Okay, it was basically a suicide note—or anyway, it had been deemed that by the family-court judge when the text was shown to him later—after Noah showed it to my dad—which he did after he called 9-1-1.
Mom had sent the disturbing message to Noah, only because she had been blocked by my dad and his new wife—Noah’s mom. But Noah hadn’t blocked my mom, even though my dad had filed a restraining order against her, saying she was ‘harassing’ him and his new wife—again, Noah’s mom.
Even though my mom had in no way put my life in any sort of jeopardy, the judge still thought it would be best—and for my ‘safety’—to place me in my father’s custody. The fact that Mom went against the restraining order was sighted as the main cause—but it was obvious the judge saw the text that she sent Noah as a dangerous possibility that he was not willing to risk.
So, off to my dad’s house I was sent. Unwillingly.
When my dad brought me “home” from the airport that night, there was a “family” dinner waiting for me. It smelled so good. And Noah and his mom—Beth—tried so hard to make me feel welcomed, but … no way. They’d just ripped me away from my mom. And ripped out her heart. No way was I going to let them into mine. I wasn’t going to let them anywhere near it.
“Noah made the dinner,” Beth told me proudly, gesturing toward the beautifully set table I could see from the entry foyer where we were still all standing. “I set the table,” she said, “but he insisted on cooking. I was going to make you Chicken Parmesan—I’m famous for my Chicken Parmesan. But Noah insisted on Lasagna.”
Dad smiled at me, “Lasagna is your favorite, right honey?”
I choked out, “It used to be.”
Until right this second.
Beth went on with a huge (fake) smile, as though I had said, Yes, oh yes daddy, lasagna is my favorite! She explained that Noah had been on a ‘lasagna kick’ for months. “It’s the only thing he knows how to cook,” she laughed. “But he’s got it down to a science. Perfected it. You’re in for a treat.”
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” I wrapped my arms around my stomach. “I feel sick.”
And it wasn’t a lie. I did feel sick. Sick that Noah—the boy I had never actually met, but had detested with all my heart for the last four years—had made me dinner. And that he was so handsome. And seemed so nice. Yet he had called 9-1-1 and sent the police to my house. It was because of him that I was forced to leave my mom.
Well him, and these two other people. These two happy, smiling people—that had ruined my life. Gotten together, and destroyed our family. And turned my mom into a bitter psychopath at strange, unexpected times. Changed her and made her bitter—yet successful. Overly driven. Sometimes insane.
It was their fault.
“Can I—just go to my room?” I asked, and then went—without their permission.
Upstairs, I stared. My room was the same. Exactly as I left it when I moved out with Mom the night Dad announced that he wanted a divorce. They hadn’t changed a thing.
Noah quietly brought up my suitcase. He had slowly followed me up the stairs—not saying a word. Just following.
“They left it for you to decorate,” he said as I just stared emotionally at my unchanged room, memories flooding through me.
Everything else had changed—but not my room.
I think Noah could see the tears welling in my eyes. He shot me the tiniest look and then softly said, “The lasagna will be in the fridge—if you want to eat it later. Alone.”
That was all he said. Yet he said it so soft. So gentle. Like he understood what was in my heart. And he felt sorry for me.
CHAPTER 12
In the middle of the night, Noah caught me in the kitchen inhaling his lasagna. He’d been sneaking a girl out of his room, but he grinned when he caught me, looking incredibly pleased and teasing, “It’s pretty good, huh?”
I’d had my mouth full of lasagna. And wanted to die. One, because it was so awesomely good that it seemed I was in heaven. And two, because I was embarrassed—caught scarfing his lasagna that I had made a point to pass on.
His snuck girl looked shocked and confused to see me in the kitchen—with the lights off—but at the same time, equally seduced by the lasagna I was scarfing right out of the serving pan.
“Mmm, lasagna,” she said, gazing up at Noah all eager and hungry-like. “I love lasagna—it’s my favorite. Can I have some?”
He kissed her forehead gently. “No, that’s for my stepsister,” he murmured.
Then he kissed her sooo softly on her lips I almost moaned. “But I’ll make you lasagna sometime, okay?” he promised her. “It’s the one and only meal I can make,” he murmured softly against her mouth.
I was going to gag. (Well, not really, I was strangely a bit jealous and turned on by his gentle kisses.) But the situation was beyond humiliating. I bolted away from them and to my room without a word—but I took the lasagna with me.
CHAPTER 13
I didn’t see much of Noah after that first night. I hadn’t started school yet, and he was busy with school and work and hockey practice—and girls. Lots of girls. I would hear him FaceTime with them, and sneak them into his room at night. I would fantasize that it was me he was kissing … it was disturbing.
But I hardly saw him.
If we randomly chanced to meet—like in the hallway, or wherever—he was always super friendly and sweet. But I would grumble and growl and try to say mean things. It just made him raise his eyebrows and kind of chuckle—like I was a cute little kid and I highly entertained him with my adorable childishness.
Yeah. It was loads of fun.
Anyway, we didn’t really have any sort of direct interaction until the day he helped me unwind the cords for the twinkly lights in the gym. That day he’d been so nice. And patient. And stopped to help me, even though he was late, and I’d done nothing but treat him like a royal witch.
I was so bummed when Bianca came into the gym and blew the strange connection Noah and I had seemed to be making … though, admittedly, it had been fun to see Bianca so incredibly pissed off. And jealous. (Yes, she’d been jealous.) (Of us unwinding lights.) (Ha!)
Later though I felt like a traitor—swooning over Noah.
Yet, I couldn’t get dreams of kissing him out my head.
CHAPTER 14
Obviously, tonight at work didn’t help me shake my dreams of Noah’s kiss. You know, since he kissed me. Hot and hard and mmmm. Now it has me seeing stars and unable to concentrate. I keep dropping things. (Not good at a restaurant.)
Once I get off work, I pace around my room feeling tingly and dazed.
It’s been over twenty minutes, and I’m still pacing.
Finally, I sit at my computer and check my pathetic blog. (Hey, I’ve been living under a rock. This coming out of it hurts and I need my computer buddy.)
One message.
From IDespiseSonny123: ‘I have a joke for you, SonnyGirl. It’s about the band, Sonny and the Locks, since you love them so much.’
I read the joke. It’s funny and I can’t help laughing. But I post in response: ‘I admit that was funny, BUT I don’t love Sonny and the Locks anymore. I haven’t loved them since middle school—I keep telling you that.’
‘But you lie,’ instantly comes back the reply. ‘I bet you sing them in the shower.’
My stomach loops—for two reasons. One, my dear, faithful follower and I are not usually on the computer at the same time. Our messages are never, ever real-time. So … this is new; and 2) I DO sing Sonny and the Locks songs in the shower—sometimes. (Well, okay, all the time.)
So, you know, I feel a little thrill go through me that he knows me so well. Or thinks he does. (Man, I hope he’s a boy!)
‘I bet you sing them in the shower,’ I post back—totally just teasing, since he has always—always (for the past three years now)—said how much he hates my once favorite band. ‘I bet you sing them in the shower at the top of your lungs—off-key, but quite me
rrily.’
‘Aw, you got me. Yeah, I’m a secret Sonny and the Locks shower-singer … just like you.’ Then he adds, ‘(Only, I bet it’s really true with you.)’
I lie, just for fun: ‘Ohhh—my friend, you would sooo lose that bet. I am now all about the band, Bite. Bite rules.’
‘You say that—but do you sing them in the shower? HUM them when you take out the garbage?’
Me: ‘I’ll have you know, I don’t take out the garbage anymore. I have a stepbrother now. He does that.’
IDespiseSonny123: ‘Do you still hate him?’
A jolt goes through me.
I stare at the words feeling … jolted.
I forgot I had mentioned Noah to my once one and only friend (yet total stranger).
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know. He’s not … horrible,’ I finally tell him/her/seventy-year-old-stranger.
I add quickly because I feel weird having told this stranger so much about me—this person that may be a crazy old man that fantasizes about me in the SHOWER: ‘I have to go now. Bye.’
I don’t wait for his reply. I log-off and go back to pacing.
CHAPTER 15
Of course last night I got zero sleep. Again. Because of Noah’s kiss. Again.
I shut off my alarm and groan, then text Noah, because as much as I enjoyed his hot, fake, yummy kisses I’m obviously not equipped to deal with them. They keep me up nights and I need my sleep.
So, I text Noah: ‘No more fake kisses. Or sniffs. What I mean is—‘The Spencer Re-group’ is a No Go.’
Noah texts back almost immediately: ‘Aw, why?’
Me: ‘Because it’s weird, weirdo.’
Noah: ‘Bummer. But okay. You know best, sis.’
Which is kind of funny—him calling me ‘sis’ right after he asks why we shouldn’t kiss. But he did it on purpose. He likes to be ironic.
Teasingly sardonic—that’s Noah.
With a yawn, I roll out of bed and start doing my hurried, harried routine of getting ready for school. As I’m standing at my bedroom mirror in only my bra and underwear, brushing out my getting way too long hair, there’s a sudden knock at my door. It wakes me from my morning daze, but before I can protest, Noah comes breezing into my room.
He was in the midst of saying something playful, but stops abruptly and freezes in the doorway when he sees me and what I’m wearing—or more to the point, what I’m not wearing.
With a whoosh of breath, he swallows hard. His eyes involuntarily scan my body, like he doesn’t want them to, but they just do it. His lips form an ‘O.’
Shockingly, for once he’s the one to be flushed. He winces. “Sorry,” he murmurs. Immediately, he leaves my room, shutting my door behind him with a purposeful click and a loud groan.
I tilt my head, staring at my now closed door, confused by Noah’s reaction. Sure, the moment had been awkward, quite embarrassing actually—for me—but he was the one that turned red. Why??? It didn’t really seem like that big of a deal. I mean, was it?
It’s not like I was completely naked or anything, I try telling myself, to attempt, you know, to not have a heart attack. I mean, Noah saw me in my underwear!!!!
Embarrassing!
Once I’m finally ready for school, I find Noah in the kitchen. He keeps his eyes glued on his cell phone activity, determinedly not looking up at me as I hesitantly enter the room.
For a moment I almost decide he must not notice me, but then—“Sorry about that,” he mutters softly, still fixated on his phone.
He’s obviously referring to the underwear incident. Duh.
I tilt my head at him, feeling … I don’t know. His reaction is curious. Usually he’s so playful. The embarrassing ‘incident’ seems like something he would endlessly tease my about, but he hasn’t even looked at me since he left my room.
Just shoot me—please.
I mean, he’s purposefully not looking at me. And still not teasing me.
It’s beyond awkward.
And weird.
Just to kind of ease the tension I stammer out in an annoyingly shy murmur, “Sorry. I locked the door, but I—I guess it didn’t latch.”
Noah grins weakly, still not looking at me. His eyebrows go up even as his eyes stay fixed on his phone. “You’re apologizing to me?”
“Well,” I wave my hand, like ‘whatever,’ “—no big deal.”
His weak grin quirks with amusement, “Trust me, it was a big deal.”
I go up in flames. “Well, not to me.”
His lips quirk. “Obviously.”
I moan, “Okay, just stop it. It was nothing. Your girlfriends wear more than that to the beach.”
He peeks up at me. “Maybe … but it’s not the same thing, Peyton.” He glances my way a second, then with a groan, back to his phone. “Make sure the door is latched from now on—check it a bunch of times. And get a second lock.”
“Oh, believe me, I will—creeper.”
“Good,” he says with an amused grin. He finally clicks off his phone. “Now that that’s settled, I’m going to school.” He gives me a tiny glance. “Do you need a ride?”
“No-o”—he’s never offered before, what with his ‘groupies’ and mouth-action needs, a ‘sister’ would get in the way. I shake my head, “I told you, we’re not doing the fake-relationship thing.”
“R—ight. Okay.” He grins, “Just checking.”
He actually seems relieved.
Flattering.
(Very not!!!!)
CHAPTER 16
It kind of pisses me off—that suddenly Noah is all relieved to not be my fake … well, whatever he had planned to be my fake-thing of.
I’m so gross in my underwear??—jerk! (I’m not gross, by the way—I’m a cheerleader.)
He’s a moron.
I grumble, “So stupid.”
“Who’s stupid?” Summer asks, looking back at me with a curious amused smile.
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud—and Summer seems to know it. I do a mental face palm anyway.
We’re not even to school yet and already this day is so full of suck that I could actually just call it a day and go back to bed. Or barf. Both would be preferable to going to school and having to face Underwear Witnessed Noah. (As probably noted: I spend a lot of time not wanting to face Noah … and just as much time fantasizing about him.) (Strange, right?)
Right now Summer and I are riding in this guy from school’s car. It’s a nice car.
Summer is riding shotgun, of course. Therefore, the guy is having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. Little does he know, Summer doesn’t even know his name. She’s just in between boyfriends and doesn’t have a car. So, he’s her car. That’s it. Our ride to school … today.
Tomorrow, who knows who will be her car? She’s an equal opportunity car owner, for the most part, though really she doesn’t like to ride in the same car twice. Well, it seems. Anyway, she enjoys new drivers. (And I’m not even really speaking metaphorically.) What I’m saying is—she uses guys for rides … yet seldom gives them the privilege of kissing her for it—their only benefit is having her in their car. Yet they do it willingly. Eagerly even.
I reply to Summer’s amused question with a sigh. “Just this guy,” I tell her evasively. Then give her an answer that I know will satisfy her on many levels, “Well, all guys really—they’re all stupid.”
“Here, here!” Summer woots with a playful laugh, turning up the radio in agreement.
The Car clears his throat good-naturedly, “Surely you don’t mean all guys.”
“All but you,” I tell him, handing him a Spencer-cupcake.
“Good answer,” he murmurs, shoving the cupcake in his mouth.
(Actually, boys are pretty easy to please.)
When we get to school, I scout out Spencer, wanting to find him before I have no cupcakes left to give him. (I’m pretty free with my cupcakes.)
I pass Noah in the halls as I’m searching for Spencer. He’s talking all intimat
e and dirty (probably) with this girl that is dressed like a prostitute, pretty much. He glances my way, then quickly back to the girl. Without giving me a second look, he steals one of my cupcakes as I pass him.
When I finally find and give Spencer his cupcakes, he seems ultra-pleased. Which is, you know, satisfying. But then he glances at me cautiously, like he’s slightly worried that he’s not up on the situation with us. He cocks his head. “What was up with Noah yesterday?—with that kiss he put on you, and then his remark to me right after—about his text?”
Real subtle, Noah.
Groan!
Spencer looks genuinely bewildered. For good reason.
I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him, yet can’t help a little laugh from the craziness of the whole thing. “Don’t worry about it—Noah is funny. But his jokes are sometimes baffling.”
Spencer nods slightly. “Right. Baffling.”
He murmurs it right as Aspen sidles up to him, nuzzling her face in his chest. At the same time, she’s giving me an extremely dirty look, like my giving Spencer cupcakes and touching his shoulder had been shady and highly inappropriate. Hmmm, was it??? I’m really not up on the etiquette of boy-girl high school interaction. Like, what’s acceptable ‘just friends’ stuff, and what you should never, ever do to another girl’s boyfriend.
Was touching Spencer’s arm unacceptable?? Aspen seems to think so. If not inappropriate, then at the very least extremely unappreciated—by her.
“Um, sorry,” I choke out to Aspen awkwardly. Then yelp to Spencer, “’bye.”
As I scurry away, I run into Noah who is leaning against some lockers and had obviously been observing my interaction with Spencer—and Aspen.
He squints his eyes, still watching them off in the distance. Then ducks his head and groans, “See, I feel like I caused that.”
I’m sure the situation looked way different to him than what actually took place. What he saw was me giving Spencer my cupcakes (which could perhaps be misinterpreted as my heart) (I mean, if you’d heard a fake phone call where I gushed on and on about how much I love Spencer). Then he saw me make my lame move on Spencer (touching his arm), then Aspen dashed all my girly dreams by snuggling up to Spencer and I ran away all heart broken. (Though in reality I was just CONFUSED!!!)
Want To Hate You ... Too Bad I Love You Page 5
