Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
By that point, I must have called and texted Noah fifty times.
No answer. No reply.
It was the previous night’s anxiety taking over my body all over again, except this time, I was certain something was wrong.
I was certain, because I saw that he was reading the messages.
Reading them and not responding.
This wasn’t like Noah.
I had to find him and get answers.
Wearing just a tank and the shorts I threw on after rolling out of bed with my hair still a mess, I hopped in the car and drove into town. I fished through my phone for Tamika’s number while on a back road, driving one-handed.
“Morning, Tamika! Hey, I’m just curious, is there any business going on at the Spruce Press today? I can’t get ahold of Noah. Have you spoken to him, by chance?” Of course, she hadn’t heard from him, and there was nothing going on at the newspaper building, as all the website stuff had already been handled. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate you, Tamika! No, no, nothing to worry about. See you tonight.” I hung up, my belly twisted like a washrag, and changed course for his house.
It was on the front doorstep that Noah’s mother met me.
Her voice lacked every bit of the luster it usually had.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said, wringing her hands, “but he’s in his room sleeping. It … It seems like he’s had a tough night and … well, I think he really just needs some shuteye and maybe a little time to himself.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Is he okay? Did he saying anything more specific?” I wasn’t sure what he’d told his mother, so I didn’t know how to phrase anything. At least I knew where he was. “I’m just worried about him. I wanted to make sure he’s okay.”
She fretted for a moment and glanced over her shoulder, as if wondering whether or not she should give in and bring me to him, but eventually she just sighed and said, “He’s been through a lot lately, what with all the dang work they’re pilin’ up on him at the paper.” She leaned in closely and brought her voice down. “Just between us, his supervisor can be a real jerk. I do miss when it was his grandpoppy runnin’ things, God bless that sweet man.”
I peered at the narrow window by the front bushes.
Noah’s bedroom window.
I felt so heavy with worry, like my whole body was made of iron and pulling me to the ground. Was Noah watching me right now? Was he happy that I showed up? Or was he hurting and just wished I’d just go and leave him alone?
Did I do something wrong? Why wouldn’t he even talk to me?
“Can you … Can you just tell him …” I faced his mother with a polite smile I can only hope didn’t look as anguished as I felt. “Can you just tell him I stopped by to see if he’s okay? Don’t disturb him if he’s asleep. He … He probably just needs his rest, like you said.”
“You’re such an angel,” his mother said to me.
I didn’t feel like an angel.
I felt like a demon that was being cast away by some invisible exorcism I somehow invoked on myself.
I walked down the path back to my car and passed the brand new mailbox I put up, thinking of the night we knocked it down, all the kissing and intimacy that transpired that beautiful evening, all of our words and discoveries …
It felt like yesterday.
I stopped at the driver’s side door to my car and glanced back at the window. Whether he was standing on the other side of it watching me or not, I lifted my hand, as if to wave hello at him, to acknowledge Noah somehow. It felt stupid, but I did it anyway.
Then I got into my car, pulled out my phone, hesitated, and decided to text him that I hope he felt better soon, that I was thinking about him, and that all the words I said the night before, I meant them. After I sent the text, I drove off, making my way back to the McPhersons’.
I did mean all of the words I’d said.
Even the “I love you” he may not have caught as he slept on my chest last night, counting heartbeats into his dreams.
I spent the rest of that day in a daze. I tried my best to snap out of it when it came time for us to be called to the pavilion for a few last-minute adjustments and rehearsing. Dean’s piano needed some tweaking by the overall-wearing sound lady and her sleepy-eyed assistant, who were problem-solving an issue involving two of the speakers used for the background music, as the microphone speakers had no issues. Anthony’s talent, which is a mishmash of three or four different acts, required a planted participant in the audience at one point to complete the magic illusion part, but the original guy dropped out due to an alleged “totally incapacitating ingrown toenail”, which forced them to have to find (and train) a whole new person, and the new person turned out as clueless as a cat chasing a laser pointer, asking, “And what do I do now?” every three minutes. Even after patiently being told, he never seemed able to quite grasp what to do, like his purpose on Earth was also a total and utter mystery to him. Anthony finally lost his cool at one point and cried, “Just come up to the stage when I call on you, take the dang oversized poker card, and keep sayin’ yes to everything, like when I ask if the card I guess is yours, for cryin’ out loud!”