Twenty-One
1984
“I don’t have any valentines,” Noah worried, staring down at the list his fourth-grade teacher had passed out just before the bell rang. “Mrs. Hayes told us we had to give a valentine to everyone in the class. I don’t know what to do. Last year, I pretended I was sick and went to the nurse during the party because I didn’t have anything to pass out. Is your class making valentines?” he asked Mercedes.
“The whole fourth grade is celebrating Valentine’s Day, silly. The whole school is,” Mercedes laughed. “But don’t worry. I have some paper. All colors. We’ll make hearts. I know a good trick.”
They dropped their coats by the door of Mercedes’s apartment, and Mercedes dug her class list from her backpack and assembled the supplies they needed on the kitchen table.
“All right, Noah. Watch,” she demanded. Mercedes folded a piece of pink paper in half, and with a skill that belied her nine years, cut out half a heart. Unfolding it, she presented it to Noah with a satisfied smile. “See? Perfect.”
Noah nodded, impressed, and watched as she cut out several more.
“You cut the hearts, and I’ll write the names on them,” Noah suggested. “I write pretty good.”
“That’s a lot of hearts,” Mercedes warned. “Twenty-five for my class. Twenty-five for yours.”
“We can do it,” he said, confident and more than a little relieved. They worked quietly for several minutes, concentrating on their assignments, Noah carefully crossing out the names on the lists and making two different piles, one for each class. When they were done, they sat back and stared at what they had accomplished.
“They’re kind of plain,” Mercedes said, wrinkling her nose. “They need glitter or something. I wish we had some stickers.”
“We could write something nice on the other side, like . . . a Valentine’s message,” Noah suggested.
“So they look like those candy hearts!” Mercedes clapped. “We’ll write Kiss Me, Hug Me, Love Ya. Stuff like that.”
Noah grimaced and shook his head. “We could just say You’re Nice or You’re Cool. I don’t want to write Kiss Me on any of them.”
Mercedes snickered, and together they started writing short messages on the back of each heart.
“This one says my name,” Mercedes said, holding up a yellow heart from his stack. “I don’t need to give one to myself.”
Noah took it from her hand. “It’s from me, goofball.”
Mercedes stared at him, her brows lowered. Then she cut out one more heart from her scraps of paper. “Okay then. This one’s to you from me. A pink one. Your favorite color.”
“Pink’s not my favorite color.”
She giggled, and he realized she was teasing him. She wrote his name on one side and then turned it over.
“What else are you going to write on it?” he asked.
“It’s a surprise.”
Noah frowned and looked down at the yellow heart he’d made for Mercedes. Yellow wasn’t her favorite color either. He turned it over and thought about what he should write. There were so many things he could say. He could say I Love you. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. But that seemed weird, and Mer would laugh and think he wanted to be her boyfriend. He could write that she was funny and cute and nice. She was all of those things. He thought for a minute longer and then picked up a pencil and wrote THANK YOU in bold across the back. He stared down at the words. They seemed so simple, but he was grateful for his friend. Every day he was so grateful.
“Can I have that now?” Mer asked, trying to see what he had written.
“Maybe. Can I have that?” Noah indicated the pink heart with his name on it.
She pursed her lips, considering. Then she handed it to him. He pushed the yellow heart toward her, suddenly shy.
She’d written two words on the back. YOUR MINE. He knew she’d spelled you’re wrong, but he didn’t tell her. He traced the words with his eyes. She made him smile. You’re mine. Not Be Mine. You’re mine.
“You’re welcome,” Mercedes said, and Noah looked up in surprise.
“You wrote thank you. You’re welcome,” she said again. “But thank you for what?”
“For being my best friend,” he said, shrugging.
She grinned, revealing her two missing teeth. “And you’re never gettin’ rid of me. I’m yours.” She pointed at the pink paper heart in his hand. “And you’re mine.”
* * *
Mercedes found the mugs on her kitchen table with a note from Noah, apologizing for the one he’d smashed. Eight mugs, all powder blue, just like the one he’d broken. But that’s where the similarity ended. Each mug had a pink heart on the side with the words YOUR MINE written across it. You’re was misspelled.
“What the hell?” she mused. That was going to drive her nuts. She stared at the misspelled word, puzzled, and then a memory niggled, and she began to laugh.
She called Noah, and he picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Mer.”
“Hey, Boozer. I came home and found some weird coffee mugs on my table. You misspelled you’re.”
“No . . . you misspelled you’re.”
“I can’t believe you remember that! Geez. You’re a freaking elephant.”
“I still have that valentine in my ammo box. I found it last week when I was cleaning Cora’s things out of the closet.”
Mercedes’s heart lurched painfully. “You should have called me. I would have helped,” she said quietly. “I was going to do it for you. But I didn’t think it was my place.”
“I should have done it a long time ago. I just . . . never got around to it. It was time.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “How’s work?”
She was at a new salon—she’d needed somewhere to take her clients—and the adjustment had been grueling. She’d managed to keep her Mondays open for Gia, but hadn’t carved out a place for Noah, and the time apart had created an uncomfortable expectancy. She knew she’d been quieter than usual. Subdued even, and in typical Noah fashion, he’d given her all the space and patience he thought she needed.
“Work’s fine,” she sighed. “How’s Cuddy?” She’d been as shocked as Noah when he told her Cuddy’s confession. The last month had been fraught with change and new beginnings, but she and Noah were still tiptoeing around each other, not sure where to start.
“Cuddy’s pretty damn . . . amazing,” he whispered. “I like him.”
“I do too. Always have.”
“Mer?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you don’t care that the mugs are a little . . . different . . . than the one I broke.”
“I miss my old mug,” she teased. “It spoke to me.”
He grunted. “I hated that mug. I never knew why you chose that specific one.”
“You hated it?” she said, surprised.
“Yeah. I didn’t like the ‘letting go of things not meant for you’ part. It pissed me off.”
“That was the part that spoke to me.”
He grunted. “I’m sure that’s the part that spoke to my mom too. She was good at letting go. But what about fighting for the things and people who mattered? Every time she used that mug, I wanted to throw it against the wall.”
Mercedes laughed, incredulous. “Well, I guess you finally did.”
“Yeah. I guess I finally did.”
Silence grew between them, and Mercedes knew she should end the call. But she missed him. He’d come to her house to tell her about Cuddy, about the revelation that had rocked his world, and she’d been shocked and attentive, holding him while he talked. But when he’d tried to kiss her, she’d stiffened in his arms, and he’d immediately pulled back, not pressing her. She hadn’t meant to stiffen. She’d been nervous. Scared. And he’d backed off.
“I love you, Mer. I miss you,” he said quietly, pulling her back to the present. “How can I make your life easier?”
“I love you too, but unless you can cut hair and wax bikini lines, I think you’re just going to have to support from afar.” She’d meant to be funny, but instead she sounded like she was brushing him off. Damn.
He sighed. “Will you call me tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promised. And with a soft goodbye, he hung up.
Noah had a staff meeting Monday night and didn’t get home until seven. Mercedes had a client who insisted on seeing her before she went on vacation, and the only time Mercedes could fit her in was Monday evening, so Alma took Gia until Noah could come by and grab her, and another week went by without them seeing each other at all.
When the weekend rolled around, Heather called Mercedes, concerned about Noah.
“He asked me to take Gia, and he didn’t tell me where he was going or what he was doing. He had all of Cora’s things packed up in the back of the car. I know everything’s probably fine . . .” Heather’s voice faded off.
The last time Noah had dropped Gia off for a long weekend with her grandmother, Mercedes had had to drag him from his bed, and the shower scene ensued. Even then, he hadn’t told her what was bothering him. Mercedes didn’t have a lot of faith he would tell her now.
Mercedes promised Heather she’d check on Noah, and Saturday night, when she finished her last client, she drove to his townhome only to find it dark and empty. She let herself in, took off her shoes, and sat down to wait for him. She tried calling him a few times, but he didn’t pick up. She waited for an hour. She made coffee and washed and dried the dishes in the sink. She waited for another hour. She called Montlake, but he wasn’t at work. She called him again. His phone went straight to voicemail. By the time she heard his key in the lock a little after ten, she was almost frantic with worry.
“Where have you been?” she gasped when he greeted her with a smile. He didn’t look strung out. He looked good. He smelled good. He gave her a quick hug and walked into the kitchen.
“I’ve called you a dozen times,” she complained, trailing after him.
“My phone was dead, and something’s wrong with the charger in my car,” he said easily, seeing the coffee and pouring himself a cup.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“I was worried. Where were you?”
“I had a date,” he said easily, throwing the words over his shoulder as he reached into the fridge for the milk.
“A d-date?” she stammered, the words penetrating like a slice from a sharp knife. First the cut, then the realization, then the pain.
“Yes. A nurse from Uni. We’ve been friends for a while. She’s divorced, and . . . she’s nice. And I’m . . . single. I . . . just thought . . . maybe . . . we could,” he stopped, shrugging.
Mercedes turned away, so humiliated, so stunned and raw she couldn’t breathe. And she definitely couldn’t stay.
“Okay. Cool. Well, I’ll be here on Monday for Gia,” she bit out, searching for her shoes.
“Mercedes?”
“See you on Monday, Noah.”
“You’re upset.” He almost sounded pleased.
“I didn’t know where you were. I was scared!” she snapped. She stormed toward the front door. She had to get out.
“I’m thirty years old, Mer. I don’t have a curfew,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. He was so stupid. Such a freaking idiot.
She was going to cry.
She pushed her feet into her heels and grabbed her purse, not looking at him, not looking at anything but the door through which she needed to escape.
She felt him behind her, but she didn’t slow. She dug her keys from her purse as she walked and slid behind the wheel without looking at him again. He’d followed her from the house. He was a dark shadow to her left, lurking several feet from her car. She turned the key, backed out, and drove away, leaving him framed in her rearview mirror.
Since Cora died, Noah had never dated. He hadn’t spent time with any woman. Besides her. At least . . . not that Mercedes knew of. Going out on a date was not a betrayal, not of Cora. Not even of Mercedes. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that they were only friends. But that was before the fire. That was . . . then. She thought he knew how she felt. Didn’t he know how she felt? Cora was gone, and he deserved to move on with his life. And now he was. So why was she crying? Why was she howling in pain, driving through the streets toward home?
When she pulled into her driveway and slowed to a stop, she kept the car running, needing the warmth and the rumble of the engine to cover her anguish. Her duplex was dark and empty, and she didn’t want to be alone. She searched her glove compartment for a napkin and found a crumpled handful. She blew her nose and tried to fix her makeup in her visor mirror, only to give up as her tears continued to fall. Lights swung into her driveway and Noah’s Subaru boxed her in.
She should have known he would come. Maybe she had known. Maybe that was why she was sitting in her driveway, trying to make herself look pretty, even as she cried her eyes out.
She watched him step out, shut his door, and approach her car. He leaned down and peered at her through the driver’s side window.
“Do you want me to get in, or are you getting out?” he asked, raising his voice above the Corolla’s purr.
She turned the key, surreptitiously wiped her eyes, and pulled on her pride. Noah stepped back so she could open her door, and she climbed out, head high, slicking gloss on her mouth and offering him the other half of her slice of gum, the way she always did. The burst of icy flavor helped clear her head. She just hoped the darkness provided sufficient cover for her red eyes and trembling lips.
“Are you crying for Cora, Mer?” His voice was low. “Or are you crying for me?”
Clearly it provided no cover at all.
“I’m crying for me,” she confessed, angry that it was true.
“Why?”
“Because—because.” She ground her teeth. She couldn’t admit it. She couldn’t tell him. But she couldn’t be the other girl in his life. Not anymore. Not again. If she had to move aside and let someone else take his time and his energy, his words and his affection, it would destroy her. It would destroy them.
“Do you love me, Mer?” he asked softly.
“You know I do.”
“Yeah. I know you do. But that’s not what I’m asking. Not the way a girl loves her best friend. Do you love me the way a woman loves a man?”
She was silent.
So was he.
They stared at each other, considering, wary, watchful. The need to run trembled in her legs. The pull to stay was stronger. She was strong enough to hold her position, but she wasn’t brave enough to speak.
“You have been pushing me away your whole life,” Noah whispered. “I don’t know how to read you right now, so you’re going to have to tell me how you feel.”
“What are you talking about?” Mercedes gasped. “How have I pushed you away?”
“You are too honest, and we’ve known each other for too long for you to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Noah’s voice was soft, but his eyes were steely as he looked down at her.
“I have always been there for you. Always. I’ve never let you down, Noah. I’ve tried harder with you than with anyone in my life. I’m proud of who I am with you. I’ve been a damn good friend. Don’t you dare accuse me of anything else.” Her anger was hot in her belly, and it felt good, cleansing. It burned away her cowardice and put words on her tongue. She could work with anger.
“I’m not accusing you, Mercedes. I’m trying to understand you.”
“Well, understand this. I am not your sister or your nanny or your maid or your . . . your one-night-stand . . . or your . . . your—” The tears were gathering again, and she wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him and hurt him. She wanted to hurt herself. She wanted to hurt herself so that she would remember this moment—this pain—and never repeat it.
Then he was there, wrapping his arms around her, holding her so tight the scream died in her chest. She fought him for a moment, arching her back and pressing against his shoulders with the palms of her hands.
“You’re still pushing me away,” he rasped. “Why?”
She froze, realizing she’d proven his point, and she slowly wilted against him. She let him hold her, and after a moment, she raised her arms and looped them around his waist, releasing her pent-up breath and laying her cheek against his chest.
He pulled away slightly, his arms still locked around her back, and looked down into her face. In the pallid light from the street lamps, his blue eyes were as colorless as the dark, July sky.
“When I was a kid, I always thought it would be me and you. I was sure we were soulmates,” he said.
“When did you stop?” she asked, her voice low, sidestepping his confession.
“What?” He tipped his head to the side, confusion playing across his features.
“When did you stop thinking it would always be me and you?” she clarified. He gazed at her, thoughtful, his lips pursed, his eyes solemn.
“Maybe . . . I never did,” he confessed. “I just assumed you would always be there. I’ve taken you for granted, haven’t I?”
“That’s what friends are for. Taking each other for granted and not keeping score,” she said, trying not to cry all over again.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Exactly. And do you know what a gift that is? To feel so safe and so certain of a person that you are able—able—to take them for granted? Most people go their whole lives afraid to be who they are, afraid to be real and vulnerable and human, because they are sure the people they care about will walk away. And that fear becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. In an effort to be perfect, to be loved, they hold it all in. And when they finally lose control—as they inevitably will—they self-destruct. They overdose. They cut themselves. They lash out and physically hurt someone else. Their response is magnified a hundred times because they are dealing with a well of suppressed reactions.”
“You sound like a psychologist,” she whispered, teasing, trying to release some of the pressure on her heart and failing miserably.
“That’s because I am one. But right now, I’m not speaking as Dr. Andelin. I’m Noah, Mer’s best friend, and you need to listen to me.”
She nodded, and he took a deep breath.
“I never feel that way with you. I never feel like I’m holding it all in, and that when you discover the real Noah you’ll cut me out of your life. You know me. I know you. There’s always been a place in my heart that was exclusively yours. A small, private corner . . . all yours. You’ve never let me down, Mer. Never. You’re right. You have been my safe place. My constant. All my life, you’ve cultivated and cared for that little part, that little piece of me that was yours. And I think—I hope—I’ve done the same for you. For more than twenty years, Noah and Mercedes—our friendship—has endured.”
“Things are different now,” she said, aching.
“Yes. They are,” he breathed, and he lifted her chin, pressing his forehead to hers. “If I kiss you, will I lose you?” he whispered, and she groaned, inexplicably angry.
“Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take what you want? Why don’t you just kiss me? Why do I have to give you permission and guarantees and sign a freaking form before you—” Her rant was swept aside by the brush of his lips. He was gentle and tentative, holding her face in his hands, pulling her shuddering breath into his throat, and giving it back to her. For several heartbeats, his mouth moved with hers, no urgency, no pressure, no pain.
In the sweetness of his kiss she remembered the boy he’d been, the girl she’d been, and the tears and the years began to flood her mind and spill from her eyes. His kiss was an extension of the man—kind and careful, giving without thought of gain, and she gloried in the sensation, even as her heart raged, wanting more from him. She had always wanted more from him, and it was time she admitted it. It was time she took it.
“You’re crying again. Why are you crying, Mer?” he murmured against her mouth, and she could taste his frustration. She liked the flavor. It was sharp and tangy, and she licked his lower lip, tugging it between her teeth, hungry for it. She wrapped her hands in his lapels and jerked him against her, desperate to make him understand.
His response was immediate, burying his hands in her hair and taking her darting tongue into his mouth like he’d been waiting all day to taste her. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up and into his body until her feet left the ground and her heart was pressed against his, beating in perfect time. The roof of her mouth tingled, her breasts swelled, and her lips grew deliciously raw from the scrape of his beard and the fervor of his response. He kissed her like he wanted more too. He kissed her like it wasn’t enough to just hold her anymore, like it wasn’t enough to just laugh anymore, to just talk anymore, to just be friends anymore. And it gave her courage.
She freed her mouth and braced her hands on either side of his face, breathless, but needing to confess her feelings before her nerve failed her.
“I haven’t pushed you away. I’ve been holding on for dear life! I don’t know how to show you how I feel. I don’t know how to tell you that I need you. That I want you. That I want you to want me. I don’t want to just be your best friend anymore, Noah. I want to be your lover. Your partner. I want it all. Not the small part or the private corner. I want the whole damn thing, all of you. And I want to give you all of me.”
“Thank God,” he breathed, his eyes clinging to hers. Then he was kissing her again, whispering against her lips. “How long? How long have you felt this way?”
“All of my life,” she answered, each word punctuated with a press of her lips. Noah drew back, surprised.
“Come on, Mer,” he scoffed. “You were interested in every guy but me.”
“That’s funny, Noah. Very funny. I was never interested in anyone else but you.”
He didn’t gasp, but she felt it. She felt his disbelief, his surprise. And his eyes screamed his skepticism. She pushed against his shoulders, and he set her on her feet.
“You were my Noah. Mine.” She thumped her chest, so adamant that he reached out to steady her as she wobbled on her too-tall heels. “You were my best friend. And I wasn’t going to mess us up. You were the most important part of my life, and I was my best self when I was with you. But Cora loved you too . . . and when I held back, she stepped forward. She staked her claim. So I shut it off—all those feelings—and I locked them up tight.”
“Before I left for basic training, I tried to tell you how I felt. I tried to show you how I felt. But you . . . you didn’t act like you wanted the same thing,” Noah stammered, still disbelieving.
“I never wanted anyone else, Noah. But you loved me because I was strong. I was steady. And having your love and your affection was too important to ruin it with sex and jealousy and childish love triangles. I knew that if I gave up all claim on your body, I could keep your heart. That was the part that mattered most to me.”
His eyes were bright, and he swallowed like the words in his throat were too big to say. He hugged her fiercely, lifting her off her feet once more, the way he always had, the way she hoped he always would. “You are so wise. How did you get to be so wise?” he whispered.
“I’m an idiot,” she whispered back. “And a coward. I have been so afraid to lose you that I almost let you go. Again.”
“You are the smartest woman I know. The very best woman I know. And I do love you because you’re strong and you’re steady. But those aren’t the only reasons. Those were never the only reasons.”
He brushed his lips over hers, convincing and caressing, and her eyes fluttered closed.
“Mer?”
“Yeah?” She didn’t want to talk anymore. She wanted to kiss him.
“I didn’t have a date. I lied. I was trying to make you jealous.”
“What?” she gasped, but his mouth returned, kissing her with all the frantic devotion she was feeling, and she forgave him immediately.
“Do you love me, Noah?” she panted.
“You know I do,” he murmured against her mouth.
Frustrated laughter bubbled up from her chest, and she pinched him, pulling back slightly so she could clarify.
“Are you in love with me, Noah?”
“I’m in love with you, Mer. Madly. Deeply. Head over heels in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too,” she whispered, freed. Ebullient. “I always have been. I always will be.”