“What—” my voice cracked as I broke the silence “—what is it that you want?”
“That’s a loaded question. A lot,” he said after a pause. “For now, though, to be friends again.”
“Were we ever?”
“When I was three years in, I made E-4. It’s this weird position where you aren’t the lowest person on the totem pole anymore, but you don’t have much real responsibility. The goal for most everyone, I guess, is to make E-5, but you only make E-5 if you re-up or if your commitment is longer than four years. The idea was always to get in, get eligible for the GI Bill, and get out,” he paused. I still hadn’t looked at him, but I heard him lift the drink and take a sip.
“Grace, please,” he touched my hand. I realized he had moved to the edge of the sex sofa, and his body was now only inches away from me.
I was being childish, I knew, by refusing to look at him, by pretending I wasn’t paying attention. Of course I was. I hung on every word. I was embarrassed. So I turned my head and stared at his hand, which was still lightly touching mine. It was enough, I guess, because he continued.
“But I enjoyed being in the Corps. Remember the letter that you sent where you explained that you kept going to parties with Lana but you never felt like you fit in, even after years of being with the same kids?” I looked up, surprised he remembered that, and nodded. His eyes were pinned on me, his face serious. I felt his hand tighten on the top of mine and I didn’t move away. Not an inch. I couldn’t.
“And I wrote you back and told you how the Marines made me feel like I fit?” I nodded again, knowing he was reeling me in but unable to stop it from happening.
“I kept thinking that maybe I didn’t want to get out, that this was the right place for me, forever. Only, there were two things that made think maybe a career in the Marines wasn’t for me.” He paused and took another drink. He was now holding my hand in his, and I was letting him.
There was something almost dream-like about sitting in my apartment where Noah was so close I could smell him. His scent was clean and woodsy, like he had rubbed against a pine tree in the morning. I, on the other hand, smelled like stale beer and a mix of pot smoke and cigarettes from the party. He must have just arrived when we ran into each other.
His hand felt rough but steady, his brown hair was mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it multiple times. Some of the ends stood up. Rather than looking awkward, it invited a touch to smooth down the strands. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my free hand to prevent myself from doing just that.
His forearms were dusted with dark hair and his biceps stood out in relief against the T-shirt, muscled and thick. His jaw and cheeks showed signs of late evening growth, and I wondered if they would feel scratchy or soft against my skin.
My eyes traveled across his jawline up to his lips. They looked soft, but slightly chapped, as if he had been exposed to too much sun or wind.
I was glad my hand was palm down. I suspected that it was sweaty, and I could feel my pulse had picked up.
Each millisecond I was taking a mental photograph. Click. Click. Click. No matter what happened, I knew I would take these images out and look at them again and again. I met his eyes, and they were searching. Crinkles were forming at the corners. He was smiling at me.
I had lost the train of our conversation, but Noah easily picked it up again.
“Anyway, when I read your letter, I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do and I felt…” he paused and looked away from me. I knew what he was going to say. He felt that I was too emotionally invested to merely be friends. I grimaced and tried to pull my hand from under his. He gripped it tighter.
“I know what you felt.” I couldn’t keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.
“Do you? Because I was really confused at that time and could’ve used some enlightenment.”
I tugged again and this time he released me. His hand went through his hair again. A tic, then. A giveaway that he was frustrated. By the look of his hair, he must have been frustrated at least a dozen times today.
I knew I didn’t want to hear whatever lame excuse he could come up with about why he hadn’t wanted to meet me last year. I wanted to know what he was doing here and why he was haunting me around campus.
“Why are you here, at Central?” I specified so he wouldn’t respond with something lame, like “because I drove you home.”
“It’s the Harvard of the Midwest?” Noah countered. The statement sounded more like a question, like he was asking if I bought his response. I didn’t.
“What about ‘Bo won’t move north of the Mason Dixon line,’” I countered.