“Another person you sometimes hang out with?”
Another person I got played by.
“Nope,” I say, popping the P.
Noah leans back in his seat, his arm draped over the table, flipping a pen between his fingers like he’s waiting for me to continue. I can’t tell him that Tucker is someone I dated freshman year—until I found out he was using me to get noticed by my dad—without also disclosing who my dad is. So I just watch the pen spin around his fingers in quick, smooth flicks.
“Ex-boyfriend then?”
“Not really,” I mumble.
Noah’s pen stops and I realize I said that louder than I intended. I groan, rolling my eyes, and plant my hands firmly on the table. “We went on a few dates. It didn’t work out. The end. Now.” I snatch the papers from in front of him. “Do you want to answer more of these questions or not?”
He watches me for a minute before he flips his pen again and nods for me to continue.
“What’s your favorite meal to cook and why?”
“Probably spaghetti. Mostly because it’s the one thing I can make perfectly every time, but also because I have some really nice memories of watching my mom make it.” He smiles, likely replaying some of those memories, and I bite down on my inner cheek. “What about you?”
“I uh—” I blink and look back down at the paper, pretending to read it. “I don’t cook.”
“At all?”
I purse my lips, shake my head, and catch Noah’s attention dropping down to my orange peels.
“I never learned how.” I shrug, hoping my face comes off more nonchalant than I feel.
“Your momma never taught you how to make spaghetti?”
I look from Noah, down to my fingernails that I didn’t realize I was chipping the black paint off of. “She…” There’s a weight in my chest, but when I look back up at Noah it lessons. I take in the lines of concern etched all across his perfect face. “She never got the chance.”
“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Savannah, I’m so sorry.” His usual sparkling eyes land on me, but they’re dull—filled with an unspoken pain.
“Don’t be, you didn’t know.”
“I don’t…” He drags his hands through his hair, digging his elbows into the table. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice is nothing more than a broken whisper.
I reach across the table and cusp his forearm. He startles at the contact, lifting his head, his attention dropping to where our bodies are currently touching.
“Noah.” I gently stroke my thumb over his sleeve and he watches me like he’s never been touched or soothed before. “You don’t have to say anything. It was a long time ago.”
He covers my hand on top of his just like he did the night we met, and it feels the exact same way as it did the first time. Like he’s holding me to him. When he looks at me, I see the raw hurt in his eyes. He’s sad for me.
And even though I’ll never admit it to him, in this moment, I recognize Noah Kingston for who he is.
A fucking good guy.
13
savannah
My phone buzzesagainst my back pocket and I almost send it to voicemail as I’m running out of my apartment.
‘Maybe Dan,’ accompanied by a number from the Athletic Department that I’m currently heading to, flashes across the screen. I know I’m running out the door like a chicken with my head cut off, but I’m not late.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Savannah Alvarez?”
