I walk home in moonlight, feeling absolutely incredible, like I’m standing in a clearing, in a river, in the most awesome shoes, high-heeled even. I know I still have to tell Noah and Dad about Noah’s CSA application, but that’s okay because no matter what happens, Noah will paint again. I know he will. Noah will be Noah again. And I can be someone I can stand to see in a mirror, in an art studio, in a Floating Dress, in good health, in a love story, in the world. It is bizarre, however, that Noah hasn’t responded to my texts. I tried several times too, each time with more urgency and more exclamation points. He usually gets back to me right away. I guess if he’s still out when I get home, I’ll just wait up.
I raise my arms to the bright bursting moon, thinking how I haven’t had a terminal illness in hours and how all’s quiet on the vigilante ghost front too, and what a relief both these things are when the text comes in from Heather:
At The Spot. Noah very drunk. Acting crazy. Wants to jump Dead Man’s! I have to leave in 5. Please come now! No idea what’s wrong w/him. Worried.