“Nothing interesting to report, Mrs. Bristol,” I say, and she sighs at me, reminding me, yet again, to call her by her first name, which I just cannot do. It took me years to feel comfortable calling my university professors by their first names—everyone went by ‘professor.’ “I worked hard, took care of the shop.”

  Mrs. Bristol rolls her eyes hard enough that I’m the one that feels the motion sickness.

  “Give me something, Evie! Did you read any good books at least? See any movies that you would like to discuss with me? Anything at all happening in your social life? What about that cousin of yours, Isabella?” Mrs. Bristol asks, snapping her fingers in the air, as if plucking Izzy’s name out of thin air, like some sort of magician.

  “Izzy,” I correct, because Izzy hates her name with a passion, and Izzy is much more fun to say, anyway. “I work a lot, Mrs. Bristol. I don’t really get much time to myself.”

  She frowns at me, and I feel like I’ve gone and disappointed her, like I’ve won all the awards, got all the admissions to the top grad schools but decided to decline them and make my own way. “How is that possible?”

  I suck hard at my bottom lip so I don’t blurt what I want to say, that she didn’t give me much prep time to figure out what was going to happen with the store when she decided to up and leave in the middle of December, right after the Boxing Day rush—our most lucrative day of the year, all that Christmas money bestowed on families and friends getting spent at our humble shop.

  How do I tell her that I look care of everything from day until night because I’m the only one that can?

  How do I tell her I wanted to see it as more of a practice trial run type thing, for when I can take over her lease when I haven’t even asked or hinted that that is what I wanted to do, just left it all up to assumptions and subtext?

  See, this is why subtext is bad. Talking is important, Evie, incredibly important.

  I ignore the flutter of my heart lodged somewhere in my throat and attempt to talk around it.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that, Mrs. Bristol, about the shop—”

  “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about the store tonight. I’ll be there tomorrow, bright and early, and we can talk then. Let’s just enjoy our meals without the business coming into it.” She looks at me as if disappointed that I didn’t do anything particularly interesting while she was gone.

  But honestly, what did she want me to do? Open up a strip joint or a club like something out of The Birdcage? What exactly was she expecting?

  That maybe you’d have a life outside of the store, Evie. There is such a thing as caring too much.

  “Aunt Anna, come on. We just wanted to let you know that everything went well, no catastrophes…” Noah supplies, shrugging his shoulders when I shoot him a death glare.

  As if the code violations weren’t enough… really, that doesn’t deserve to be called a catastrophe?

  I’m practically baring my teeth at Noah, who does the most audacious thing and blows me a kiss, right here, in the middle of the table, the entire restaurant, everyone.

  I freeze, stop, and do nothing but blink at him, my mind a haze of nothingness that I can’t hope to find coherent thoughts in, like trying to see through a sandstorm with zero visibility.

  My heart kicks hard in my chest, beating harder and faster the more I look at him, the more I gaze between the both of them, wondering what’s going to happen now that Mrs. Bristol is back.

  Will my duties be scrutinized and relegated to me just selling books instead of taking over the management side of things like I’ve been doing? What about the accounting and payroll where I’ve kept my diligent records? What about it all?

  What is Mrs. Bristol thinking?

  “But the back door…” I murmur, and Noah shakes his head again, Mrs. Bristol attacking her baby back ribs with renewed vigor while I just sit there, watching the both of them enjoy their meals while my soup begins to get all gloopy and my salad soggy.

  I’m still going to eat it, though.

  “What did you do, Noah?” Mrs. Bristol asks, and I get it, that she hasn’t seen her nephew in a long while, and it’s important to catch up—of course it is, but shit, it feels like the dismissal it so clearly is.

  So I shut up and eat my food slowly and methodically, ignoring the way Noah keeps glancing over to me anxiously, his eyes skittering over my features as if trying to read my mood, while I hope I give him nothing, nothing at all.

  None of this has gone according to plan.

  Noah collectively tells the table about everything else he’s done in the days where he wasn’t working with me, or the few hours at lunch when he would make friends with random strangers while ordering our food.

  He gushes over this Greek patisserie around the corner, and Mrs. Bristol launches into a story about knowing the matriarch of the store, one of the original owners of the building where the Greek family lived on top of the bakery—no work-life balance or separation.

  Now who’s talking, Evie?

  I watch and listen to them both. While Mrs. Bristol still has her accent around the edges of some words, around the word choices she makes, the overall style is the same between the two of them. They overuse the phrase ‘you know,’ as if I’m not listening, as I don’t know what they’re talking about.

  And it scares me a little, because I’m reading this closeness as Mrs. Bristol giving Noah all of my hopes and dreams, wrapped up in that bookstore all while I’m not ignored, not really, but I’m not the center of attention like Noah is right now.

  That could be subtext yes, of course it can be, but I don’t think so.

  I just don’t think so.

  FIFTEEN

  Noah suggests that he walk me home, and I don’t have the energy to decline his offer.

  We walk side by side, dodging into each other’s walking lanes as we walk around supposed patches of ice, staring down at our feet as if we’re trying to avoid cracks in the sidewalk instead of looking at each other.

  Nope, that’s just me.

  Mrs. Bristol got into a taxi that’s going to take her home only after some cajoling and promise of a good tip to take her the ten-minute drive across town to her apartment, and Noah’s the one that’s keeping me company tonight, while the two of us occupy the same space, but feel worlds apart.

  Way to be dramatic, Evie.

  I can’t help it. Everything is going to change again, and I don’t want it to.

  “So…” Noah says, looking over to me when I chance another glance at him. I just nod, waiting for him to continue. “That was awkward.”

  I wince with an audible hiss, kicking at the pavement with my foot, scuffing my boot along the surface. “No, no it wasn’t. That’s your imagination giving you the wrong idea, Noah,” I say, nodding to myself, believing my own special brand of bullshit.

  “Evie, what happened? You completely closed yourself off.”

  “I did not,” I lie through clenched teeth, watching the sidewalk again, like some sort of ice gremlin is going to start attacking my ankles the very second I look away.

  “Would you look at me, please?” he asks, and I can hear in his voice that there’s a thread of panic weaving through his words. I don’t like the sound of it, or that I may be the one that put it there. But honestly, what does Noah have to be worried about?

  “I have to look out for ice, Noah. This is Canada, remember? You’d be dumb to take your eyes off the sidewalk even for a split—”

  The funny thing is about walking on ice especially around this time of year is that some ice is soft enough that you won’t fall, while other patches of it are thin enough that your foot decides that it doesn’t belong to your body and starts taking off in a completely different direction.

  Before I even can clock what’s happening to my body, my front foot, the one that impacted with the ice and slid off to the side and to my right has already stopped moving while the rest of my body has started to follow.

  I get a split second view of the sidewalk getting closer and closer to my face and have the fleeting thought of I’m gonna break my face! before I’m turning just a little bit so the brunt of my shoulder takes the most impact, and I lie there, utterly dazed, unaware if I smashed the side of my head against the sidewalk and I’m only going to start feeling it any second now…

  “Evie? Evie? Are you okay?” Noah asks somewhere above me, but I don’t really pay attention as the world swerves and nosedives, and I turn over in time to throw up my meager dinner.

  So there’s that.

  “Noooo,” I groan after I spit out whatever needs to be spat out. “No, I don’t have time for a concussion,” I hiss, trying to get my arms up underneath me to push myself up, but that causes such a wave of dizziness that I feel like I’m falling off the planet itself, dangling over an abyss.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, moaning out Noah’s name to help me, to do something, and I think he’s moving me, just a little bit, his voice too loud, yet not loud enough.

  Great, great, great. I hurt my stupid head.

  Holy shit—the story of my boring life, nothing interesting happens until I get injured.

  “Shit, Evie, can you open your eyes for me?” Noah asks, his voice going high with panic, but his hands on my arms are steady and sure, and I know he’s not going to let me go flying off into space as the dizziness turns to nausea, and I wish I had conked my head hard enough for me to pass right the fuck out.

  “I don’t want to,” I whimper, my body swaying as I fight to keep upright and center, but all of that’s skewed, or at least it feels that way. “I don’t feel good,” I moan again, slumping over to my side, and I open my eyes to see the sky spinning above me.

  “Come on, let’s get in the taxi and we’ll get to the ER, all right? Come on, Evie,”

  I groan again because he’s not getting it. “I’m going to be sick—” And I slump over onto the ground, and heave until there’s absolutely nothing left in my stomach, but everything is still moving too fast, and I want to die, just a little bit.

  “Just leave me here,” I moan around my tears—when did I start crying? “Leave me here to die, Noah,” I whimper, unable to even look at him as I fight to think of the world as it was before I hit my head, that is, not a hellish ride on the teacup rides at the street fair.

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  “You’re not going to die, we just have to get you to see a doctor, Evie. And I’m literally holding a bag of leftovers, we can use it as a barf bag,” Noah says, and while it makes sense on the surface, and if I had the energy to be embarrassed about upchucking in front of him, I’d be worried that he wants to take care of me in this way.

  Right now, though? I just want somebody to put me out of my misery.

  An hour later, I’ve been seen by the emergency doctor after throwing up one last time, which was nothing bile and the dry heaves that I’m going to feel in my non-existent abs tomorrow.

  I get medication for the nausea—the good stuff—and instructions are given to Noah to keep me under observation for the next little while—as if everyone’s sure that we’re a couple and he’s my boyfriend.

  I just like to kiss him occasionally, when I feel like it, when I feel like I need the pick-me-up, when I want to feel what it’s like to be desired, like my kisses drive him just as crazy as Noah kissing me breathless.

  I just like to kiss him when I want to feel alive.

  It’s not that deep, it’s not.

  Who am I kidding?

  I’m too tired to argue, and now that the anti-nausea medication is starting to kick in, I’m practically dead on my feet.

  But we’re at my apartment’s front door, and Noah is just standing there, looking like he’s about to walk inside with me.

  “Excuse you,” I mumble, eyes drooping with fatigue. I don’t want to fight right now, I really don’t. I was able to text Izzy and Vick on the taxi ride back home, and Vick isn’t answering because it is late, or she’s in one of her gaming thingies, and Izzy is working, and can’t get away.

  I could call anyone of my cousins, but that doesn’t get rid of the immediate problem right now—Noah’s here, and I kind of want him to be here.

  That’s dangerous thinking, Evie.

  I know, I know.

  “Do you have someone coming over to make sure you’re okay throughout the night?” Noah asks, deadpan, and I can’t even shake my head because that hurts, too. I just slump forward, and Noah has to catch me, but he does it gently so my head doesn’t make a rough contact with his chest underneath his coat.

  “I would think that after all this time, that you would have learned to trust me, Evalyn.”

  “Evie,” I mumble, but even I can hear how very tired I sound and am. “My apartment’s dirty. I’m semi-embarrassed, and the other half of me wants to faceplant on my couch and forget the world exists, okay?”

  Noah’s hand is gentle on the back of my head, and I’m due for my first round of painkillers as soon as I down some bread and peanut butter so the pills don’t chew through my stomach.

  “Oh, so you have dirty laundry like the rest of us?” Noah asks, and his voice is filled with mirth, and I find myself trying to get my arms to wrap around him, right here, in the front of my home, not willing to let go just yet. “Shocking, Evie. I wouldn’t have thought your place would be anything but immaculate.”

  “It usually is, but you know, I’ve been working a lot. I hardly have energy to do my laundry and put my clothes away. I haven’t bought groceries in weeks. There’s nothing in there but a jar of peanut butter. I don’t have anything to offer you except a glass of water, and since it’s snowing outside again, you can stand outside with your mouth open and get the same thing,” I sigh, leaning back a little with a little help from Noah.

  His smile is dazzling, and I have to squint at it because it hurts my head, that much happiness and fondness directed towards me while my brain’s been bruised. I huff out an annoyed breath and turn slowly, turtle-slow, and fumble with my keys until Noah asks me if he can help and unlocks my door for me.

  We both stumble inside, and I nearly lose my balance while I try to toe off my boots until Noah makes the executive decision for me to untie my boots and has me lean against the wall to take them off.

  Now would absolutely be the most horrible time for my feet to smell, honestly.

  But I’m so tired, and the nausea has finally stopped completely even though there’s an incessant ache in my head, right behind each eyeball, that I find myself not really caring.

  I have only a flashing neon sign in my head that reads: Noah is in my home; Noah is in my home! that makes my headache ramp up until I let out the breath I’d been holding in shock.

  Noah is definitely in my home for the first time, and I am concussed.

  Great, wonderful, even.

  “I don’t see any laundry all over the place. Are you sure you live here?” Noah asks on a chuckle, and I wish I could turn and glare at him, but I can’t negotiate turns so well right now without falling over—balance problems.

  “I can’t believe I fell down and hit my stupid head,” I groan, walking into my apartment with my sock feet, turning on only one light in the kitchen and squinting at the brightness that I don’t really remember being so bright in the first place. “I’m never going to live it down,” I say, walking toward my bedroom slowly, carefully, as if the floor is made of shifting sand and not engineered flooring.

  “Why are you moving so fast?” Noah asks, and I can feel him move behind me, and when I give him permission to touch me, his hands move to my shoulders, as if he can hold me up if I decide to crumple and fall. It’s nice to be touched this way, even if it doesn’t mean anything.

  “Are you really planning on staying here all night? We have to go into work tomorrow at the same time,” I say, heading into my bedroom, where the bed has been made, but everything else is my version of organized chaos.

  I don’t even care, I don’t, not really.

  “Yes, I plan on staying here all night. Your couch looks more comfortable than the bed I have at my aunt’s place.”

  I want to turn around and look at him, ask questions and try to read what’s on his face, but this is easier, just listening to the tone of his voice without needing the visual input.

  “Yeah? It pulls out into a bed, too, if you want to do that. I need to find you sheets, and a blanket.”

  “There’s a blanket already there, Evie, please. Just get undressed—uh—do you need help with that? I can turn off the lights and just help you put on your pajamas by feel? Shit, does that sound even creepier? It’s not like I’m wearing night goggles or any of that shit, I won’t be able to see as much as you will, so it sounded like a good idea in my head.”

  I snicker and head over to my dresser and get to my sleepwear drawer and start pulling out a new set of hotel pajamas that have polar bears and snowflakes on them.

  “Well, you’re going to have to help me change my clothes because I don’t think I can lean over without falling down, and I’m tired, Noah. So tired,” I grunt as I stop moving and slowly, slowly and carefully start turning around to look at him. “Sometimes I’m tired of my life. You know, my ex-boyfriend, or whatever the hell we were—” I attempt to flap a hand to encompass what that means but don’t have the energy to.

  Noah, however, at least looks like he’s listening to me intently, and I find myself worrying what I’m going to think about all of this come morning.

  “Nobody wants to stay in the clothes they we were wearing while they were at the hospital, no one, Noah.”

  “All right, all right, let me help you. For the record, I want you to know that I don’t think you’re boring.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m going to give you a free show,” I say, the joke falling flat when I read his face. “Look, I’m of sound mind, you’re just a little blurry around the edges. I know what I’m saying. I’ve stopped throwing up, which again, sorry about that, and it would be nice, yes, if you close the lights and you can help me get dressed.”