Without being mindful, I order the smallest portion of veggie omelet. Noah cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t comment. He follows with his order, asking for double of everything.
Soon, she’s gone after placing two glasses of water for us, leaving us in silence. It’s not the uncomfortable kind, though. Just the kind that says I know how you taste.
I take in the diner for the first time since we entered. It looks typical for a diner, with red booths lining the floor, and neon lights flickering outside. There’s an old jukebox stacked in one corner—it has surely weathered many seasons. I’m surprised it’s still working.
There aren’t any patrons either, except for a couple of guys on the opposite end of the diner from us.
It’s late, and with that comes a sense of solace that’s hard to find during the days that mostly stretch too long. That same calm washes over me when I spot the moon hanging in the sky from the glass window as my elbows rest on the table, chin in hand.
Yet, I can’t sit still. All because I can feel the heat of Noah’s gaze on me, burrowing under my skin, not in the way that bothers me, but in the way that makes me aware of the way our knees and feet touch under the table, and how neither of us attempts to detach.
I lose myself in absorbing this rare moment of silence and peace when Noah’s voice catches my attention—not that he has to do anything ever to gain that.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” he questions, his arms crossed as he scratches his beard.
I nod without thinking. “Sure.” I pick up the glass and take a sip of water.
“What did you mean when you said that you haven’t been to a diner in a long time?” he asks,not an ounce of hesitation on his face. I don’t think this man ever second-guesses himself.
I should’ve seen this coming. Noah’s perceptive and undeterred. If he wants something, he goes after it and rests only when he has acquired it. It’s hard not to be the way he is when he’s a goalie. In fact, he’s so successful because he is the way he is.
Therefore, I know dodging or redirecting this conversation would get me nowhere. So, I square my shoulders and prepare myself for the onslaught of some of my worst years.
What I appreciate is that he doesn’t rush me after asking what’s on his mind, silently giving me the space to answer if I choose to.
So, with a deep breath, I explain. “These past few months haven’t been…” I drawl, looking for the right word—one that wouldn’t make him pity me, “the best,” I end up saying.
His brows furrow, quietly asking me to elaborate.
“After I started gaining weight in college, people changed; my so-called friends didn’t want to be seen with me.” I shrug as if the drastic shift in their attitude didn’t cut me open inside. “Who would want to be associated with someonewho looks like me?” A hollow laugh escapes me.
Unable to look at him anymore, my eyes drift outside to the stillness of the night. Not wanting to drag the topic either, I cut my sentences short. “So, yeah, I haven’t been to a diner since college.”
My palms rub my thighs, getting sweaty when he doesn’t say a word, and I don’t know what he’s thinking because I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“My friends stopped asking me to join them anywhere, and it wasn’t fun doing things alone,” I exhale, my breath stuttering as I feel the calm I was feeling moments ago receding.
My eyes stay glued to my hands now, as I fist the hem of his hoodie I’m wearing, hoping it could offer me some sort of support to tide me through this vulnerable moment.
The silence seems to stretch on for eternity until Noah breaks it. “I understand,” he mutters.
My eyes screw shut of their own accord as I feel a fissure form in my heart, the ache blooming. Of course, he understands. Of course, he relates to what my friends did. After all, he’s one of the best goalies and the most eligible bachelor of the Boston Bandits.
This man could have anyone, and of all thewomen he has ever been spotted with, none of them ever looked like me—fat, curvy in all the places I shouldn’t be.
What was I thinking? That he’d side with me. That he’d think that I’m beautiful just because he has agreed to sleep with me.
Noah’s voice again stampedes on the inner monologue, and the shame I had been feeling. “I understand that your friends werefuckingidiots for choosing to ignore what’s right in front of them,” he spits, making my eyes fly open as they land on him while I try to make sense of what he means.
He continues, his jaw clenched and eyes burning, “The people who were supposed to be your friends were too immature and bigoted to realize that they were letting a gem go.”
A gasp gets stuck in my throat, too moved to say anything to him. But he doesn’t need me to say anything because he’s not finished.
“They were prejudiced assholes, and too cowardly to take a stand for what’s right,” his voice rough as if he’s barely hanging on to his anger. The bill of his cap barely hiding the emotions etched across his sharp face. “They were stupid enough to letyougo.”
He uncrosses his arms, sets them on the table and leans forward, His eyes boring right into mine as if peering into my soul. “I’m not, Andie,” he rasps, his face too close that my eyes flick to his lips.
The second he clocks that small movement, his eyes darken—not with anger but with something else entirely.