You, With a View(78)

“What?” My heart is pounding. I don’t know why.

His voice dips low. “I don’t believe in that stuff, but if you’re upset about anything she said, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

I stare up at him, the moon shooting silver through his hair, teasing me with how he’ll look years from now.

A million words sit in my throat, and these are the heaviest: you can talk to me, too. But he won’t, and because of that, I can’t give him anything more than a shaky “Yeah.”

The ride home is mostly quiet, and we step into an equally silent house ten minutes later. Theo heads for the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

I kick off my shoes by the door. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

He grabs a bottle of wine, opening a drawer for the bottle opener. “I’ll take this out to the patio. Meet me there.”

When I slip into the bathroom, I lean against the door with a sigh. The small window above the shower lets in a slice of moonlight, and I breathe in the darkness, remembering the energy I felt earlier. The words Flor gave me.

Am I so desperate for change that I want to believe what she said? Is it pathetic to lay so much hope at the feet of the progress I’ve made these past two weeks, with my photography and how I’m processing Gram’s death, and even Theo? So many times now I’ve thought of the bubble I’ve been living in here. It’s expanding every day, and maybe there’s a chance it’ll survive when all this is over. But I’m starting to worry I’m headed for a painful reality check when I get home.

Frustrated, I flick on the light—and yelp when I see my reflection.

There’s mascara all over my face.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I wet a washcloth and wipe at my cheeks until the streaks are gone. The skin underneath turns pink, then red. Now I look pissed.

But I am, a little. Theo brushed off that whole thing, and I do want to believe it, whether it’s ridiculous or not. I want to believe that I’m capable of being brave enough to keep trying. I even want to believe I’m the person he might turn to when he needs help. Isn’t that what people who care about each other do?

And I do care about him, deeply. Has this trip intensified a feeling that would never survive outside of this, or is it real?

Suddenly I’m questioning everything.

I make my way back to the kitchen, slipping out the door to the patio, which Theo left ajar. He’s sitting on a sleek L-shaped couch, facing out toward the dark horizon. When he hears the creak of my footsteps on the deck, he looks over his shoulder.

“I gave you a big-ass pour,” he says, holding the glass above his head as I come up behind him.

I relieve him of the glass, taking such a deep gulp that I’m breathless when I’m done. Theo raises an eyebrow as I skirt the couch and plop down, keeping a few inches of space between us. “Thanks for telling me I had mascara all over my face.”

He double takes at the tone of my voice. “It wasn’t that bad, Shepard, and we were headed home anyway. You looked like a beautiful raccoon.”

God, this asshole. He makes my chest hurt. “I looked ridiculous.”

“All right, point taken,” he says, his mouth pulling up. “I’ll be sure to alert you next time.”

I nod, swigging again.

“Noelle.” When I look over at him, he’s watching me carefully, his expression morphing from amusement to concern.

“Theo,” I volley back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

For a beat, the only sound between us is crickets chirping. Finally, he says, “Tell me the truth.”

Those words hit me somewhere deep. It’s a more intense version of Tell Me a Secret; the stakes are so much higher.

I’m afraid the bubble is going to pop when I least expect it, and I’ve been through that before. I never want to feel that loss of control again, so I put my finger to it, and I pop it myself. This is my life, and if it’s ugly and he hates it, he was going to walk away eventually anyway.

“You don’t believe what Flor said, but my reading was spot-on. The big expectations that turned into none, Gram being my guidance when I was floundering, and how I just . . . felt uprooted when she died.”

I take him in as I set my wineglass down—the stern set of his eyebrows, the concern glowing in his eyes just below, the way he’s leaning in toward me, ready to catch every word. And there, written all across his face, how he cares for me.

“I don’t have a job,” I say. “I lied to you when I said I did. I got laid off five months ago, and I’m pretty positive it was just a more humane way to fire me. I mean, it wasn’t my dream job by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve never had that. That photography assistant job decimated my self-esteem, and the rest of my professional career has been underwhelming. Then I can’t hold on to some mediocre job I didn’t even like?”

His eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and he sits back, his mouth parting.

I continue, gaining steam. “I couldn’t tell you, so I let you believe this was a vacation instead. I didn’t have a choice at the time. All we ever did was battle against each other to be the best, and thankfully we didn’t see each other for years, so you had no idea how easily you leapfrogged me. But then you caught me at my lowest moment while you were at your highest. I mean, god. Forbes? Really?”