Page 251 of Hell Hath No Fury

“I know.”

“He never did.”

And while a part of me had always known that, something about hearing it from Noah, who has no real reason to believe it so fiercely, and yet somehow does, makes me finally, truly accept it.

The intensity of our locked gazes are too much all of a sudden, and I look out the open window and gesture to Randy’s seemingly empty house in question.

“He’s at the beach,” Noah explains.

It does nothing to answer my question, though, and then a trace of Noah’s smile returns as he explains. “Well, smartass, we’re going fishing.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

When we were all about twelve, we played an epic game of Truth or Dare.

When I say epic, I mean it. Because we’d played that game more times than I could count. But this time, this time it was different.

Jillian had known about my crush on Noah since the days when we were stuck at the club’s day camp from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon. When we’d detour our routes to activities with the express purpose of passing Noah and Randy’s group of friends. We’d rush to the girls’ bathroom to fix our beach-hair, cover up any acne with the minimal makeup we used at the time, and apply sticky lip gloss we’d regret as soon as sandy breeze began to blow.

Some days we’d miss them. Most days, though, we’d time our moves perfectly, and with our stares concealed by dark, trendy sunglasses, we’d strut our pitiful new curves, carefully acting as if we didn’t even know the boys were there as we passed. Most of the time they were more concerned with beach volleyball or surfing to notice that girls even existed, let alone us. But then there were the times they’d look. When they’d elbow each other in some inside joke that made our barely adolescent selves cheer in triumph, as soon as we were far enough out of sight, that is.

That summer was the first time the girls and boys started hanging out together after camp. When we’d all meet up at the back courtyard of the club’s boardwalk and spin bottles or share the one or two cans of beer someone stole from their parents’ cabana. When we played Truth or Dare.

Surprisingly enough, it was Randy rather than Jillian who dared Noah to kiss me. And while everyone laughed, cheered, and teased, I expected him to make some excuse why he couldn’t or wouldn’t. In fairness, we were still at that awkward age when, though some of us most decidedly did want to kiss the other, we sure as hell weren’t going to admit it. But Noah didn’t even hesitate. He crawled across the circle we were all seated in, and pressed his lips to mine, long and hard. He tasted like cherry ices.

Unfortunately, I was sent into near shock, and by the time I was fully able to even register what was happening, he pulled away to taunts of “get a room,” and Randy’s “I dared you to kiss her, not glue your face to hers,” and, of course, a round of pre-teen hoots and laughter.

But what strikes me now, all these years later, isn’t that kiss. Well, notonlythat kiss. Even though only Jillian and I knew it was my very first. What I can’t stop wondering about is several rounds later, that very same afternoon, when, still recovering from having Noah’s lips on mine, I chose “truth”.

“What is your absolute favorite beach activity?” our friend, Matty, had asked me.

I answered truthfully. “Fishing.” It was the one thing my dad and I regularly did together, and we’d loved it. “Not off the jetties, though, so maybe it’s not technically a ‘beach’ activity, but going out on the bay. Definitely my favorite,” I’d explained, referring to my favorite daddy-daughter activity—the one we’d always taken part in together, at least once a week, every summer since I could remember.

It’s been years since I’ve had the chance to do that, though. Not since my dad went out to pick up our sushi dinner from Nagahama, our favorite Japanese spot one town over in Long Beach, and some drunk asshole blew a red light pulling out ofMac’s bar, ending his life without so much as bothering to stop to see the damage he’d done.

And he’d done serious damage.

The two-seater sports car he rarely got to drive, being a family man and all, was crunched like an accordion, my dad’s very fragile, human body with it. And despite my mom and me both following up with the local police department regularly, even now, years later, they still have yet to catch the asshole.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Randy’s house is located on the bay, with a small dock in the back where he keeps the fishing boat he got for his birthday last year. I saw it docked when he had a party last July, but I’ve never been on it.

“Fishing?” I ask, as if I hadn’t heard him right.

Noah’s grin widens with self-satisfaction, and I know. I know, without a doubt, that he remembers. I stare out at the space between houses, where I can view the Atlantic West Bay, avoiding his gaze, unnerved by my sudden vulnerability.

He’s just trying to cheer me up after the other night. He probably feels responsible or something, simply because he’d been present, and happened to be the one to intervene. Still, the thought means the world to me, more than it probably should, and, for some reason, I’m not sure I want Noah to see that.

As if he notices my discomfort with my feelings, he doesn’t push the issue. He simply says’s “come on”, and makes his way around the Jeep to open my door for me.

Jonah never opened a door for me. Maybe that should have told me something a long time ago. A lot of things should have.

I take Noah’s proffered hand, ignoring the heat of his touch, of the way his palm squeezes mine as I climb from my seat, hating and loving the way his other hand supports my waist as I hop down to Randy’s paver-stone driveway. I avoid eye contact. I’m feeling too much right now, more than the situation probably calls for, and it’s humiliating. Noah is just trying to do something nice, and my stupid heart is being ridiculous by trying to make it into something more.

“Hey,” Noah says, sensing my strange change in mood. He waits until I meet his eyes, and I wish he’d just let me be a coward. “You know, we could do something else if you want. I just thought…”

“No.” I stop him. I get over myself, letting him see me in earnest. “Fishing is perfect, Noah. I…” I swallow hard. “Thank you,” I whisper.