Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twenty-Seven | Part 2

| photo by Fabrice Villard from Unsplash |

Noah walks out of his shoes and sits on the edge of the pool, so he can dangle his feet in the water. He's completely relaxed. So obviously comfortable it makes me sad—and maybe a little jealous—because I should feel at home here too. I hate that I don't remember this part of my life.

"Sucks that we won't get moved in before it's too cold to swim," he says.

His tone is warm but there's a hint of this like...intensity that makes it feel like he's including me in that statement. I'll be welcome here anytime: to plant flowers in his grandmother's fountain, to sample one of his grandfather's homemade vanilla milkshakes. Noah is offering me a place in his life—without hesitation—but our history is proof that it's not going to work out for us. Not if we leave all these questions unanswered.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to call you back," I say. "Not that I called. But..."

"Yeah. That's not a problem, Ally. Take as long as you need, all right? I haven't changed my mind. I'll do whatever you need—even if that means backing off."

"No, that's not what I want. Not at all. I just..." I squat down, meaning to settle, but I can't. I have to keep moving.

"When did you leave Drew's house?" I ask. Loud, because I'm halfway around the pool before I can get the words out of my mouth. "Because if you know everything I know about what a horrible person I was—I mean, I already read that you didn't agree with some of the things I did to Lindsay, but those things were just...they're nothing compared to..."

Ugh. Just ask what you want to ask!

"I want so much to be able to tell you that I'm not that person now," I say. "But I'm not convinced that's true. Because I've made some pretty bad decisions since my accident. All I can say for sure is that I'm trying to be a better person."

Noah watches me complete the lap. He waits until I'm close enough to read his face—which is entirely readable with all the moonlight reflecting off the water, and off the pale concrete patio surrounding the pool. That complex network of multi-directional wrinkles is etched into his forehead, but it's not confusion. He knows exactly what and why I'm asking.

"Lindsay asked for your purse," he says. "I was halfway out the door when Samantha called my name. When I got to my car, I thought about what you said: you didn't want me there because you wanted to keep the mistakes you made before the accident separate from the way you feel about me now."

He lets the thought hang out there for a moment. Waiting for me to nod in confirmation, apparently. Because when I do he says, "It was hard as hell for me to drive away from that house—one of the hardest things I've ever done—but I knew you were safe and I wanted to give you what you asked me for. Did I do the right thing?"

"Yes. Thank you. But. I can't remember the um. Sequence of events? So. I don't know if you heard Samantha ask Drew if...like..." I use my hands to cover my face—which is stupid, because the action reveals my embarrassment, whereas the moonlight probably would've concealed the color on my cheeks. "Samantha asked if Drew and I had um...if we'd been like, together."

"No, I didn't hear that."

I'm almost disappointed. Because I think I'd feel better about the whole sex or no sex thing if Noah had seen Drew's face—or even heard his voice. If Samantha and Noah thought Drew was telling the truth, then I think I could believe it.

"He said all we did was kiss," I say.

I don't know if it counts as withholding information—since I can neither confirm nor deny that anything else happened—but it feels dishonest. So. I guess I need to bring this up in my next session with Dr. Greene.