It’d been a year since that day he’d left her house after his father had shown up to fetch him. All but dragged him away. It was still so hard to believe. She’d told him they both needed time to process, and that had been true, though the further truth was probably that they’d both be doing that in some way or another for the rest of their lives.
They stood there for a minute, the air thick with all the words she knew they wouldn’t say. All the things for which no words existed, really. And that was okay, she supposed. They both knew. She guessed they always would. She gestured to the table where a thermos of coffee and two white mugs sat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to eat or just have a coffee.”
“Just a coffee,” he said. “I ate earlier.” They both sat, and the waitress approached them, her eyes hanging on Evan. Noelle took a sip from her cup as he told her no menu was necessary.
“I’m so glad you called me,” Evan said. “This is . . . wow, this is great.”
She almost hadn’t. She’d hemmed and hawed for weeks after making arrangements to be in San Francisco for Paula’s grandmother’s funeral. She hadn’t known the woman well at all, but Paula had asked if Noelle would accompany her for support, and she’d been happy to do so. “So tell me how you’ve been,” she said.
Evan poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and then sat back in his chair. She could see what having the money to hire the best plastic surgeons could do. His face held no trace of the beatings he’d taken. His left hand came to rest on the table, and her heart clutched as she saw that that part of him, at least, still held the faint physical proof of his trauma. Her gaze traced the white hairline scars before she raised her eyes to his. He was watching her as she studied the surgical scars. “I’ve been good,” he said. “Pretty good anyway. Stanford is . . .”—his brows moved in two different directions before he decided on the word—“intense.” He smiled, but it appeared tight.
She tilted her head, studying the clench of his jaw, the way one shoulder had inched up. “You don’t like Stanford?”
Evan laughed, his shoulder dropping. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
Noelle’s lips tilted, but she kept her eyes on her coffee as she stirred in another packet of sugar, only raising her gaze when Evan cleared his throat. He squinted out to the street where a woman was going by with a dog almost as tall as her. The woman struggled and yanked on the leash, and it was unclear who was walking whom.
“No, the truth is, I . . . well . . . I hate it.” He let out a breath. “There it is. That’s the first time I’ve said that even to myself. I hate it,” he repeated, as if confirming it for himself.
“Why do you hate it?”
Evan sighed. “It feels pointless. You know, I sit in these classes, and they’re all talking about corporate governance and executive leadership, and I just keep thinking how fucking useless it all seems. It’s like I feel myself careening toward the exact life my father leads, and it . . . fuck, it feels like a death sentence, Noelle.”
The exact life my father leads. His father was a mogul with every luxury money could buy. And yet . . . Noelle understood exactly what Evan meant. “I think it’s fair to say we see the world differently now than most people do. For better or worse.”
Their eyes met, understanding passing between them. He tapped the knuckle of his unscarred hand on the table for a moment. “Yes, but I still don’t know exactly what that means or . . .” He let out a frustrated breath. “How to apply it to my life.”
“I think it’ll take time.”
He gave a small nod. “In some ways, it feels like I started over last year. Like I had to learn to do everything all over again because everything was different. New. A . . . rebirth, only without the innocence.” He gave a short laugh that dissolved into a grimace.
She smiled, too, though. “I relate,” she said.
“And you? How are you?”
“I’m okay. Better.” Except for the nights, but he’d know that. She didn’t think she needed to mention the nights.
He was watching her closely, his expression worried. Knowing. Yes, he understood the things she wasn’t saying. But she was telling the truth too. She was okay. In most ways, she was just fine. “And you’re still in school?” he asked.
“No. I dropped out.” She’d been taking classes at the local community college. She gave a short laugh. “I guess I found the classes useless too. At least for now.” She stirred her coffee again. It’d grown cold, and she’d already had two cups anyway as she’d waited for him to arrive, the caffeine only working to intensify her anxiety. She felt calmer now, though. Her mind had worked her into an emotional tsunami. His presence had ended the internal storm. “I found I couldn’t sit still, you know? Maybe someday that will change, or”—she shrugged—“I’ll find the topic that keeps me there. But for now, I prefer to be on my feet. Moving. Working.” Thinking as little as possible. “I’m waitressing at a sports bar. It pays the bills.”
Evan nodded. “There’s so much you could do. You’ll figure it out.”
She felt the ghost of a smile float across her lips.
“I didn’t expect it to be this long not seeing you,” he said.
“I know. I didn’t either,” she told him. “I guess . . . after I said goodbye to my father, and started the process of figuring out where to go from there, it almost . . .” She trailed off. She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence without hurting him.
“Focusing solely on your own emotions rather than both of ours was the easier option.”
“The healthier one anyway.”
“I get it.” He took his full bottom lip under his teeth for a moment, obviously considering whatever he was about to say. “I went to your father’s memorial.”
She blinked. “You did? I didn’t see you—”
“I didn’t let you. I stood in the back. It was a nice service.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“I held myself back from going to you, so many days,” he said. “But then . . . I started feeling a little bit more on solid ground. And then I was sort of . . .”
“Afraid to see me? To confront those feelings all over again?”
He gave a small smile, and it was sort of sad. “Yeah, I guess.”
She nodded. It had been like that for her too. Seeing him every day would mean staying stuck. In a sense, walking away from Evan had been like another step away from that cage. Away from the person she’d been while she was there. The differences that existed between that girl and the one she’d become could only be understood with distance. And once she’d begun making strides, to even consider moving backward—where, in her mind anyway, he still remained—was unthinkable.
They were quiet for a moment. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about the push and pull of those early days. The spinning desperation. The despair. The longing to be with someone who understood everything. The anger, though that had come later, at least for her.
“And . . . are you dating anyone?” He’d been playing with the edge of a paper napkin, and his hands stilled now as he waited for her response.
She shook her head. “I went on a couple dates a few months ago . . .” Noelle bit at her lip. “But that’s over.” She’d ghosted the guy she’d agreed to go to coffee with, and then a movie. He’d tried to hold her hand, and she’d felt like her skin was crawling.
The air around them seemed to have stilled, the background blurring so that only he was clear and crisp. Her sole point of reference. “Why?” he asked, and his voice had grown soft. There was a scratchiness to it as though something had gotten caught in his throat. “I mean, is it . . .”
“Difficult for me?” She swallowed, her eyes sliding away. “Yes, I freeze up,” she whispered. “I don’t even seem to tolerate hand holding. And . . . I worry that I’m not capable of feeling pleasure. And eventually . . . you know, if things go further with someone, it will take so long . . .”
“He’ll take it personally?” Evan asked.