“I don’t picture you as the type of woman who curses.”
“Did you just call me a woman?” I smile.
“You’re not a girl, so what am I supposed to call you? Young lady?”
That sounds weird. “I don’t know. You probably could have just left that part out completely.”
We laugh again and I bite down on my bottom lip as I climb into bed and pull the comforter up over my lower half. Settling in, hoping for a long phone call. I’m bored, and lonely, and attracted to Noah.
Not the Buzz Noah—Noah Noah.
“You’re a sassy little thing—you weren’t this sarcastic this past weekend.”
“I was nervous this past weekend.”
“Nervous about what?”
I fiddle with the square corner of my white sheets, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. “Why do you think I was nervous?”
I mentally face-palm myself. Don’t be that girl Miranda! Guys hate guessing games and here you are sending him on a merry chase that’s going to end up going nowhere.
Well done.
“I…uh, have no idea. Too many people at the club?”
“It’s Chicago—every club has too many people.” Curious, I wonder, “Do you go out downtown very often? I remember you mentioning that you don’t live there.”
“I don’t. And no, I don’t usually. Sometimes? I don’t know, it depends. I have to be dragged out.”
“Did they have to drag you out on Saturday or did you go willingly?”
“Did you?” Noah bounces the question back into my court.
“No. I don’t think you met my friends Claire and Emily, but they live for the weekends.”
“And you don’t.” He seems to have a habit of making questions sound like statements. Matter-of-fact. Punctuated.
I like it.
“No. I’m a Monday kind of girl. I feel really unproductive on the weekends. How about you?” I’d twirl the cord of this phone if it had one like the phones did when I was younger before my parents let me have a cell phone. I would have to use the one in the kitchen so they could hear what I was talking about, and those times I talked to boys, I would wind that phone cord around and around until my mother couldn’t stand it anymore and gave me the universal sign for Cut it out!
Twirling cords. Flirty laughing. Nervous giggling.
“I had to be dragged out, too. I’m not a fan of crowds. My place has it all, so what reason do I have to leave?”
“So you live in one of those complexes with a pool and gym?” Must be nice.
Noah is silent. Then, “You could say that.”
That’s a weird way of putting it, but I’m quickly learning he is a man of few words.
Man. Woman.
That is how he sees us, not as a boy and a girl.
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you. Claire’s half-drunken words of wisdom echo in my head.
How the hell do I find out if he likes me or not? I can’t come out and ask the poor guy—he’d probably hang up on me the same way he bolted at the stupid club!And he is impossible to read!
If only he’d taken off his sunglasses during our conversation today. Then maybe it would have been easier to tell.
Or not.
He had one hell of a poker face.
“You’re not very talkative are you?” I finally ask him, the art of conversation and being polite more fleeting with every passing, awkward second.
“Not really.”
“So then…why did you call to clear the air if you don’t have anything to say?”
I want to bang my head against the table—he is giving me banter blue balls! First rule of thumb when trying to get into a girl’s pants: excel at witty repartee. Second rule: don’t leave a girl hanging by not asking a follow-up question.
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.
There you go again, Miranda, letting Claire get inside your head.
“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be completely honest. I’m not going to fault you for it, in fact, it could work in your favor.”
“Okay.”
“Are you only calling me because you want me to sell you the rest of my card collection and you’re afraid if you don’t kiss my ass, I’ll sell it to someone else?”
The line is just as quiet as it was before as he considers his answer. “That would seem like the most likely scenario, wouldn’t it?” he comments. “But no, that’s not the main reason.”
“What is the main reason?”
He walked right into that one, except—he doesn’t give me the answer I’m looking for. He doesn’t give me an answer at all.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
This is like pulling teeth.
“You’re right—I shouldn’t have called.”
Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.
“It’s not a bad thing that you called, it’s just confusing. But whatever, it’s okay. I…” I clear my throat and brace myself. “I just want you to know that I wish…”
His “Yeah?” isn’t more than a whisper, and I shiver.
“I wish…” I can’t say it. The words get lodged in my throat, too chickenshit to come all the way out.
“You wish what?” More whispers.
Why can’t I say it? It would be so easy to throw it all out there and never have to see him again!
“I wish Buzz had been you. I wish it had been the real you who came and bought the card that first day.” I stare up at the ceiling with its water-stained corners and crack at the center near the light. “I wish it had been you.”
“Why?” His voice cracks.
“It hardly matters now, right?”
9
Noah
I wish it had been you.
I wish.
It had.
Been you.
No one has ever wished me into any kind of daydream before, and to be honest, I’m not fucking sure what Miranda meant by it, because she wouldn’t explain.
After a few more awkward seconds on the phone, she abruptly ended the call the same way I abruptly ended our hug at the club, disconnecting
