“We’d love to have you,” she says. “If you’ve got family, we could even have a Friday or Saturday meal.”
“Oh,” I blink, processing. Will Noah and I share the holidays together? I mean, I suppose we will.
“What are your family traditions?”
Her questions draw me back to the conversation and I brace myself for her reaction—but there’s no way around it. “My parents passed away. It’s just me and Stella.” That’s not entirely true—I have distant relatives, but distant is the operative word.
“Well you let me know what works for you.”
“You’re very kind,” I say, meaning every word. “And, I want to be clear, I do care for Noah. Greatly. But I’m aware of the age difference. I don’t want you to be concerned. I’m not looking to?—”
“Age difference? Goodness gracious. Who cares about that?”
“I’m ten years older,” I say slowly—although it’s possible she doesn’t realize.
She waves a hand dismissively. “Age is in the head. As are differences.” She breaks a piece off her muffin. “People can miss out on so much if they get too in their head.”
Her words resonate. I’ve spent so long calculating consequences that I’ve forgotten how to simply choose what feels right—or what I want.
“Look at Art and me. We almost didn’t get together because we thought everyone would judge us. That Noah and Maya wouldn’t accept us. And you know, we built this mountain up in our heads and at the end of the day, no one batted an eye. We almost missed out on so much happiness…and for what?” She looks at her wrist. “I think they’ve had enough time. You want to head up now? We’ll relieve Noah and you two can head back to the house and get some rest.”
11:11 glows on my screen—clean, precise, a quiet omen I can’t ignore.
An omen of new beginnings.
And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what this is.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Noah
Dad’s eyes open—slow, like he’s surfacing from deep water. Machines beep a steady rhythm around him, oxygen hissing softly through the nasal cannula. His hands feel cold when I take them, but his smile is warm, even if it’s on the weak side.
“There he is,” he says.
“You know, if you wanted to see me, all you had to do is say so. This right here is a bit extreme.”
Dad chuckles—briefly—before his hand covers his chest.
“Hurts, huh?” I ask.
“Meh. I’ve had better days. Expect tomorrow will be worse.”
“Clogged arteries, huh? And all those years of eating healthy.”
He grimaces. “I might’ve strayed a little every now and then.”
Growing up, Dad was always about healthy eating. Admittedly, our interpretation of healthy evolved over the years, but he and Mom were the parents who monitored sugar intake, who went so far as to question Gatorade, forcing me to drink water at sports practices.
“Dad, it happens. You’re still pretty fit.” I mean, he’s got a blanket over him, but judging by the outline of his body and his relatively flat midriff, for a sixty-five-year-old man, he’d pass most people’s fit test.
“Yeah, well, something tells me I’m gonna need you to run interference with Linda on that one. Cause we both know Maya will be worse.”
We both grin—me more than him—and silence falls.
“You scared me, dad.”