But one night after a party, we were too risky. The usual suspects had already come and gone, and Noah was the last one there. The three of us relaxed in the living room.
“It’s been so long since you’ve been at one of my dinner parties,” my mom cooed to me. That was yet another clue she failed to pick up on— the fact that I had suddenly become interested in her parties again. I was only interested because of Noah.
“Mom, you’ve always known how to throw a good party,” I said.
She yawned deeply, then said she needed to retire for the night.
“I’ll clean up,” I said.
“I’ll help,” Noah chimed in.
“What would I do without the two of you?” She kissed Noah on both cheeks and said good night, and did the same for me. She disappeared to her chambers, and at the sound of her door snapping shut, we both grinned.
“Dishes?” I asked suggestively.
“Let’s get into some hot water,” he teased back. We scooped up the plates and wineglasses from the coffee table and the dining room, collected cloth napkins, and gathered all the serving dishes. We loaded the dishwasher, and I loved how he lined the dishes up properly, in the right slots, just where they should go. He was neat like me. I turned on the sink to wash the rest of the dishes. Noah started to unbutton the cuffs of his purple shirt, a deep rich eggplant color, and I stopped him.
“Let me do it.” The lights were low in the kitchen; the house was doing its own impression of dusky twilight.
He held his wrists out to me, and I took my time, unbuttoning the right cuff carefully, folding it up once, then another time. The chance to be near him, even like this, was such a heady thrill. “I love your shirts,” I said, breathless. “Have I ever told you that?”
He shook his head, pressed his lips together as if he were holding back all he wanted to say. I started to unbutton the left cuff, slowly freeing the metal button from its holder as I continued my ode. “I love all your shirts. The blue and the purple and the green and the orange and the pink and the raspberry. I love them all. I love how they fit you, and how colorful they are, and how they’re just so you. I always used to think about what shirt you might be wearing before you came over. And I would run through all your shirts in my mind, because I’ve catalogued them all.”
He closed his eyes briefly, holding on to the counter for just a second, his fingers cutting into the marble. “You have no idea how much …” he said, then stopped himself. He was careful with me; always careful to never say too much.
I leaned into his neck, dusting my lips against his throat, listening for the little sigh to escape his lips. His fingers found their way into my hair, and soon he was kissing my neck, leaving a trail of hot, needy kisses along my throat.
“Noah,” I murmured, arching my back, inviting more kisses, more touching, more him.
“I love the way you say my name,” he whispered back, his voice growing more urgent as he speared his fingers into my hair. The water in the sink kept running.
“Noah,” I said again, then again, then again. His kisses increased in urgency, his strong body aligning deliciously with me. We fit together so well with clothes on, pushing, pressing, grinding. We had the necessary barrier; we always did. But yet, with the firm press of his body so snug against mine, I melted. I burned. I seared. My mind knew I wasn’t ready, but my body craved more.
“I could use another glass of wine.”
We ripped ourselves away from each other and plunged our hands under the faucet, like it had been scripted, like it had been planned. Neither one of us had expected my mom to reemerge. My heart was exploding in my ears, and I felt like someone had grabbed my stomach from the inside and twisted it, round and round. I didn’t even look at him. I didn’t even chance it. The floor was tilting, my face was scalding, I’d been caught and she was going to make it hurt. She padded her way into the kitchen, and a rabid fear ricocheted through me.
But she simply refilled her wineglass, gave me a kiss on the top of my head, and waltzed back to her room.
When her door clicked shut, I finally managed to look at Noah.
His eyes were wild with worry.
He didn’t say a word, just exhaled. We finished the dishes in silence, and when I turned off the water I whispered, “That was close.”
“I know.” His voice was heavy, the consequences palpable in the stony look on his face.
“I don’t want her to find out, Noah,” I said, like a prayer, like a plaintive plea even though he was on my side.
“Trust me, I don’t either.”
The noises started then. The awful sounds of her seducing someone, probably Jay, on the phone. I cringed and walked Noah to the door. I was embarrassed; I didn’t want him to hear her getting randy on the phone with a man. As I opened the door I stepped outside on our front porch, shutting the door behind me.
“I hate her boyfriends,” I blurted out.
“You do?”
“Yes. All of them. I hate that she talks to them on the phone and has them over and is loud and disgusting with them,” I said, the words spilling out in a mess from my lips before I could even take them back. It was the first time I’d verbalized to anyone how my mom’s habits made me feel. Disgusting. Enraged. Ashamed. There was no Caroline yet in my life; Noah was the only one I’d ever breathed a word to. He was my safety net. An angry tear slid down my cheek.
Instantly, he pulled me into a gentle hug, his arms circling me, spreading warmth and comfort all through my bloodstream. “I’m so sorry, K. I’m sorry it’s been like that for you.”