Out of the Blackness (11 page)

I shove away my still half-full plate of hash browns as the thought kills my appetite. I know I’m going to have to redouble my efforts to get Noah to leave me alone. I won’t be able to live with it if he doesn’t.

I fall asleep on the couch with Sam. We’re supposed to be watching some new police drama movie with Geena Davis and Scott Evans, but I can’t keep my eyes open. The excitement of the day has been too much, so incredibly good, that I doze off with my head on Sam’s thigh. I awaken when he lifts me from the couch. I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head against his thick, solid chest, thankful again that my own personal Superman decided all those years ago that I may be poison, but I’m not Kryptonite.

Sam sets me on my feet beside my bed and ruffles my hair. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth, sleepyhead.”

I nod sleepily, pulling my shirt over my head. “Sam?”

“Yeah, buddy?” He turns at the door and smiles at me.

“Today was awesome. Thank you.” I busy myself with my belt buckle so I don’t have to see the expression on his face. My sudden shyness with him doesn’t make much sense to me, except that I’m afraid I don’t tell him thank you often enough.

“It was great for me, too. Well, ya know, except the part where I lost every single race to my bratty little brother.”

He laughs but I already know he’s joking. Winning has never been an obsession with Sam. He enjoys the competition much more than the victory—for himself, anyway. But he always, always makes a big deal out of my victories, even if they are at his expense.

I grin at him. “I got lucky on the last one.”

“Yeah, sure. Lucky. You beat your new friend, too. That had to feel good. Gotta be getting tired of beating me.”

I shake my head and drop my jeans. “He’s not my friend.”

Sam’s brows draw together in confusion. “He’s not?”

I step out of the pool of clothes at my feet, deliberately leaving them there until I come back from the bathroom. Then I’ll put them in the hamper in my closet, but I will not fold them. I haven’t folded my dirty clothes since Sam took me out of state custody. It’s less rebellion against Carl than unlearning a bad habit—or so I tell myself. “He’s just someone I know.”

I look up from putting paste on the toothbrush to find Sam watching me from the bathroom doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. “Aves…I know you don’t have many friends…”

I look down, suddenly uneasy and somewhat sad. “I can’t have friends, Sam,” I whisper.

He reaches out and gently squeezes my bare shoulder, causing my gaze to find his in the mirror. “You do have friends. You have me and the K’s and Molly. I think you’re safe to let this one in, too, little bro. What’s his—Noah clearly wants to be your friend.”

I shake my head and try hard to quash the rising panic. “I can’t.”

Sam smiles and squeezes my shoulder again before pushing off the doorjamb and walking away. His words drift back to me. “Take a chance. Talk to Kendall about it. I don’t think you’re gonna have much choice.”

Chapter 6 - December

M
y shift on Thursday went by without so much as a passing sighting of Noah Yates, not that I was keeping track. Today, however, he’s outside when I go out for my lunch break. He’s sitting in his usual spot across the alley from my bench. He must have noticed the surprise in my eyes because he grins sheepishly and puts down the smallish piece of wood he’s been messing with.

“I swear, I’m not stalking you,” he says.

I shrug and sit on the bench. “I’m beginning to think you live in this alley.”

He laughs. “It must seem that way. We’re pretty slow at the moment. Not too many people wanting delivery this close to Christmas.”

I nod, not really sure how to respond, or even if one is necessary. I take a drink of my ever-present Frappuccino and study the pavement between my feet. As often as I look at it, one would think I’d be able to see the differences in it from day to day, but, really, it’s just an intriguing mess of cracks strewn with an assortment of tiny and little rocks.

Noah clears his throat and my eyes dart to his solid chest. Once again, he’s wearing that blue plaid flannel shirt that has become my favorite. Does he know that? Does he wear it so often because of that? I roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of my train of thought and tune back in to his words.

“…It was very impressive.”

Confused, I ask, “What was?”

“Your driving the other day. Man, I never would have expected that crazy good driver to be you. You’re very aggressive out there.”

I blush but can’t keep the smile from my face. “Thanks. I love it. You were pretty good, too.”

Noah laughs and the sound warms me from the inside out. “Not as good as you, apparently. We’ll have to have a rematch sometime. Let me get my honor back.”

My gaze slams to the concrete again. The warmth of a minute ago turns to a chill in an instant. I should have known better. He thinks I humiliated him. Of course he’s going to want revenge. The sudden violently cold breeze causes tears to flood my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing it won’t be enough but hoping with everything in me that Noah Yates is actually the man he pretends to be. My pulse kicks up and my breathing shallows, preparing my body to run.

“Don’t be sorry. You won fair and square.”

His words and tone are calm and reassuring, but it’s too late. I feel myself hit flight mode. I have to get away, but my legs refuse to heed my brain’s commands. I stare at Noah's chest, tears rolling down my face, just waiting for his next move, the one that will punish me for winning on the kart track.

Instead of coming at me, though, Noah stays completely still. Only his chest moves, rising and falling with his breath and his words. “Hey, hey. Don’t cry. It’s not that big a deal. I get beat on the track all the time.”

His words should make me laugh and I honestly believe that’s what he’s trying to do, but I don’t understand why. Why is he being so nice about this? Why isn’t he making me feel bad for winning or for crying like a baby? None of it makes sense and, in my confusion, my tears come harder.

“Breathe for me, Avery. Just breathe. It’ll be okay. I’m not going to hurt you. That’s it…in…out…slowly…in…out…”

After a few minutes of his composed coaching, my fear recedes with the tears and I’m mostly just wary and wrung-out, my usual state of being. I venture a quick glance into those amazing hazel eyes and see only sincere concern.

“I’m sorry,” Noah says softly. “I thought we were past this by now. I keep forgetting you’re sometimes still afraid of me. But I promise I will never, ever hurt you.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep!
my mind screams at him, but I only nod and concentrate on breathing. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to trust him, but I haven’t reached that point yet and I may never.

“That’s my guy,” Noah says softly and even I recognize the pleased tone in his voice, the smile I’m too embarrassed and shy to look up and see. “Another win.”

A few beats of silence pass before he speaks again. “So, Christmas is coming up pretty soon, huh? Do you and Sam have big family plans?”

I shake my head, forcing away all the images that try to fill my mind. Christmases long past: a couple of good ones, but mostly selections of bad and worse. “We don’t have any family,” I answer quietly.

Noah brings his knees up, leans his chest on them and wraps his long, strong arms around his shins. I notice with fascination that as his shirt obeys the call of gravity and falls away from his chest, I can see a sprinkle of golden chest hair shimmering against his smooth, tight skin. I want to look away, but I’m fascinated by the thought of how that hair and that skin would feel against my fingers.

I feel heat race in my face at the track my thought are taking. I know I have to get those thoughts out of my head. It’s far too dangerous to have them out there where any change in my demeanor could alert Noah to them. I take a quick drink of the slowly warming Frappuccino and try to pull my mind out of the gutter.

“I’m willing to share my family, if you want some more. My little brother’s a pain in the ass right now, but he’s a good kid. I guess it comes with being fourteen. I thought I knew it all then, too.”

I grimace at the thought. Plenty of fourteen-year-old punks have been in and out of the bookstore. Not a single one of them would I want to claim to know, much less be related to.

Noah laughs. “You know, it might be perfect. You’d never have to speak again. We can’t get Luke to shut up.”

I giggle, thinking of Sam at that age. There was only one sure-fire way to get him to shut up—and to blush fiercely. “Ask him about girls.”

The sound of Noah's answering laugh is cut off by the noise of the store’s back door opening. Still giggling, I look up to see Sam staring at me as he comes out the door. His gaze quickly takes note of Noah sitting across the alley laughing. The stunned and confused expressions that cross Sam’s face, especially when compared to the mental image I’d just had of the guilty, embarrassed expression on his fourteen-year-old face, cause me to dissolve into a genuine giggle fit. I’m beyond help; I can’t control it.

Sam steps fully out the door and stares at me like he’s never seen me before. Then he strides over to Noah, who is laughing harder now, probably because of my giggles, and offers his hand. After a quick glance my way, Noah shakes Sam’s hand but remains seated on the cold, cracked concrete.

“Noah, right?” At his nod, Sam continues. “It’s nice to see you again, I think. What did you do to this one,” he indicates me with a toss of his head, “give him laughing gas?”

My giggle fit intensifies as Sam looks back at me, totally mystified.

Noah grins up at him. “Honestly, I have no idea. We were talking about Christmas and my little brother and he just started doing this.” He looks at me again and his laughter starts anew. “I don’t know, man, but I’ll take it.”

Sam gapes at me for another minute before a smile finally chases the confusion from his face. “You know what?” he says to Noah. “I’ll take it, too.”

While those two talk about whatever it is they talk about, I attempt to end my insane little fit. I take great gulps of air and really concentrate on blowing them out slowly, bringing some regularity to the rhythm. Just when I think I’ve got it all worked out and under control, a loud hiccup starts the giggles racing again. It’s the giggle, hiccup, “ouch,” giggle, hiccup, “ouch,” pattern that starts both of the guys into their own second round. Eventually the “ouch” becomes painful and I have to start the calming process all over again.

Finally, I mostly succeed and stare innocently up at Sam, trying desperately to ignore the occasional twitch in my lips. Oh, they want to go again, but I won’t let them, silly things.

“Are you done?” Sam asks with far too much amusement in his voice.

I nod soberly, afraid I’ll hiccup again if I so much as open my mouth.

“Good.” He shakes his head, still fighting disbelief, I think. “Are you ready to go?”

“G—
hic
—o?” I parrot—sort of—and frown at the offending diaphragm spasm.

‘Yeah. It’s Friday. Time for your appointment.”

I shake my head. “No. She’s out of town so I’m off the hook, remember? I’m free until Monday next week because of the holiday, then Wednesday.”

Sam nods. “Oh, that’s right.” Then he grins mischievously. “Although, from what I’ve just witnessed, you could use a session today.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Laughter is the best medicine.
Reader’s Digest
says so.”

“Well, here are ten things
Reader’s Digest
won’t tell you—”

“Wait,” Noah interrupts, moving to his knees. “Are you sick?”

And just like that, the joy of the moment is murdered in cold blood. My eyes find the concrete between my feet again and I study it hard, as if my gaze was forced there by a magnet. The last thing I want to talk to Noah Yates about is my need for, or the progress of, my therapy sessions. It’s not that it would come as a surprise to Noah that I’m all sorts of messed up—he has met me—but I’m ashamed to admit to one more flaw before this man. He’s so perfect, I can’t imagine how he could possibly understand how the rest of us have issues that require outside intervention, even if it’s a hopeless case like mine is. Despite Sam and Kendall Moorhead’s best intentions, I cannot change who and what I am. I clamp my eyes shut, focusing on the fireworks behind my lids and shake my head.

“Avery?” It’s Noah again, the alarm in his voice rising.

Another pause I refuse to fill. Finally Sam says, “He’s in therapy.”

The sound of Noah resettling into his usual spot allows me to reopen my eyes, but I dare not look up from the concrete.

“Therapy can be very useful,” he says. “My brother and I went after our dad died a few years ago.” Noah clears his throat. “My mom’s a psychologist. I’ve learned a lot about people from listening to her. I mean, she didn’t talk specifically about her clients, just about how we all have mental scars and how the different theories of treatment work for various issues. Uhm, anyway, therapy can be tough stuff, but I know that without it, I wouldn’t be sitting here today.”

Shocked, my gaze cuts to his. I drink in those hazel depths while trying not to think about what his words might really mean. The thought of Noah feeling the way Joey did is almost a physical pain. Before I can even process the thought, I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here.”

One of his coworkers chooses that moment to call his name. Noah groans. “Looks like they’ve found me. I gotta get back. Do you wanna go in first?”

I nod vigorously, glad to see the end of this suddenly too heavy conversation. I grab my Frap bottle from the bench next to me and get to my feet.

“Wait, Noah,” Sam says, surprising me. “If you’re not doing anything else or could carve out some time, Avery and I would love it if you’d come over for Christmas.”

I gape at him, my mind at an absolute stand still. Never once would I have expected that invitation.

Noah grins broadly, first at Sam and then at me. “I’d love to,” he says. “But only if you’re okay with that, Avery. I’m pretty sure that would mean we’re friends.”