Out of My League

Chapter 33 (Izzy)

I was asked to clean up after my shift tonight and I would care, except I get paid time-and-a-half for it.

Money's tight these days, so I'll take every spare dollar I can get.

I'd connected my phone to the restaurant's speakers and had been playing music, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

At least I'm alone, so I don't have to worry about anybody seeing me dissociate from reality whilst sweeping the floor.

The perfect monotony of the broom scratching against the floor draws me back the present - sweep, sweep, step, sweep, sweep, step.

The dinging of the bell over the top of the door alerts me to the fact that we have a customer.

Not bothering to look up, wondering how somebody could've misread our closing sign, I continue to sweep the dusty hardwood floor, keeping time with my rhythm as I say, "I'm sorry, but we closed about an hour ago. We open back up at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Our specials are-"

"I guess it's a good thing I'm not here for a table," the customer replies and, at the familiarity of his voice, my knees nearly buckle.

Putting some of my weight into the broom handle, trying to ground myself, I freeze, feet glued to the floor, eyes wide. I am physically incapable of moving, but I do manage to look up, ever-so-slowly and see exactly who I knew I would.

Still, the site of Noah standing there so casually in jeans and a sweatshirt nearly makes me burst into tears.

He's crazy for being here, for coming all the way from Los Angeles just to see me.

Pushing away my self-centered thoughts, assuring myself that he could be in the area for a baseball game or something similar, I ask, my voice betraying me with its shake, "What are you doing here?"

I can tell by the slight widening of his eyes that he wasn't expecting that question, but then again, I wasn't expecting him to be here so the question is warranted.

"I'll leave," comes his response - the one I wasn't expecting, "But I want to hear you tell me to go."

I open my mouth to tell him to leave, to tell him that I don't want him here, but I can't do that because it's a lie.

And he knows it.

"Guess I'm staying," he grins - the small tilt-of-his-lips grin that sends butterflies fluttering into the pit of my stomach.

It's almost been four months, but the smile still succeeds in accomplishing what I'm sure he meant for it to.

A lump forms in my throat.

After a second, his smile drops and he grows serious, clearing his throat before saying, his voice too quiet in the dim silence of the restaurant, "You didn't say good-bye."

There's so many emotions in those four, little words, so many other things in them that it's clear he wants to say, but he won't, so I won't either.

"I didn't know how," I say, my voice breaking at the end.

I'm going to cry in front of him again and, if that happens, I'm going to be so deeply embarrassed that I'll never be able to look him in the eyes again.

At that statement, his mouth tilts into another tiny smile, "You didn't know how?"

Explaining myself, explaining the reasoning behind my actions, would take more words than the limited amount I'd set for myself, so I only shake my head, praying that he'll keep the conversation going, that he won't mistake my silence for indifference.