by Tamar Sloan
I snort, a very unladylike sound, and look up quickly to find Noah grinning, right there with me.
I return to the sheet. My finger quickly runs down the dot points. Back in the realm of hard science, I feel like I’m regaining some equilibrium. “We’ve covered predator prey relationships in the food web?”
Noah hits the keyboard with a flourish. “Slide three.” He announces like he gave birth to it himself.
“Okay, what about symbiosis?”
“Symbiosis.” I glance up at Noah’s echo. Something in his rich voice reaches out and grasps my attention. “A close, and often long-term, relationship where both individuals benefit.” Somehow he manages to make the scientific term sound appealing…seductive. I feel my blood start to pulse in an infinite number of places. My cheeks. My fingertips. My lips.
And just like that I’m catapulted off center again. I swallow. My throat feels raspy and thick. I try to muster up some saliva to soothe its parched surface before I make an attempt at a verbal response.
The realm of hard science. The realm of hard science. A quick ahem and I’m under control. I think. “For the example, I think we should go with the relationship between the conifers, pine drops, and fungi. It’s a fairly recent research project undertaken in the reserve.” I sound a little hoarse and I hope it isn’t noticeable.
Noah coughs a little. “Yeah, the pine drops…” He blinks at the screen, then quickly types in a few words.
We spend some time sorting out the definitions and examples, with no more serious distractions. We discuss and debate the order, key points, and best images for the presentation. Noah is sitting back, feet propped up on the bed, computer on his lap. The passage of time sees me slowly relax until I’m sitting cross-legged almost, but not quite, in the center of the bed. Books and sheets are spread around me like a papery pinafore. Probably the closest I’ll ever get to that feminine apparel.
I’m feeling so relaxed that I decide to venture a little further than the safe margins of hard science. “So why do you need to keep your GPA up?” Although, seeing Noah in action, his obvious knowledge of the reserve, his ability to assimilate our research into a coherent whole, shows an intelligent, capable guy. I doubt he’s ever struggled in biology.
My comment seems to spur another of those moments where he blinds me with his smile. I almost want to rub my eyes. “I’m applying to do criminal justice at Wyoming State.” He leans back, his arms folded behind his head. “It’s a family tradition.”
My mind briefly flashes to the application for early entry into veterinary science that slid into the postbox this morning — at Wyoming State. It’s not my first choice, but my mother insisted. Ironic, because it’s thanks to her that I would never consider it. One hour away is too close.
“So Mitch will too?”
Noah’s smile dims a little, his lips moving down infinitesimally, his eyes losing a little of their pride. He returns to his earlier position, leaning forward, long fingers on his keyboard. “Yeah, probably.” It’s the first guarded, indirect answer I’ve had from Noah. “What about you? You always wanted to be a vet?” As a deflector from way back, I recognize the strategy. But I’m too insecure to dig deeper.
“Yeah. That whole natural ability with animals thing.”
Noah grunts, acknowledging my understatement. He types a few more words. “Ah, that should be a good one.”
He moves from his chair to perch on the edge of the bed. I scoot over, under the pretense of making some room, when my real aim is to gain some necessary distance. He passes me the laptop, pointing at an image he’s had pasted on the slide. It’s a picture of me, smiling slightly, squatting besides Jeremiah. I’m pointing at something in the distance as he stares at the mountainous vista with rapt attention. Noah must have taken it on our walk. That photo is not going in the presentation. Beside me Stash sits up, folded ears perked up. I open my mouth to object.
Downstairs the front door opens and closes, and Mitch’s voice skips up the stairs. Stash lets out an excited bark and launches off the bed in a single leap. His jet-propelled body vaults through Noah as if he doesn’t pose a barrier. And he doesn’t, he’s unceremoniously bowled backwards from the bed. Stash streaks from the room without a second glance.
Noah is nowhere to be seen.
I scramble to the edge of the bed, heedless of the paper crinkling beneath my knees, and peer over. Noah is lying on the ground, eyes staring at the ceiling in shock. He blinks several times. The humor of the situation hits me like a seventy-pound Lab and a giggle slips through my lips. The sound draws Noah’s bemused gaze to mine. And I can’t help it. The laughter bursts through like…like a seventy-pound Lab. It bounds and bounces around the room, the sound welcome but alien. Noah joins me, our laughter merging and mushrooming. Stash’s enthusiastic disregard for human safety, Noah’s involuntary gymnastics down to the floor, and his comically stunned expression has me laughing hard. So hard my sides hurt, my eyes water and my joints go weak.
Suddenly their crumbling strength gives out and the next moment I’m falling. Falling over the edge of the bed, straight toward Noah. Noah’s eyes widen as he registers my trajectory. With split-second reflexes, his arms shoot out and grasp my waist as I gracelessly tumble, straight on top of him.
My head bumps his chin as my chest crashes into his. My legs follow in a tangled mess. His strong arms break the fall, then still just above my hips. In a moment of klutzy weakness I’ve gone from avoiding all and any physical contact, to undiluted and absolute full-frame collision. My body, with the aid of gravity and its own treacherous yearning, molds every inch to the hard muscle beneath me. It’s overwhelming.
And amazing.
I raise my head and look down at Noah, and I know his face matches mine. Wide eyes, warm cheeks, bewildered lips. That connecting attraction no longer coils and loops, instead it snaps taut, like two pieces of a puzzle have just clicked into place. Beneath my hands his chest is blazing hot. It matches the heat starting behind my ear, spreading across my scalp and sprinting down my spine. My eyes travel to his eyes. Nose. Lips. Curiosity and longing, feelings I’ve never experienced before, blossom. I’m torn between the desire to explore those soft-firm ridges and the urge to snuggle into the comforting sense of belonging that radiates with the force of the sun. And the urge to run for the hills, as fast as my long-legged stride can take me.
Because I’m scared. I know with a certainty born of self-preservation that Noah is penetrating the impenetrable…breaching the unbreachable…accessing the inaccessible. It’s paralyzing, petrifying, and downright exhilarating. And therein lies the problem. There’s a part of me that’s standing on the other side, aiding and abetting in the destruction of my own protective armor. She’s not heeding the alarm bells, tolling the dangers of being left exposed and vulnerable.
Heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, thrusting me back to reality. There’s no time to sort through the confused jumble in my head. I scramble off Noah and back onto the bed. I look up to see Mitch standing at the door, mouth snapping shut like he was about to say something and has just changed his mind, the remnants of a smile falling from his face. He looks from me to Noah, who is picking himself up from the floor.
Noah dusts himself off. “Stash just knocked me off the bed because you came home.” He points at Mitch as he makes the statement.
Mitch shrugs, not deigning to defend himself. He once again glances between the two of us. I feel like I’ve been judged by a disapproving parent. Although it’s a familiar feeling, Mitch had seemed so open and welcoming. Quick as a flash, a succinct list of my most obvious flaws scrolls through my head. They easily explain why Mitch would veto whatever it is he just saw.
“How’s the study going?” Mitch’s arms come up to cross his chest.
Noah narrows his eyes at him. “Great.”
A strained silence begins to stretch out as matching blue eyes engage in some sort of battle of wills. But this game of tug-of-war appears well matched. As the
seconds draw out, I wonder who will win, or whether the taut stillness will simply snap under the weight of their silent communication. I shift uncomfortably, desperately hoping I’m not the reason for the unspoken argument. Mitch sighs, almost sounding resigned. “I’m gonna head into the garage. I’ll see you at dinner. Bye, Eden.”
I want to sigh myself. “Seeya, Mitch.” At least this time around it took a couple of weeks before I inadvertently got on someone’s bad side.
“Right, where were we?” I like Noah’s train of thought. Back to business. And just like that we focus again on my reason for being here. Not to experience unfamiliar stirring emotions. Not to cause conflict between twin brothers. Not to laugh like no one is watching. Certainly not to feel hope.
We throw ourselves into the virtual world of the reserve’s food webs and chains. We debate and discuss the structure of each sentence, the best font and format, the placement of commas. Progressively we boil down information to dot points; headings are diced and shaped; a garnish of images are strategically placed— excluding any that feature me. Together we create a darned fine presentation.
Our creative flow is interrupted by Beth’s voice as she comes up the stairs. “Noah, dinner will be ready soon.”
Oh my goodness, it’s that time already. I glance at my watch and realize we’ve been so absorbed in the assignment I’d lost track of time. I sit back; our heads had almost been touching as we leant over the laptop, creating the PowerPoint slide by slide.
Beth stands at the door, a tea towel in her hands. “Eden, great, you’re still here. You’ll be staying for dinner?” The question-that’s-more-of-a-statement takes me off guard.
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Great idea, Mom.” Noah sits back, looking satisfied. I’m not sure whether it’s with the PowerPoint or his mother’s suggestion.
“I couldn’t.” I’m blushing again. It was nice to have had a break for a little while.
“Nonsense. I always make extra with a house full of hungry males to feed.”
“Eden’s a vegetarian, Mom.”
Beth’s eyes widen slightly, the edges becoming imperceptibly rounder. “Oh.” Why do I keep getting this reaction to the vegetarianism thing? Luckily I’m still blushing, otherwise I would have gone again.
“Really, I have dinner waiting for me at home.” By this time it will be the old faithful peanut butter sandwich.
“I won’t hear of it. I’ll just whip up something on the side.” And she’s gone.
“I really don’t want to be a bother.” I place one-tonne emphasis on the second word.
Noah doesn’t look fazed in the least. “Humor her. She loves to nurture.” A flash of frown streaks across his brow. “Just keep that in mind when she serves up.” And the smile is back.
I throw my hands over my face and groan. “Aren’t I supposed to ignore Phelans?” I groan again; I doubt Mitch is going to be pleased to see me at the dinner table.
“Only the men.” He reminds me. “Do you need to call your mom?”
And tell her what? That I won’t be in our empty house this evening? “I’ll just text her.” I pull my phone out and pretend to type.
Mitch’s broad shoulders and dark hair fills the doorway. He glances at the open laptop and papers strewn about. “You guys done?” There’s only a hairsbreadth pause as he waits for a response. “Excellent.” He comes in and perches on the edge of the bed. I shuffle across, unsure of this friendly demeanor.
Noah leans back in his chair, linking his fingers across his abdomen. I studiously avoid glancing at his biceps, the long fingers resting on his flat stomach. “How’s the present going?”
Mitch huffs. “Stupid timber split. I’m going to have to start that whole section again.”
“Bummer.”
Mitch shrugs and turns to me. “Eden, Tara said to say, and I quote, ‘Soz about the popcorn. Raincheck?’”
Sounds like Tara. Although it’s her fault I’m trapped in this uncomfortable, strangely invigorating situation. “Tell her it’s fine.”
Mitch gives me a small salute. “The good news is, I’ve downloaded a new track!”
Noah groans, and it’s a drawn out, long-suffering sound. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?
Mitch takes himself over to the small stereo sitting on a shelf above Noah’s desk. He plugs in his MP3 player. Within seconds techno beats thump through the bedroom, followed by hoarse harsh screams. It sounds like someone is violently vomiting on a microphone.
“That’s horrible.” The truth escapes before I have a second to think. Then cringe, expecting the worst.
Noah bursts out laughing. Mitch turns down the awful, beat-driven screaming, shrugging. “No one appreciates true art nowadays.”
“Mitch, turn off that hideous excuse for music and come down to dinner.” Adam’s voice booms up the stairway.
Mitch huffs again, but complies. Noah breathes a sigh of relief, sending me a conspiratorial look. I can’t help but smile back.
I quickly pack up my books and follow Mitch and Noah out the door and down the stairs. Partway down Mitch stops and spins back to Noah. We all halt. I instantly pull myself backward, having almost collided with Noah. I’m still reeling, tingling from our earlier contact.
“Have you told her?” Mitch is looking at Noah, eyebrows raised.
“Ah…no.” Another meaningful glance passes between the two. What now? I shift from one foot to another. Should I ask? Do I want to know?
Mitch shrugs. “Well, it’s the ultimate Phelan test…” I don’t like the sound of that. I already feel like I’ve run multiple gauntlets. He throws me a smile from his place several steps below me. I think it’s meant to be reassuring.
In the dining room that adjoins the lounge room, five plates wait around a large wooden table, this one made from a dark brown timber. I hold back, unsure of what I do here. Adam sits at the head, with Beth on his right and Mitch beside her. Noah takes the seat on the left, leaving me the seat next to his. I pull out the matching timber chair and sit. Noah flashes me a grin. I’m too nervous to smile back.
I look down at the plate in front of me where a meal is already waiting. And pause for long seconds.
12
Noah
Most of my mother’s meals look like a hiking boot has been dismembered, tortured then burned to destroy the evidence. Today, the laces have been arranged to look like greyish beans, the leather upper has been battered to make an odd-colored potato mash, and the sole has been brutalized into a steak. Eden is extra lucky as she got eggplant, its previously thick chunks reduced to a charred carcass.
Eden takes long moments to comprehend the carnage served on my grandmother’s delicate china. I cringe. I should have warned her. What’s worse, my mother is looking at her, hands clasped hopefully.
She looks up, eyes wide and honest. Uh-oh. “It’s been a long time since anyone has cooked me eggplant, Mrs. Phelan. I really appreciate the effort you’ve gone to.”
My mother blushes at the sincerity in Eden’s clear voice. “Beth, please. I’m glad you like it. I haven’t cooked it before, so I wasn’t sure if it was overdone.”
I glance at Mitch, and he shrugs. She meant it. A few more threads weave together, slowly winding to form the rich tapestry that is Eden. Eden’s dark, front porch, the absent reply to the text, the perpetual peanut butter sandwiches. I suspect Eden’s mom may not be up for any mother-of-the-year awards. And here I was thinking I had to unravel the mysteries of this girl.
“It looks just right.” Her warm smile barely trips when she crunches into the eggplant’s blistered remains.
And she just scored more brownie points with my dad. According to him, anyone that survives my mother’s cooking is praiseworthy. Anyone that appreciates its unique contribution to the culinary world is extraordinary, and deserves a special place at the Phelan table.
Mum puts down her fork, looking at everyone around the table. “Now, Eden. We have a Phelan dinner tradition we
do every week.”
I groan, and Mitch echoes the sound. I lean over to Eden and stage whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Noah.” Mom’s eyebrows are fitted in a stern line. Eden smiles politely, but has that guarded look of hers I’m getting to know. I want to assure her that what’s coming next is not nearly as bad as the meal she’s having to consume.
“So, I throw out a conversation starter, and everyone has to contribute. It’s always a bit of fun.” My mother’s eyebrows shoot back up now that she’s smiling happily again.
This one I should have warned Eden about. I swear my mother trawls the net for ideas on this. We’ve been doing it since Mitch and I could barely speak. Then again, Eden wasn’t real keen to be here in the first place. If she’d known about the quality of the food, or the prompted dinner conversation, she would have hightailed it for the hills before I could give Stash the command to search.
“Okay. If animals could talk, which would be the most fun to talk to and why?” My mother throws out the line like a consummate fisherman.
Dad looks thoughtful, rubbing his forefinger across his bottom lip. “Good one, love.” I roll my eyes; that’s one interpretation. He clicks his fingers triumphantly. “The fly on the wall!”
Okay, I’ll give him that one. Eden’s lips twitch in that almost-smile of hers. I keep waiting for it to breach its shackles and finally break free again. Her laughter from earlier is still singing in my ears.
I come up with one of my own. “A kangaroo, purely for the accent.” My mother’s tinkling laugh glitters across the table. Eden’s smile is slowly blossoming. It’s an amazing sight.
Mitch arches a brow. “A fox.” We all turn to him quizzically. “Then I’d know what the fox says.” The younger generation chuckle at the reference to the popular song. The two oldies at the table maintain their confused expressions.
