by M. Leighton
I let out a hiss of breath, frustrated. “Look, Noah. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not good at this.”
“Good at what?”
“This.” I paddle my hand back and forth between us. “This is Simone’s thing. The smooth talk, the ready answer, the perfect laugh. I’m just…” I sigh, this time resigned, propping my elbows on the table and dropping my forehead into my open hands. “I’m just not like that. I’m just…me.”
“’Just me’? Poppy, I like you. I like ‘just me’. I didn’t ask you here for smooth talk or a perfect laugh. I want you to laugh if something is funny, not because you think it’s the appropriate thing to do. I asked you here because I like you and I wanted to spend time with you. Even if we don’t talk.”
At that, I raise my head. “Why would you bring me to dinner and then not expect to talk?”
It’s his turn to shrug, his broad shoulders rising slightly. “I don’t want you to say things just to say them. If you have something to say, say it. If you don’t, I’m okay with the quiet.”
That makes no sense to me, of course. Aren’t dates about getting to know the other person? Isn’t that sort of the whole point?
“But how will we ever get to know each other then?”
“We will. In time. There’s no reason to force it. Or rush it. Just be yourself. And I’ll be mine.”
I stare at him, gape-mouthed. I can’t help it. There’s nothing else I can think to say or do. I’m officially flummoxed. He brought me on a date and didn’t expect to talk. I don’t even know how to respond to that.
It must be fairly obvious, too, because, much to my surprise—and the utter delight of my ovaries—Noah actually laughs. Albeit short, it’s a real laugh accompanied by a real smile. It’s there and then gone, but I doubt I’ll ever forget either. The sound ripples through the air, changing the very texture of it. It’s as though the universe woke up at the sound. And the way that deep rumble skitters across the table, it’s like a living thing, reaching for the strings to my heart and tugging them.
And his smile… For an instant, it twinkles in his blue eyes, making him even more magnetic. Hypnotic. And what it does to the rest of his face…God! The spread of those lips over his perfect row of white teeth, the way his expression brightens up, like he hasn’t spent the past months trudging through misery.
This man… Good grief! I can only imagine what he must’ve been like before his heart got ripped to shreds by whatever happened to him.
I’m spellbound.
Noah reaches across the table and puts his fingertips to my forearm, ostensibly to get my attention.
When I say nothing, just continue to stare, dumbstruck, he asks, “What?”
I don’t even bother to answer him. I can’t. I’m content to simply stare at him, to enjoy the sight of him.
“You okay?”
After several more seconds, I finally snap out of my thrall and find my tongue. “Did the lights just flicker in here?”
Noah glances around. “Not that I saw. Why?”
“Then it must’ve been me. I think I just had a seizure. I could’ve sworn you laughed.”
He grins.
Wryly, but still.
“Ha. Ha.” His words are dry, but there’s still a relaxed humor there, something else I haven’t seen on him. I adore it and, for some reason, it relaxes me as well.
That marks the turning point in the night. A turn for the better.
It also marks the moment I realize that there will be no planning with this man. No planning for him. There will be no preparations I can make, no precautions I can take. No rehearsed lines or reactions or maneuvers.
He will take me by storm, like a hurricane, and that’s that.
So I give up. I give in.
To it. To him.
And I let go.
It is my time to risk falling. And pray for the flying.
“Wanna hear a story about the pet groundhog I had growing up?”
He doesn’t even pause at my odd question. “Of course.”
I launch into a silly story about the unlikely friend I made when I was a little girl. “We found her under the deck my dad had built out back, down by the river. We named her Georgette. Once we knew she was there, I started taking food down to her. Every day I’d take a handful of table scraps and set them on the ground at the edge of that deck. She wouldn’t come out until I’d walk a few feet away, and when she did, she’d hiss at me if she caught me watching her. At the time, I thought it was just her way of being friendly, so I was okay with that.
“About a year or so later, I was watching television one summer evening and I heard this whistling sound. I went to the door and all I could see was this fat little furry body scurrying away. Georgette had come to the door. She did it again the next night, and the next. On that third night, after she waddled away, I set out some cheese. I stood back from the door to watch for her. It took her almost twenty minutes to get up enough nerve to come back. But she did. She came and ate the cheese. After that, she came every night. She’d come to the back door and whistle, and I’d go rummaging through the fridge for scraps to give her.
“Unfortunately, not being a very civilized female, she always ran when I opened the door. It took me about a week to think of sliding a little plate out the dog door so I wouldn’t scare her away. The first night I did that, she ran, but the second night, she only backed up a few feet and waited until I set the plate down. And sure enough, a few minutes later, she crept up to the plate and started eating.”
Noah makes a short grunt and nods his head in approval.
“Something weird, though. Over the next few months, I started noticing that my hair bows and headbands were going missing. I blamed Simone first, of course. Even back then, she’d ransack my bedroom when she came over after summer cheerleading practice and on the weekends. She was always looking for something new to wear. She swore she didn’t take them, though. Mom kept buying me more and more, but they just kept on disappearing.
“Well, one fall day after school had started, I came home and went to my room to do some homework. I was lying on the bed, being especially quiet I suppose, when I heard something crash. I looked down and there was Georgette, backed into the corner, hissing at me. She’d pulled at a hair ribbon from the basket under my nightstand and the lamp fell off the side. Must’ve scared her half to death. She recovered pretty quickly, though, and took off out the door.
“That night, I went down with a flashlight and shined it up under the deck where she lived. I don’t know how long she’d been coming into the house through that dog door, but she’d gone into my room and taken hair bows and ribbons and headbands from the basket and squirreled them away down in her den. I think she was making a soft nest. Just trying to be a good mama. Taking care of her babies. Keeping them safe. Of course, I didn’t want them back after that.”
I smile at the memory. Thoughts of Georgette always remind me of my father, and memories of him always bring a calm happiness to my heart. It takes me a second to realize that Noah is smiling as well. It’s a gentle smile, more a slight curve of his lips than anything truly overt. But it’s his eyes that tell me most of what he’s feeling. They’re lighter somehow, the color of a shallow tidal pool when the sun shines into it. Like they’re illuminated from within. Illuminated with good rather than bad. It makes him look…happy.
“Dumb, I know, but…” I shrug. I figure this date couldn’t be any stranger, so why should I stress over it? It’s beyond my ability to recover from a crash and burn now. As I explained to Noah, I’m no Simone. Maybe crash and burn is my style. Maybe I need to just embrace it.
“No, it’s a great story.” And he sounds sincere. He looks sincere. “I doubt there’s anything you could’ve told me that would’ve said more about who you are.”
I find his comment odd. I mean, how could that story tell him anything about me? But the fact that it might is no more peculiar than the rest of this date, so I just shrug and laugh.
>
Georgette, the icebreaker. Who would’ve guessed?
6
Noah
P oppy is charming as hell. Much more so than I expected. I mean, I expected to like her. I already liked her. But this…this is even better. She is even better.
We’re both more relaxed as the night wears on. I hate to see our time come to an end, but when the waitress comes by and asks us if we’d like anything before the kitchen closes, I know we’ve overstayed our welcome.
The cab ride back to Poppy’s apartment is as quiet as it was on the way over, but I get a sense of contentment rather than nervousness from her. I’m glad something I did or said over the course of the night made her feel better.
I walk behind her up the stairs to the second level where her place is, my eyes glued to her slim, shapely calves and the way the muscles flex under the smooth skin. The hours and hours of walking and being on her feet have paid off in a most delightful way. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t notice, but, despite my shit ton of issues, I am still a man.
She slows when she reaches the top step, only a few feet from her apartment door. She turns to me, her honey-colored eyes shining up into mine. “Would you, um, like to come in?”
Yes. I’d love to. I’d like that more than anything.
But I don’t say that. Because it still feels wrong. Not as wrong as it did a few months ago. Or even a week ago. But it still feels…not quite right. Not long enough.
It’s only been a year and a half since that morning, that fateful, God-awful morning. Even now I think, Only? Sometimes that span feels like a lifetime, but other times—like when it comes to whether it feels as though I’m betraying my wife to want this woman—it feels like a minute.
That’s probably why my attraction to Poppy is growing, but so is my guilt over it. When will “only” become long enough?
“It’s late,” is my reply.
She nods and pivots back toward her door. She digs the key from her purse and slips it into the lock. This time, it’s actually locked, much to my relief.
When she faces me again, my gut twists into a conflicted fist. I want to kiss her. And I know she’d let me. Hell, she’d welcome it. I know that, too. It’s all right there in her open, very interested expression.
But is it the smart thing to do? Will I regret moving too quickly? Would it be a betrayal to Carly?
I don’t have answers. To any of those questions. So in the end, I decide to wait.
“Thank you for coming out with me tonight.”
She smiles shyly. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you changed your mind. Or, I guess, that you didn’t change your mind. You know what I mean.” She rocks a little onto the tips of her toes, back and forth, her lips drawing closer and then receding, closer and then receding, like the tide. And like that tide, I could watch her, watch her mouth, and her eyes and her body language, for days and never tire of it. But then she speaks. I have to swallow a groan. Her voice when she says my name…that’s what I love the most. “Noah?”
“What? Oh. Sorry. Yes, I’m glad, too. Maybe we can do it again some time.”
The light in her eyes dims visibly. What a shit thing to say—maybe we can do it again some time. She’s bound to take that the wrong way.
Christ, I’m out of practice. When I got married all those years ago, I never expected to have to date again.
“I’d like that.”
I exhale in relief.
“Until then,” I say, bending to press my lips to her satiny cheek. I inhale, dragging her scent deep into my lungs. “I’ll see you soon.” My whisper causes her to suck in a breath. I can practically feel the want radiating from her. It mirrors my own, whether she can see it or not. I’m a master at keeping things hidden, though. There’s a whole life, a whole past behind my eyes that she knows nothing about. Nor will she.
I lean away and meet her eyes again. They’re hazy and heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes.
I grit my teeth.
“Yes, see you soon,” she mimics.
When she doesn’t move, I reach behind her and turn the knob, pushing the door open slightly so she’ll go on inside. I need her to go inside.
She does. She goes inside, her eyes glued to mine until she closes the door between us. I hold them until I can no longer see her.
What she doesn’t know is that I stand outside in the same spot for a good five minutes, fighting with myself, before I can turn around and walk away.
* * *
By the next evening, I’m champing at the bit to get back to the diner. Going out with her, one on one, was like experimenting with a drug—once only gives you a craving for more. More and again. Again and more. One high is all it takes and then, suddenly, need is nipping at your heels, begging you to go and get more. Riding you hard until you do.
Tonight, I wait a little later before going in for dinner. It seems that seven thirty will never arrive. My hope is that she might get off at eight again and I can walk her home. Only, when I arrive, she’s nowhere to be found.
I see Tilly, of course, and she’s more than happy to wait on me. I’m not in the mood to be hounded, though, so I’m blunt right from the start.
“Where’s Poppy?” I preempt before she can ask what I want.
“She got off a few minutes ago. She might still be in the back. Want me to go see?”
I feel bad for being such an asshole, so I offer her a smile. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
With a look that lingers over her shoulder as she walks off, Tilly heads for the double stainless doors that lead to the kitchen and beyond, and disappears through them. I wait impatiently, my eyes trained on the shiny silver surface until she comes swinging back through.
Without Poppy.
“Sorry. She’s gone gone. Purse and all.”
If she just left, maybe I can catch her walking home. I toss a couple of bills onto the table and scoot out of the booth. “Thanks, Tilly.”
She leans forward to scoop them up, giving me a feline grin. “Anytime.”
I leave her behind and go in search of Poppy. Why didn’t I make set plans with her? Why did I wait until late to come out tonight?
I’m irritated as I stalk across the diner toward the glass exit. The bell overhead jangles frantically as I push through the door. I take off in a brisk walk in the direction of Poppy’s apartment.
The night air is balmy on my face, so it does nothing to cool the heat of my aggravation with myself. It seems like I’ve watched Poppy and waited for years rather than months, and we finally go out and I let my past, my guilt, my uncertainty get in the way.
Dumb ass.
By the time I arrive at the main entrance to her building, I still haven’t passed Poppy. I only debate my next action for a split second before I push the intercom button to her unit.
It buzzes a couple of seconds later and a scratchy, bad-connection voice comes online. I can tell it’s female, but that’s about it.
“Hello?”
“Poppy?”
There’s no response, just a deeper, louder buzzing sound as the lock pops open to release the exterior door. I grab it before it closes and squeeze inside, taking the steps two at a time to the second floor.
I have no idea what I’m going to say, how I’m going to explain showing up this way—unannounced and uninvited—but I’ll think of something. At this point, I just want to see her, hear her.
At unit 203, I raise my fist to knock, but the door opens before I make contact. Any words I might’ve said die on my lips when I see the woman I assume to be Simone lounging against the jamb.
“You must be Noah,” she says in a voice that was made for midnight and dim lights and rumpled sheets.
“And you must be Simone.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting based on the few things Poppy said about her, but I’m a little surprised. Poppy made it sound like her best friend and room mate was an irresistible beauty queen. And while yes, Simone has great features—smooth, creamy skin; lush, pouty mo
uth; tilted, smoke-lined eyes—she’s not more beautiful than Poppy. She’s just… wilder looking. In fact, she’s pretty much the opposite of Poppy. The contrast is striking.
This woman is like the night—dark, velvety, all black skies and sultry moonlight. Poppy, on the other hand, is sunshine and trees and flowers and brightness. She is light. And light is what I need.
No, Simone isn’t better, more beautiful. She’s just…exotic. Yes, that’s how I’d describe her.
Exotic.
Right down to her voice and the slinky way she moves, something that’s discernible even in the way she’s draped in the doorway.
“I must be,” she purrs, pushing away from the jamb and stepping back. “Come on in.”
I walk past her and stop in the tiny, cramped foyer, turning to look at the room mate. Simone closes the door and leans back against it.
She’s wearing itty bitty black satin shorts, fishnets, and a sequined top that bares most of her shoulders and is made to look like a tuxedo. Her hair is the color of a plum, cut into a chin-length bob. Her feet are bare.
“Poppy isn’t here.”
“Oh. Do you know when she’ll be home?”
She shakes her head, her eyes trained on mine. One foot is on the floor, the other balanced on her toes as she rocks her knee back and forth, drawing attention to the curvy length of leg and the shapely swell of hip.
“No. Maybe she went for groceries. I’ve been…starving lately.”
I don’t bother responding, pissed at myself for coming in before finding out whether Poppy was home.
She watches me for several long seconds before she pushes away from the door and turns her back to me. She glances over her shoulder, her lips a pouty cloud of crimson, and asks, “Do you mind?”
Black-tipped fingers tap the zipper that holds together the scrap of material in a narrow line from her neck down to her narrow waist.
I reach for the tab and tug, easing it down to where she can grab it and then quickly releasing it. Simone turns to me, holding her top in place over her breasts, and takes a step forward, a step that brings her plainly into my personal space.
