| photo by Eric Mclean from Unsplash |



Mom calls my name in a questioning tone. It sounds like she's halfway up the stairs.

Crap. Noah's car is parked on the street. I've been sitting here reading for at least twenty minutes. I jog out into the hallway and past Lindsay's closed door. Mom stops when I get to the upstairs landing. "I've been calling you, Allyson. Noah is here."

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

She nods and turns. I follow her down, moving even slower than usual because I'm stunned by what I've just learned. Noah visited his mom in Georgia a few days after school let out for the summer. Unfortunately, the boy from New Jersey came to Virginia to visit his dad the same week.

It was the summer before we started tenth grade. But is that the thing Noah didn't want me to know—and if it is, why? It's not like he has anything to be ashamed of.

He's standing in front of the front door like he just got here, so he must've been running late. Which is a relief. Dad steps into the foyer from one of the side rooms and offers his hand. "It's good to see you again, son."

Noah accepts the handshake with a tight smile. "It's good to see you, too."

"I never had a chance to thank you properly for what you did for Allyson."

Mom nods vigorously to this. And her eyes are teary, the way they were when she told me Noah came to the hospital. When Dad finally stops pumping Noah's hand, she launches herself forward and locks him in an enthusiastic hug.

His eyes go wide. His arms drift up uncertainly, like he's trying to decide if he's supposed to hug her back. Then he finds me, standing there mortified on the bottom step, and he gives me an awkward wave—that might also be a plea for help.

"Um, Mom?"

"I'm sorry," she says, letting go. She uses her fingers to wipe the tears from her cheeks; then laughs: a short, nervous burst. "Thank you, Noah. Our family is in your debt."

He gives her a stiff nod, compressing his lips, and it seems a little weird. Like he's uncomfortable with their gratitude. Or maybe just uncomfortable around them, period?

Yeah, probably.

"Come on in," Mom says, gesturing to the family room.

"He can't stay," I blurt. "I mean we're going. Somewhere."

Mom does the rapid blinking thing. She's quick to take control of her expression, but her disappointment overpowers the forced smile. "We don't have to go," I say. "I just...Noah offered to show me around and I thought it would be okay. But if it's not..."

"Of course it is, honey. If that's what you want to do."

There's nothing in Mom's tone or on her face that supports that statement. It is not okay with her that I just got here and I already want to leave. And that look, the sheer dishonestly of it, reignites every bit of the frustration I was feeling when Noah asked if I wanted to get out of here.

He gives me a nod. It's almost indiscernible, but it reminds me of the thing he didn't quite say when we talked at Faircrest: "I'm sure your parents will give you a tour, but if you ever need to get away from all of that..." I still can't say I know exactly what he means, but the confidence in that small nod is all the reassurance I need to propel me forward, past Noah and out the door.

"Do you have your phone?" Mom asks as I work my way down the brick steps.

"Yes."

"Please text me when you're on your way home."

My parents watch us walk to the road. They stand in the doorway while I open the passenger door of Noah's tricolored car and settle onto the cracked vinyl seat. Noah hurries the key into the ignition, and cranks the engine as he stretches the seatbelt across his chest. He pulls forward and stops.

But we've only moved the length of maybe five houses. It's farther than it would've been in our old neighborhood—the lots are much wider here. But still. If I press my cheek against the window, I can see my parents standing on the front porch.

"Can you just go?" I ask, loud and too tense.

"Yeah, but I need you to buckle up first."

Oh. I forgot about the seatbelt. I look up and the metal part is sagging out of its plastic holder. Dangling an inch from my nose. "I'm sorry," I say, untwisting myself so I can sink down into the seat and cover my face with my hands. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, for lying to my parents."

I'm sorry I ever left Faircrest.

"Technically, it wasn't a lie," he says, soft and serious. Not at all mad. "I did offer to give a tour."

That's true. And Mom knows because I told her—maybe more than I should have—about Noah's visit to Faircrest. Which is probably why she guessed it was him calling my phone. "Okay," I say, dropping my hands. And then my shoulders. "Thank you. For um, rescuing me."

"No problem."

I keep my eyes on the front window, but really, I'm focused on what I can see in my peripheral. Noah keeps glancing my way, probably waiting for me to buckle my seat belt, but I don't know if I'm going to stay in his car. I have questions—about the conversation I just read, and the ones I haven't gotten to—but I don't think I'd be comfortable asking him. I should've knocked on Lindsay's door. I should get out of this car right now and walk back to the house.

Noah does something to the gearshift. His hands drop to his lap. "This is the house my grandparents used to live in."

His words unfreeze me. Especially the phrase "used to" because this is new information. I have to dip my head to get a good look at the house in question. The roof has all these extra peaks, and the second floor has an exterior design: dark wood planks that make a geometric design against the tan paint.

"We used to spend a lot of time here," he says.

I nod because that's on my Noah-Dodge list. "It's the reason you started riding my bus. So you could visit them after school, right?"

"No," he says, turning to me with one of those closed-mouthed smiles. Or maybe it's more of a grimace. "The first time I followed you onto your bus I had no idea you lived on this street."

There's a hesitance to his delivery that seems familiar—like in a new way, because it reminds me of the day we met. He said he was afraid to correct me about his drawing in French class but for some reason, he's telling me these truths now. Which is weird, maybe. But it's also...

Empowering is definitely not the right word. But. It does kind of make me feel good to think there are things I know now about those three missing years that I didn't know while I was living them.

"Why did you follow me?" I ask.

Noah looks out the side window, giving me a view of the back of his head. His hair is damp and kind of curling in clumps at the ends. And there are spots on his neck, three of them: brown and perfectly round.

"It wasn't something I planned," he says. "We were talking and I walked onto your bus. You didn't even notice until the driver pulled away from school. You stopped mid-sentence and did that head-tilt thing you do, and then you went back to whatever it was you were saying. When the bus stopped, I stood up and said, 'My grandparents live on this street.' I was just thinking out loud but you took it as an explanation."

Okay, but that's not the answer I was... "Wait—what head-tilt thing?"

Noah starts to turn and I jerk my eyes to the house. "You're doing it right now," he says.

He's right. I straighten my head, and my spine.

"And your eyes get extra narrow when you're trying to figure something out," he says. "Like now."

Noah's eyes flick down—just the slightest bit—but when they come back to mine he frowns. Hard, like with his entire face. "I can't tell if this is helping you, or if maybe I'm making things worse."

"It's not worse," I say, reflexive. But it's true. I might even feel a little better. Like calmer. Or more in control, maybe? "I like being able to ask you questions. And your answers...I mean, I can tell you're holding back sometimes. But when you don't hold back, it seems like you're being honest."

Noah's shoulders sag. "I could've done more that day at Faircrest."

Yeah. I think I already know that. He could've shown me how to find the Yahoo account on my phone.

"Were you able to recover your password?" he asks.

"Yes."

He flinches. Because my tone is a little harsh, I guess. "I'm, sorry, Ally. I wasn't thinking about what it would be like for you to have information you could just read on your own, you know? Without having to deal with people you don't know or remember or whatever."

It would've been helpful to have the information I just read while I was still at Faircrest.

Maybe.

It's not like I told Dr. Greene all the stuff I'd already learned about my crappy relationship with Lindsay. And I don't really regret my decision to come here. So.

"You haven't made anything worse," I say. Then I twist in my seat and find my new house. The front porch is empty. The door is closed. "You knew I needed to get out of there."

It's supposed to be a question—like, how did you know? But it doesn't come out that way, so Noah just nods in agreement and we go back to that awkward silence, where I pretend I don't see him glance at me every five seconds. I get the feeling he's waiting for me to say what's next. But all I know for sure is that I'm not ready to go back to "my" house.

"Any interest in a milkshake?" he asks. He extends his arm, pointing at the dashboard above my knees, before he leans toward it—reaching over me. His sudden proximity brings heat to my cheeks because of The Smell. It's the one they've talked about in just about every one of the novels I've been addicted to since my accident. Except the descriptions were varied: boys can smell like musk or spice or soap. Any or all of these things, combined with the warm, salty scent of boy.

And it's true. Noah's smell is clean. Like soap, I guess, and warm. Definitely warm.

He lifts a latch and the dash compartment flops down, revealing three yellow boxes. And now all I can smell is chocolate.

"These are for you," he says. "Well, two for you to take home and one for the milkshakes."

"Meaning...what?"

"We always put chocolate raisins in our shakes. It's sort of a tradition. Something I used to do with my grandfather." He looks at the house where his grandparents used to live.

Used to.

If I asked, he'd probably tell me what happened to them. But maybe that's the kind of information it would be better to read on my own.

"What do you think?" he asks, turning back to me with a small, sad smile. "Wanna try it?"

I nod and buckle my seatbelt.