by Sara Ney
I punch the elevator. “You’re being super dramatic. I take time for myself. I went out on Saturday! And I would have loved to stay and flirt with that guy, but he left, Claire. He left. Not me, him.”
She’s quiet because she knows I’m right; I sucked the wind right out of her preachy sails. She lets out a thoughtful “Hmmm” and looks to the side then back at me. “But why though? What happened before you hugged him?”
I’ve explained this to her before. The only thing I left out was him walking off—and never coming back. I told her he saw someone he knew, they started talking, and that was that.
“We were talking. I think we were flirting? He seemed uncomfortable.”
“What kind of guy is he? Outgoing, arrogant, what?”
None of those things. “Quiet? Shy but not really? Reserved.”
“And he was cool until you touched him?”
“Yes.”
Another hum. A sigh. “Well, it sounds like you either gave him a boner or scared the shit out of him. Either way, I’d say he was into you, especially if he showed up today and spilled his guts.”
“I wouldn’t call it spilling his guts. All he said was, ‘I’m Noah.’”
“So, a confession of sorts.”
“Not telling me his real name is not a crime.” I can’t help protecting him.
“Ahhh, you’re defending him now? Interesting.”
Sometimes she drives me absolutely mad, other times she’s absolutely brilliant and right now she’s both.
“Well.” I bite down on my bottom lip, thinking hard as the elevator door opens and I step out into the hall, hang a left, and walk the 40 feet to my door. “What should I do?”
“You do what every modern girl does: you send him a passive aggressive text.”
“Does it have to be passive aggressive? Why can’t I just say what’s on my mind?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“That I…wish it had been him from the start, because I think he’s great, and if he hadn’t been so immature, I would…”
Claire waits while I think then prods, “You would…?” encouraging me to finish my sentence.
“That’s it. That’s all I have.”
“Sounds like a good start to me. Now go get him, tiger—then call me back.” The last of her Bloody Mary gets chugged and she sets the glass down on her kitchen counter with a thud. “Oh, and Miranda?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be a pussy this time.”
“What? When am I ever a pu—”
—ssy.
The line goes dead.
Me: You know what, jerk—I’ve got more to say to you.
Delete. Too confrontational out of the gate. He’ll never reply to that.
Me: Hey Noah. I need to talk to you.
Delete. Guys hate when girls say they ‘need to talk.’
Me: Yo.
Delete. What am I? One of his guy friends? No.
I try one more time.
Me: Hey Noah. I’ve been thinking about our meeting all afternoon and would like to apologize for reacting the way I did. And for leaving without hearing you out.
I stare at those words, not sure what I’m actually expecting him to say, if he decides to reply at all. I know he wants those baseball cards, so if he doesn’t respond, I’ll know I’ve ruined it—for him and for me.
I go through my bedtime routine, nerves vibrating through my body, busying myself with washing my face, putting on moisturizer and clean pajamas, the entire time listening for that familiar ping from my text notifications.
Why am I so nervous? He’s buying baseball cards from me, that is all!
I pull my long hair into a ponytail. Take it out again. Topknot. Down again. Ugh!
Tossing the rubber band on the counter, I stalk back to the bedside table and check my phone, turning it to the side to see if the mute is on.
It’s not.
Dammit! It’s been 18 minutes—who takes that long to respond to a text message? Monsters, that’s who!
I stalk back to the bathroom and pull my hair back.
Ping!
Ever so casually, so as not to appear overly anxious, I count to 10. Walk into my closet and stand there, staring up at my shoes. Pull out a pair of jeans and refold them.
Take my ponytail out. Brush my hair.
Go to the toilet, pull down my bottoms, and sit, trying to pee. When that doesn’t work, I stand back up and look around the bathroom, deciding any more loitering is pointless.
I mean, I’m home alone—who am I going through this whole song and dance for?
Click off the light and go to stand next to the bed, palming my phone.
Before I open his message—assuming it’s him—I quickly give my social media a brief glance before allowing myself to finally tap on the little green messages icon at the bottom of my phone screen.
Noah: Glad to hear from you. Can you talk?
What does he mean by talk? Talk talk or text talk? I hope he explains more once I respond.
Me: Yes?
Noah: I meant is it okay for me to call?
Shit. He wants to call me? On the phone? Who even does that anymore?! This is an outrage! I won’t even pick up when my grandmother calls unless she calls twice in a row!
If you need to get ahold of me, text.
If it’s an emergency—still text.
Video chatting is fine, and easy. I can move the phone around while I continue about my business, but for some reason, it seems more involved having to listen to someone on the other line rather than watch them on a video call.
My pits begin to sweat. I won’t lie—this whole thing makes me twitchy and I lose steam. Earlier while I was on the phone with Claire, she got me all worked up and I knew what I wanted to say, how I wanted to say it—I was ready! Then he goes and throws this wrench in my plan by wanting to speak to me!
There is nothing I can say to him except: Sure.
I busy myself, fluffing my pillow on the bed, trying to be cool, so my discomfort doesn’t come through in my voice when I answer the phone.
“Hey,” I say, practicing, going so far as to lean against my nightstand, one hand propped there as if I’m at a bar using a pick-up line. “What’s up?”
Lord, I sound like Joey from Friends. How you doin’?
I clear my throat. “Miranda speaking.” Way too formal considering it’s bedtime; well, it is for me anyway. Maybe he’s a night owl.
I try again. “Hi.” Blah, why is this so hard!
I’m chastising myself when the phone rings, his name popping up on my screen since I programmed his number in—because right now, he’s the only one forking over five figures for vintage sports memorabilia. Everyone else who’s contacted me has either tried to lowball or hasn’t followed through and I don’t have time to deal with anyone who isn’t serious.
Noah is serious.
I take a deep breath and accept the call. “Hello?”
Oh, well done, me! I sound so natural and casual, as if this could be anyone calling.
“It’s Noah.” Deep and gruff, those two words.
“Hi.” Okay, that was lame.
He clears his throat, just as I did moments ago, and says, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I deadpan, feigning indifference.
“For lying.”
“It’s weird for me thinking of you as Noah right now. I’ve had—what’s your friend’s name? Buzz? In my mind since I met him.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Why didn’t you tell me when we were at Rent?” It would have been the perfect opportunity; he could have blamed alcohol. He could have blamed any number of things if he had spilled his guts and confessed right there.
Though I don’t remember his buddy coming clean either. Two liars turning me into a joke. Well ha ha, no one is laughing.
Noah is quiet and I practically hear the wheels churning in his mind as he racks his brain for an answer that won’t upset me. “I don’t know.”
Well. That’s not w
hat I was expecting him to say. Thought he’d at least say something like I thought you’d be mad or I didn’t think it would matter since we’re not friends. Or even the standard I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.
Except he knew he was going to see me because I’m selling him my stash. Was going to sell him the stash—was. Past tense.
Instead he goes with another truth: I do not know.
Hmph. What the heck do I say now?
I say nothing.
“Are you mad?” His low voice sounds a bit tired.
“Why would you care?”
I mean, seriously—I don’t even know him.
“I’m not an asshole.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, I mean…I don’t want you to think this is the kind of thing I d0—I don’t get off on embarrassing other people.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” He did, but just a little, not that I’d admit it.
“Okay.” He pauses. “Good.”
I hear the tenants in the apartment above mine flushing their toilet, one of the downsides of living in a place this old. Shiny, new high-rise apartments are nice, but not when you’re scrimping and saving every dime to start your own business.
Maybe I should move into my office and sleep under my desk… Jeez, just the thought gives me chills and not in a good way.
“If you’re calling because you thought you embarrassed me, you’re good—we are good. No worries.”
Tick, tock. The seconds go by quietly as we both decide what to say next.
“Was there anything else?” I wonder out loud, trying to urge this quiet guy into opening up. “Anything at all?”
Literally anything. Please just say something.
“What…” He stops. Groans. And I get the sense he’s struggling with his words. Maybe even at home right now, in whatever apartment he lives in—or condo, with all that money he has to burn—running a frustrated hand through his hair. Bet it’s sticking straight up, too, all wild and frantic.
I hate having to pry information out of people. If he has something to say, he shouldn’t be a pussy about it.
“Fuck. Tell me how you really feel.”
A hand flies to my mouth. “Shit. Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” Then. “Not sorry.”
We both laugh and the temperature warms a little, and I’m not talking about the temperature in my bedroom. The whole mood of the phone call shifts.
“I don’t picture you as the type of woman who curses.”
“Did you just call me a woman?” I smile.
“You’re not a girl, so what am I supposed to call you? Young lady?”
That sounds weird. “I don’t know. You probably could have just left that part out completely.”
We laugh again and I bite down on my bottom lip as I climb into bed and pull the comforter up over my lower half. Settling in, hoping for a long phone call. I’m bored, and lonely, and attracted to Noah.
Not the Buzz Noah—Noah Noah.
“You’re a sassy little thing—you weren’t this sarcastic this past weekend.”
“I was nervous this past weekend.”
“Nervous about what?”
I fiddle with the square corner of my white sheets, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. “Why do you think I was nervous?”
I mentally face-palm myself. Don’t be that girl Miranda! Guys hate guessing games and here you are sending him on a merry chase that’s going to end up going nowhere.
Well done.
“I…uh, have no idea. Too many people at the club?”
“It’s Chicago—every club has too many people.” Curious, I wonder, “Do you go out downtown very often? I remember you mentioning that you don’t live there.”
“I don’t. And no, I don’t usually. Sometimes? I don’t know, it depends. I have to be dragged out.”
“Did they have to drag you out on Saturday or did you go willingly?”
“Did you?” Noah bounces the question back into my court.
“No. I don’t think you met my friends Claire and Emily, but they live for the weekends.”
“And you don’t.” He seems to have a habit of making questions sound like statements. Matter-of-fact. Punctuated.
I like it.
“No. I’m a Monday kind of girl. I feel really unproductive on the weekends. How about you?” I’d twirl the cord of this phone if it had one like the phones did when I was younger before my parents let me have a cell phone. I would have to use the one in the kitchen so they could hear what I was talking about, and those times I talked to boys, I would wind that phone cord around and around until my mother couldn’t stand it anymore and gave me the universal sign for Cut it out!
Twirling cords. Flirty laughing. Nervous giggling.
“I had to be dragged out, too. I’m not a fan of crowds. My place has it all, so what reason do I have to leave?”
“So you live in one of those complexes with a pool and gym?” Must be nice.
Noah is silent. Then, “You could say that.”
That’s a weird way of putting it, but I’m quickly learning he is a man of few words.
Man. Woman.
That is how he sees us, not as a boy and a girl.
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you. Claire’s half-drunken words of wisdom echo in my head.
How the hell do I find out if he likes me or not? I can’t come out and ask the poor guy—he’d probably hang up on me the same way he bolted at the stupid club!And he is impossible to read!
If only he’d taken off his sunglasses during our conversation today. Then maybe it would have been easier to tell.
Or not.
He had one hell of a poker face.
“You’re not very talkative are you?” I finally ask him, the art of conversation and being polite more fleeting with every passing, awkward second.
“Not really.”
“So then…why did you call to clear the air if you don’t have anything to say?”
I want to bang my head against the table—he is giving me banter blue balls! First rule of thumb when trying to get into a girl’s pants: excel at witty repartee. Second rule: don’t leave a girl hanging by not asking a follow-up question.
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.
There you go again, Miranda, letting Claire get inside your head.
“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be completely honest. I’m not going to fault you for it, in fact, it could work in your favor.”
“Okay.”
“Are you only calling me because you want me to sell you the rest of my card collection and you’re afraid if you don’t kiss my ass, I’ll sell it to someone else?”
The line is just as quiet as it was before as he considers his answer. “That would seem like the most likely scenario, wouldn’t it?” he comments. “But no, that’s not the main reason.”
“What is the main reason?”
He walked right into that one, except—he doesn’t give me the answer I’m looking for. He doesn’t give me an answer at all.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
This is like pulling teeth.
“You’re right—I shouldn’t have called.”
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.
“It’s not a bad thing that you called, it’s just confusing. But whatever, it’s okay. I…” I clear my throat and brace myself. “I just want you to know that I wish…”
His “Yeah?” isn’t more than a whisper, and I shiver.
“I wish…” I can’t say it. The words get lodged in my throat, too chickenshit to come all the way out.
“You wish what?” More whispers.
Why can’t I say it? It would be so easy to throw it all out there and never have to see him again!
“I wish Buzz had been you. I
wish it had been the real you who came and bought the card that first day.” I stare up at the ceiling with its water-stained corners and crack at the center near the light. “I wish it had been you.”
“Why?” His voice cracks.
“It hardly matters now, right?”
9
Noah
I wish it had been you.
I wish.
It had.
Been you.
No one has ever wished me into any kind of daydream before, and to be honest, I’m not fucking sure what Miranda meant by it, because she wouldn’t explain.
After a few more awkward seconds on the phone, she abruptly ended the call the same way I abruptly ended our hug at the club, disconnecting without even saying goodbye.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
Click.
I stared at my phone for a good long minute, debating about calling her back, not wanting to feel the rejection if she refused to pick up. Wanting to text, but not knowing what the hell to say.
I shift my stance and adjust the batting helmet stuck on my skull, eyeballing the pitching machine on the mound in the center of the red dirt field. Our coach stands next to it and I know he’s gauging my readiness for the pitch.
He waits and watches until finally, I give a curt nod.
Whoosh.
Snap.
The ball and bat connect at the sweet spot, five inches into the wood, the combination causing a ripple of momentary stinging in my forearms before sending that leather orb into space.
I raise the brim of my red helmet to watch it soar.
“Nice.” Coach’s nod is one of approval, and as the ball is fielded, I ready my stance again, flexing and tightening my arms to ease out the vibrations. “Ready?”
Another nod from me, another ball torpedoing my way, another base hit from my bat.
I am on fire today, thank fucking God. Our first game is days away and my second season has to be a good one. I have no intention of leading this team down the tubes instead of to the pennant.
I bat. Then give up my spot at home to someone else, in favor of the cages.
Wallace is there, throwing with the assistant fielding coach. He looks over at me, pulling his arm back before letting the ball fly, “Thought you were going to biff it out there.”
