Speechless(121)

                I push my way out of the booth. As I pass, Asha tugs my sleeve                     and says, “Chelsea, maybe you should leave him alone. Let him cool off a                     little.”

                No. I think it’s time we had this out. It’s been a long time                     coming.

                I snag my whiteboard from my bag and follow him out the back                     door. He’s sitting outside on an overturned crate, hunched forward, smoking a                     cigarette. When the door closes behind me, he looks over his shoulder and                     frowns.

                “Fuck off,” he says.

                I stand in front of him. At the party, when he left with Noah,                     I remember he was smiling, this wide grin that was too big for his face. He’d                     had no idea what would happen that night. Neither of us did.

                I’m sorry.

                I hold the board up so he can see it. He stares at it, and then                     at me, unimpressed.

                “What for?” he asks flatly.

                Everything.

                “Wow. Thank you. I feel all better now,” he says. “I don’t care                     if you’re sorry. I don’t care what you feel. I don’t care.”

                I don’t expect you to forgive me. Ever.

                He blows out a thin stream of smoke. “Good.”

                I’m still sorry.

                He doesn’t respond. I start to write more, but then he stands                     and says, “Stop it, okay, just stop! You can’t be sorry. You don’t even know                     what to be sorry for. You have no idea. Noah isn’t                     some stand-in to teach you a moral life lesson. He’s a fucking person. Do you                     even know anything about him?”

                I swallow and slowly shake my head.

                “Well, let me tell you,” he says, not at all nicely. “His                     favorite color is blue. His middle name is Christopher. He’d eat nothing but                     macaroni and cheese if he could get away with it. He judges anyone who lists J.                     D. Salinger as their favorite author. One time he spent an hour explaining to me                     in specific detail why he thinks Catcher in the Rye                     is a piece of crap. He has a scar on his left knee from wiping out on his                     skateboard when he was twelve. Sam was there when it happened, and puked because                     of all the blood. It took five stitches to close it. Noah went as Draco Malfoy                     for Halloween, and he tried to get me to go as Harry Potter, but I thought it                     was a dumb idea, so we had a big fight about it. The first time he kissed me, we                     were standing right over there.” He points to the Dumpster. “It was raining, and                     I was smoking a cigarette as he dumped the last of the trash, and I made a                     stupid joke about the weather, and Noah laughed, because that’s what Noah                     does—he laughs at any joke, no matter how stupid. Sometimes he just laughs for                     no reason. He tossed the trash, and then he came over to me, and he flicked my                     cigarette out of my hand and he kissed me, out of the blue. Just like that. Like                     it was nothing.”