Undeclared(22)

I jingled my keys.

Noah walked over. Before I could put my hand on the doorknob, he had swept me aside to open the door and waved me through.

“It’s the 21st century, Noah. Women open their own doors.”

“Not while I’m around,” his previously non-existent southern accent showed up as he drawled the last part. “My momma would be turning over in her grave if I let a woman touch a doorknob.”

I merely grunted in response, pretty sure he dragged that old line out anytime he wanted to get away with something—as only good-looking guys could do.

I stopped when I hit the porch of the Victorian and blinked like a mole seeing sun for the first time. I felt like I had engaged in a twelve-hour bender and had only two hours of sleep before someone pried open my eyes again. The bright sun turned to dark spots in front of my eyes and I started to sway.

“Whoa, there,” Noah said, setting his hand around the base of my neck, his thumb and fingers wrapped around like a reverse collar. “Let’s get some protein in you. The diner okay with you?”

There was a diner on the south end of campus that served breakfast all day long. I nodded again. Noah unhooked his sunglasses and placed them over my eyes, dragging his fingers behind my ears. I suppressed a shiver.

We walked for several minutes without a scrap of conversation. Trying to think of something interesting to bring up reminded me of my early days of writing to Noah, making sure each word was interesting enough to lure him into writing me back.

In retrospect, I probably looked like a fool from the very beginning, a bothersome child who was trying to buy her way into a cool kid’s group with treats and expensive toys. I bit my tongue in an effort to not be the first one to break the silence.

“So, weather’s nice today,” Noah finally said. I nearly stumbled. Was that a reference to my first letter when I told him I wasn’t going to ever refer to the weather because it was such an incredibly boring topic, or was he just really bad at making conversation?

“Yeah, nice.” Our breakfast was going to feel really long if this was the best we could come up with. After the silence became too much for me, I went for the low hanging fruit—his major.

“What do you do with a finance degree?” I had skipped all the business majors in the course catalog. I’d have to go back and review those.

“Build empires,” Noah responded immediately, relief evident in his voice.

I raised my eyebrows behind the sunglasses. “Lofty ambitions.”

“Aim high.”

“Are you allowed to say that, given that you’re a Marine?”

“Probably not. Don’t repeat it or they’ll take away my right to shout Oorah. What’re you studying?”

“Didn’t your recon divulge that? You know my class schedule, where I live, and apparently where I was partying last night.”

“I admit that I hung out over at the Fine Arts Center for a few days and was surprised I didn’t see you or any of your work,” Noah said, unperturbed by my recitation.

“Why would I be at FAC?”

He shrugged. “I just thought you’d be majoring in something over there. Like Art, or whatever majors there are in Art.”

I could rattle off a few. Unlike the business section, I knew this part of the course catalog by heart.

“Because of my photography?”

“Yeah, I mean the stuff you sent was amazing. It should be in a magazine or a museum or something. You aren’t going to do something with that?”

“Um, thank you, but first, my stuff isn’t that good and second, photography is my hobby,” I said. I didn’t want to admit to Noah, who had fought in a war and was likely putting himself through school here at Central, that I was too weenie to submit a portfolio for entrance into the Fine Arts program. Instead, I told him a partial truth. “I don’t want to ruin it by having the stress of having to support myself with it.”

Noah shook his head. “You can tell you’ve never had to worry about money.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only people with money ever say money ruins things.”

“That’s …” I trailed off. I hadn’t had to worry about money, but it’s not like money had ever made me happy. It didn’t keep my dad from dying. It didn’t make my mom suddenly stop being addicted to anti-depressants. It didn’t prevent Lana from getting an eating disorder. “I’m undeclared. I haven’t picked a major,” I finished.

I felt his hand on my head as he turned my head to look at him. “Not knowing isn’t so bad. You’re young yet.”

I stuck my tongue out a little. “What are you, my dad?”