Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
The bed situation—which I’ve tried to put off thinking about for as long as possible—is as expected: awkward.
Just one lonely mattress on a short frame in the corner of the room, placed there like an afterthought.
Noah wouldn’t fit on it by himself.
We definitely won’t fit on it together.
Outside, lightning lights up the sky and thunder chases it, clapping so loud I jump a little.
Noah stands at the window with his back to me, watching the rain with his hands propped on his hips. I get the impression he’s trying to figure out some way to get us out of this situation, but short of walking home, we’re stuck here overnight.
He’s probably not impressed by the bed situation either. He’s likely already imagining all the aches and pains he’ll wake up with tomorrow morning. I wish I could think of some way to help.
There’s a soft knock on the door and then Eva steps in with a bundle of clothing in her hands.
She speaks Italian, probably hoping we’ll understand some of it, but when it’s clear we don’t, she walks over and hands the clothes to me, pressing them into my chest so it’s understood that they’re meant for us.
It strikes me suddenly how generous Giuseppe and his family are being, allowing us entry into their home, giving us fresh clothes, a meal, a dry place to sleep.
She’s about to go, to give us privacy to change, but I catch her hand. “Grazi.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. I wish I knew more ways to thank her in Italian. I repeat it again and again. She smiles and ducks her head.
“Vestire,” she says, pointing to the clothes. Then, she mulls something over before testing her English. “Come for cena. Erm…” She’s trying to think of a word, and when she gets it, she grins. “Supper.”
Noah and I thank her again and then she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I drop the clothes on the bed and sort through them. There’s a long dark blue summer dress and sweater for me, pants and a linen shirt for Noah.
It’s not ideal. I don’t have a bra or underwear to put on once I take my swimsuit and cover-up off. Noah will most assuredly not fit into either the pants or the shirt. He has almost a foot on Giuseppe.
We lock eyes and shrug, coming to the same conclusion: beggars can’t be choosers.
I take my clothes and curve around Noah so my back is to him. I stop when I’m a safe distance away and drop my clothes on a short stack of boxes before I start to pull my cover-up off over my head.
We give each other privacy as we change. I don’t see an inch of Noah’s skin as he unties his board shorts and slips on his borrowed clothes, but I hear it all. I imagine everything.
For a brief moment, after I’ve pushed down my one-piece, I’m totally naked and my heart races. My skin heats and I go quicker, yanking the dress on over my head and tugging it down until it covers me completely. I look down and blanche. Without the sweater, my cleavage is indecent. I belong in the Playboy Mansion.
Noah laughs and I peer over my shoulder. In the too-tight shirt and too-short pants, he’s mid-transformation as the Hulk, about to wreak havoc on the nice folks in the Marvel Universe. The clothes must be from when Giuseppe was much, much younger.
I laugh and he looks back, sees me in my dress, and his smile melts right off his face. Oh, right. I grab my sweater and make quick work of tugging it over my head. It’s scratchy and thick and much too warm for a summer night in a house with no central air conditioning, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t go down for dinner without it.
“I wish I had a camera to document this,” Noah tells me when we finish and turn to fully face each other again.
“You and me both.” I step closer and wave my hand over his outfit. “The blackmail potential is endless.”
He hums. “I can see it now. Schoolwide newsletter. My photo, blown up, front row, center.”
I scoff. “Give me more credit than that. The newsletter is so…blasé. Barely anyone reads it. I’m thinking flyers. Pasted on every locker. I’d spring for full-color printing.”
He whistles. “That ain’t cheap.”
I shrug. “It’d be worth it.”
If someone asked me my absolute favorite thing about Noah, first, I would lie and say I don’t have a favorite thing about Noah and everything about him is bad. But in truth, it’s this: our ability to riff with one another. When we get going, we’re two musicians playing perfectly in sync. Something just…clicks.
“You’ll boil in that sweater,” he says, reaching out to feel the cuff on my right hand.