neat pile.

She has a point. Also, it’s not her face that would get bashed in by his fist. Or his friendship lost. We’ve got the rest of the season, too, and we’re still roommates at the house by campus. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want me fucking up his sister’s life.

But it’s not like she would up and change colleges now, especially since I won’t be at Tiff after this year. And my mom has a point; Frankie makes her own decisions. But so do I.

“Be myself, huh?”

“Yep,” my mom says, sliding her glasses back in place as she opens her computer again. Then, with a wave of her hand, she shoos me out the door.

I manage to keep the confidence she injected into me roaring through my veins as Anthony and I drive to the amphitheater. A group of women gathered at the beer tent give me long, hard stares, which helps to lift my shoulders and broaden my chest.

By the time Frankie shows up with Mazy, I’m ripe with self-sureness. And the second Anthony ditches me to go find his ex in the sea of blankets and chairs, I gulp down the rest of my beer and head toward Frankie at the merch stand.

“You’d look good in that one,” I say, my chin just over her shoulder as I point at the white T-shirt with the sunset image emblazoned on the chest.

“You just like that it’s white, and you can get it wet,” she shoots back. There’s a playfulness in her voice, though, and that gives me courage.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t like that,” I admit.

“ Pfft .” She rolls her head away from me and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a slim gray sweater with silver woven down the sleeves in a crisscross pattern. It stops right at her waist, where the tight jeans take over and tuck into a pair of knee-high black boots. My hands ache to trace along the curve of her hips.

“What will it be, miss?” The merch guy notices the same curves I just did, and when his gaze shifts to me, I flash a quick sneer.

“Do you have the white one in medium?”

I let out a short, quiet laugh, and Frankie’s head swivels so our eyes meet.

“I was going to pick that one anyway!”

“Sure, you were,” I tease.

Her eyes dim and she turns her attention back to the middle-aged man at the counter.

“Actually, wait. I’ll take the hoodie, in large.”

He nods and heads to the large box in the back to pull out a dark blue hoodie. A dull pain swells where my ribs meet, like a hole in my stomach.

“You didn’t have to do that to prove something. I know you want the white one.” Frankie loves sunsets, and the design looks like her style. That’s why I predicted she’d pick it. Not because it’s white, and I’m a pervert. But it is white, and I am a pervert. I can’t really ignore the facts.

“I can always use another sweatshirt. The shore gets cold.” She shrugs and holds the hoodie against her chest after the man hands it to her.

“Perfect,” she says. She fishes a credit card from her back pocket, but as she moves to hand it to the man, I push her hand down and meet her gaze.

“I got this. I insist.”

She blinks, and I’m not sure whether it’s because she’s surprised or is buying time to come up with an argument.

“Fine,” she relents, putting her card away and leaving me to close out the bill at the stand as she marches toward Mazy.

“I’ll take the white one in medium too,” I say. He chuckles, probably amused at what a sucker I am. He snags the shirt for me and runs my card while I roll it up and tuck it under my arm.

The sound of tuning guitar strings reverberates throughout the amphitheater as I turn and scan the crowd. I’m not standing quite as tall as before, but I’m not giving up yet. I pull my phone from my pocket when it buzzes. It’s Anthony, messaging to get two more beers and meet him on the other side of the lawn. Apparently, he found Gemma, and she said we could sit with her and her friends on their blanket.

Great.

I send back a thumbs up and fill my lungs with one more deep breath to ready my ego for one last try—at least for tonight. I spot Mazy and Frankie standing in the beer line and breathe out a quiet “Thanks” to the universe for putting me in the right place at the right time for once. I step up behind them and softly clear my throat.

“Are you following me?” Frankie flips around so we’re toe-to-toe when she glares up at me.

I offer a tight-lipped smile and let my head fall to one side as I hand her the shirt she really wanted. She takes a half-step back as her eyes drop to it, and her lips part with a quick breath.

“Olive branch?” I give her a sheepish smile.

She takes the shirt and unrolls it to expose the design.

“It suits you,” I say, keeping the devilish smile from before in check and instead meeting her gaze with my own to convince her of my sincerity. “And I mean because it’s really pretty.”

She sucks in her lips, seeming to be fighting a smile.

“Thank you,” she utters.

I lean in, but not as close as before.

“You’re welcome.”

Our eyes dance for a moment, Frankie working hard not to let her mouth betray her by curling up at the edges, me keeping mine shut so stupid words don’t fly out of it.

“Cute shirt!” Mazy squeals, taking it in her hands and holding it up to fully inspect it.

I order four beers while her friend has her distracted. I hand Frankie two of them, and when she reaches into her pocket for her phone, I assume to send me cash, I shake my head.

“Let me buy a cute girl a cute shirt and a drink,” I say, loud enough Mazy hears it this time. She holds her palm over her mouth and stares at her friend with wide eyes.

“I hope you know this doesn’t mean you get to be late for your shift tomorrow,” Frankie says as I walk away.

I spin around and walk backward so I can keep my eyes on her for a few more seconds. I’m going to endure two hours of country music, but the last fifteen minutes made it all worthwhile.

“Santa’s never late.” I wink, then pray she doesn’t roll her eyes and call me a cheesy loser. When she holds the lip of her beer against her mouth in a poor attempt to shield her grin, I turn back toward the crowd and scan the sea of heads in search of her brother’s blue ballcap. I spot him and weave my way through the crowd, eating my own stupid grin well before I have to face him. But I keep an eye on the cute girl in silver and blue jeans swaying her hip about a hundred yards away for the rest of the night.