Man of My Dreams(48)
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He nods his head in the direction of the bar. “And the guys from the team have been eyeing me since I walked in. Hopefully they’ll cut me some slack when I tell them I chose to catch up with the one that got away instead of them.” He winks and escorts me back to our table.
Every one of my senses are on overload from his touch, his scent, the sounds of the things coming out of his perfect mouth. Ten year old regrets flood in, drowning any bit of my remaining sanity. In this moment I know what Declan felt when he let that girl from the hotel kiss him. Face to face with temptation, my love for my husband isn’t strong enough to make me turn my back on the what ifs.
“Let me toss back a few drinks for old time’s sake. Can I bring you back anything?”
“No, I think I’m good.” I say, even though I’m far from it. There is not one ‘good’ image running through my head. In fact they are all bad. Naughty. Mischievously wicked.
And they’re making me brave.
“Hey, Noah?” I call out to him, stopping him in his tracks to the bar.
“What’s up?” he cocks his head, smirking.
Can he read me that well? Is the act as a disloyal wife giving me away? The flirting is one thing, but what I’m about to do crosses so many lines it feels criminal. I scan my surroundings to make sure no one’s watching. When I’m positive, I pull him by his collar. Closer to me.
His breath catches. His eyes widen. Our lips are inches apart. If we weren’t in a room full of gossipy people I would get it over with and kiss him right here. They could never understand what that kiss would mean. An answer to so many questions about my past. A retaliation—an eye for an eye—for what Declan did to us.
I forgo the kiss, but lick my lips for effect. “I hear there’s an after party. Will you take me?”
Noah raises an eyebrow, channeling me to focus on those smoldering green eyes. His lips curl into a satisfied smile. He speaks in a growl of a whisper. “Mia, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I don’t want this night to end because tomorrow you go back to belonging to someone else.”
I’d gone over this day in my head so many times. There is no way it will possibly live up to my larger-than-life expectations. These four years are supposed to be the culmination of every teenager’s existence. The people who roam these halls with me every day will have a kind of ingrained power over me. Sure, I’m my own person, but the things they think about me, the things they say about me, those are the things that I will end up being judged on. Will I be popular? Will I have as many friends as I did in junior high? No matter how hard I try not to be terrified about it, I can’t help but obsess over my first day of high school.
I’d obsessed over everything leading up to today. My outfit, for example. I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard, but I feel the need to be accepted, while maintaining a sense of self. On our trip to the mall for school clothes my mother scolded me when I asked her if she thought a particular shirt was ‘cool enough.’
“Cool enough for who? Don’t ever worry about what other people think of you, Mia. I’ve always loved your independent spirit. You don’t need a clique of girls or some cute boy to make you feel accepted or to stunt your self-esteem. Just be you and everyone will love you. Trust me on this one.”
Without sounding stuck-up, I knew she was right, even if she was biased. I’d never had a problem making or keeping friends. Grace is a prime example of that. I can’t get rid of her even if I tried. And I can’t even fathom not having her in my life. But this is the first time in my nine year academic career that I won’t have her as a sidekick; I’ll be introduced to new faces I hadn’t known in grammar and middle school. Wesmont mixes kids from our town and the next town over, kids I didn’t know—kids who might find a reason not to like me no matter how sweet and congenial I come across.
I hold the printed program card that was mailed to me last week close to my chest. I’d memorized it, but I find comfort in gripping on to it for dear life. And I’m not the only one. The tight fisted pink slip of paper is what tells us freshmen apart from the upper classmen. We look like lost sheep being herded into our homeroom classes.
I walk into Mr. Singer’s classroom and observe the rest of the sheep. Some look terrified, some cocky, some completely indifferent. I’d like to feel that way—indifferent to this whole first day of the rest of my life, but I’m too excited not to care.
I recognize a few familiar faces from junior high, Lisa Cohen and John Pinetti. When their wandering eyes catch mine they motion for me to sit in the empty desk behind them. I walk over, happy not to have to go through all of these emotions alone.