CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Saturday, December 8
If you need I’m always here.
Dr. Shields’s text arrived just as I was entering Noah’s building for his famous French toast. I began to type out a response, but then I deleted it and shoved the phone back in my purse. As I rode the elevator, I ran a hand over my hair, feeling the dampness of freshly fallen snowflakes.
Now, as I sit perched on a stool in Noah’s kitchen and watch him uncork a bottle of Prosecco, I realize it’s the first time I haven’t replied to her immediately. I don’t want to think about Dr. Shields and her experiments tonight.
I don’t realize I’m frowning until Noah asks, “Taylor? You okay?”
I nod and try to hide my discomfort. My first encounter with Noah at the Lounge, when I introduced myself with a fake name and fell asleep on his couch, feels like a lifetime ago.
I wish I could undo that decision. It feels immature; worse than that, it seems mean.
“So . . .” I begin. “I have to tell you something. It’s sort of a funny story.”
Noah raises an eyebrow.
“My name isn’t really Taylor . . . It’s Jess.” I give a nervous laugh.
He doesn’t look amused. “You gave me a fake name?”
“I didn’t know if you were a crazy person,” I explain.
“Seriously? You came home with me.”
“Yeah,” I say. I inhale deeply. With his bare feet and the dish towel he’s tucking into the waistband of his faded jeans, he looks cuter than I remembered. “It was a really weird day and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”
A weird day. If only he knew how much of an understatement that was. I can hardly believe I met Noah the same weekend I snuck into the study. That too-quiet classroom, the questions creeping across the computer screen, the sense that Dr. Shields could know my private thoughts . . . And yet things have only gotten stranger since then.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Jess,” Noah finally responds.
He hands me a glass of Prosecco.
“I don’t like to play games.” He holds my gaze, then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Before I can block it, the notion flutters into my mind that I’ve just passed a test. I wouldn’t have had this thought a few weeks ago.
I take a sip of Prosecco. The tangy, sweet bubbles feel welcome against my throat.
“I’m glad you’re being honest now,” Noah finally says.
You must be honest . . . that was one of the instructions waiting for me on the computer screen when I first entered the survey. Even when I’m consciously trying to dislodge Dr. Shields from my mind, she finds a way to sneak back in.
Noah starts to lay ingredients neatly on the counter and I take another sip of Prosecco. I still feel like I owe him a bigger apology, but I don’t know what else there is to say.
I look around his small, gleaming kitchen, noting the heavy cast-iron pan on the stove next to the green stone mortar and pestle and a stainless-steel upright mixer. “So, is Breakfast All Day your restaurant?” I ask.
“Yep. Or it will be if my funding comes through,” he says. “I’ve got the space picked out, just waiting on the paperwork.”
“Oh, that’s really cool.”
He cracks eggs with one hand, then whisks them in a bowl while he pours in a drizzle of milk. He pauses to swirl foaming butter around in a griddle pan, then adds cinnamon and salt to the eggs.
“My secret ingredient,” he says, holding up a bottle of almond extract. “Not allergic to nuts, are you?”
“Nope,” I say.
He stirs in a teaspoonful, then sinks a thick slice of challah bread into the mixture.
When the bread meets the pan with a gentle sizzle, a mouthwatering smell fills the room. There’s nothing better than fresh bread, warm butter, and cinnamon cooking together, I realize. My stomach growls.
Noah’s a tidy cook, cleaning as he goes: The eggshells are dropped into the wastebasket, his dish towel dabs at a few drops of spilled milk, the spices are immediately returned to their drawer.
As I watch him, it’s as if a buffer forms between me and the tension I’ve been carrying around. It isn’t gone, but at least I’m getting a reprieve.
Maybe this is the kind of Saturday night date a lot of women my age experience; a quiet evening in with a nice guy. It shouldn’t be that remarkable. It’s just that we’ve already kissed, yet tonight seems more intimate than a physical act. Even though we randomly met in a bar, Noah seems to want to get to know the real me.
He pulls place mats and real cloth napkins out of another drawer, then reaches into a cabinet for a couple of plates. He slides two pieces of golden-brown French toast onto the center of each plate, then sprinkles fresh blackberries on top. I didn’t even realize he was warming the syrup in a saucepan until he ladles generous spoonfuls atop it all.
I stare down at the food he serves me, feeling a wash of emotions I can’t easily identify. Other than my mother when I go to visit, no one has cooked for me in years.
I take my first bite and groan. “I swear, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
An hour 1ater, the bottle of Prosecco is empty and we’re still talking. We’ve moved to the living room sofa.
“I’m going to Westchester to see my family for Hanukkah later this week,” he says. “But maybe we can do something Sunday night when I get back.”
I lean over to give him a kiss and taste sweet syrup on his lips. As I rest my head on his solid chest and his arms wrap around me, I feel something I haven’t in months, or maybe years. It takes me a moment to define it: contentment.