Nothing Less Page 11

  I stay silent, unable to offer her any words.

  She starts talking again, and I wish I could press a button and turn my ears off.

  “To you he’s a piece of a game. You’re just having fun with him, and he’s just having fun with you. Fun, that’s it,” she says matter-of-factly. “But to me, he’s my other half. He’s the one person I can count on in this world. I have years and years with him, and even though you may think you can, you can’t compete with that.” She pauses. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  For some reason I believe her. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  “I’ve lost my mom and my brother, and my dad is going to die any day now. I can’t lose Landon, too.” Her voice breaks into full sobs, and she covers her face with her hands. Strangers stare at us as they pass.

  When did I become such a shitty person?

  “Please, Nora. Give me another chance to be who he needs me to be.” She wipes her hand across her nose and looks back up at me. Her shoulders are shaking with sobs, and I can’t help but feel for her.

  Who am I to come into their life and tear them apart? She may be awful, but there’s a soft part of her that always drew me to her. I don’t hate her; I never have. I just knew she didn’t deserve Landon. But now that she’s in front of me, sobbing into her shaking hands, who am I to decide that?

  She’s right, I don’t know him.

  She does.

  I don’t love him.

  She does.

  I don’t deserve him.

  And, maybe, she does.

  “Fine.” I pull her hands away from her face.

  She wipes her eyes again and looks at me. I don’t know what else to say to her.

  “I’ll go away,” I promise, and walk away, blending into a pool of strangers before she can stop me.

  chapter

  Sixteen

  Landon

  IT’S BEEN TWO HOURS since Nora left my apartment to get her work clothes. Well, her excuse was that she needed her work clothes, but I’m not completely ignorant of the coincidental timing. A stranger shows up in my apartment, and Nora just happens to know his name? And then she needs to leave for a bit, when she could easily just wake up earlier tomorrow and get her clothes then?

  What a day I’ve had. Nora showed me a side of her I hadn’t seen; not only is she mind-blowingly sexy, she managed to turn off all the noise in my head with the sound of her voice. I felt comfortable, and as stupid as it sounds, I felt confident in my inexperience with her guiding me, telling me I can be who I want to be when I’m with her. The thought of being able to spin a completely new version of myself is strange. With her I can be more than the nice guy; I can be more than someone’s best friend. I don’t have to solve everyone else’s problems and neglect my own when I’m with her.

  My head is throbbing, and my living room is finally put back together. Hardin argued with me for a little bit before he disappeared and came back twenty minutes later with an extra chain lock to put on the door. Luckily for him, he caught Ellen just as she was leaving, and she was nice enough to reopen for a moment to let him buy a lock. I don’t think he would have slept tonight without one, and given that he is Hardin, I could even see him breaking into the store downstairs to get one himself. I think of what he said about Tessa, and how nervous she was after our break-in, and go to the closet to grab my small toolbox to install the lock.

  Ken gave me this toolbox when I decided to move to New York. It’s nothing too special, but it meant something to him, so it means something to me. I could see it in his eyes when he handed me the small red box, and I noted the way his voice changed when he explained the function of each tool inside. I didn’t let on that he was telling me things I already knew.

  I didn’t tell him that I’ve been fixing things my whole life, that I’m an expert. Instead, I let him explain each thing to me in great detail. I even asked questions like “What’s the difference between a Phillips head and a flathead screwdriver?”

  I had a feeling he needed these simple moments with his stepson, to make up for lost times with his actual son.

  When the lock is on and sturdy, I sit down on the couch and turn on the TV. What can I watch to distract me from staring at the clock? I turn on Netflix and scroll.

  And scroll.

  And then, scroll.

  Nothing sounds distracting enough to keep my mind off Nora. While I read the titles of the movies recommended for my account, I curse the irony.

  Julie & Julia and Chocolat are the top two: cooking-related movies, of course. The selections make me think of Nora in her work uniform, and then, out of it. It’s possible that the movies are recommended because of her and Tessa’s history, but I decide that it’s some sign from somewhere. I keep scrolling. Nora should star in her own movie about a beautiful, intelligent, and mysterious woman. A woman who also happens to bake edible heaven. If our lives were a movie, it would be easier to uncover her secrets.

  I think about the movies I used to watch with my mom on the Lifetime channel. As much as I hate to admit it, some of those movies were pretty dang good. They always had insane plots, like psycho babysitters who try to steal husbands, or husbands who turn out to be con artists, sometimes even murderers. If Nora was the star of a Lifetime movie, she could be a spy or even an assassin. In my head, I piece together what I know.

  With her shady trips to Scarsdale, she could be either. From what Google knows about Scarsdale, it’s a pretty wealthy area with an older population. Her family lives in Washington, so it has to be someone else. My phone buzzes across the table and I grab it, reading the name on the screen.

  Dakota.

  Why is she calling me?

  And more important, why don’t I want to answer it?

  Guilt washes over me. I shouldn’t be avoiding her. She doesn’t deserve that. But I can’t keep balancing on this rope between them; eventually I’ll slip.

  Nora’s voice saying “I’ll come back to you” plays and plays in my head. I think about the way her eyes flash with mischief when she challenges me, and the way my name sounds when it comes out of her mouth. I lay my phone on my chest and let the call go to voicemail and continue to make up plotlines for Nora’s Lifetime movie.

  The night I followed her, she changed her clothes before she got off the train. We can refer to that night as the Scarsdale Night. She changed her shirt and took her hair down from its braid. She even ran her fingers through the messy strands, and they bounced on her shoulders. She shook her head, and I remember thinking she should star in a shampoo commercial.

  But enough about her bouncy things . . . I need to focus on my conspiracy theory surrounding this girl. I raise my hand and hold it up over my face and make a fist. I lift one finger for random subway rides an hour away. What else? Hmmm . . .

  She’s had shady phone calls come in while with me and then left my apartment. I raise another finger. As for disappearing, she’s done that more than once, and I would have to be an idiot to ignore the warning signs as I raise another finger. If I get to five, I need to enter witness protection and escape her.

  Speaking of witness protection, is she in it? She does have two names . . .

  Was her ex-boyfriend in the mob or something?

  Does she have a boyfriend now, and if so, is he in the mob?

  I’m not sure why my brain goes straight to everyone’s being in the mob; I’ve definitely watched too many movies. I did watch The Godfather when I was a teenager. More than once.

  It’s amusing to think about, but I’m not one of those people who blame their inability to function in society on a movie they watched at some pivotal age. Tessa made me watch this movie the other night that had a scene where a woman was sitting with her mom, telling her that she failed her by letting her watch Cinderella as a child. That’s what happened to me: I watched The Godfather and soapy Lifetime movies with my mom, and now I’m convincing myself that my girlfriend is an assassin or an ex–mob member.

  Maybe Nora has a
secret child? She is older than me, and she does have that soothing voice. I could totally see her as a mom.

  Maybe she’s hiding something bigger, like that she actually does like Gatorade after all?

  I would rather find out she’s an assassin than discover she’s been falsely throwing shade at my favorite drink.

  I’m getting way, way too creative here. I need something to do.

  Pronto.

  I lay the remote down on the coffee table and sit up. Should I call her?

  She promised she would come back to me. Will she?

  She was looking straight at me. Am I a fool to think that I could tell if she was lying? Can I trust her to actually keep a promise?

  “I promise to not say things I’ll want to erase,” she told me.

  We made a deal. It was set in stone from that second on, and I fully expect her to keep her side of the agreement.

  If she comes back today, I’ll make a promise to myself to trust her. If she keeps her promise, I’ll keep mine. I’ll make sure I give her time to open up to me. Her petals deserve to have time to bloom.

  I busy myself by walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. I should have checked in on Tessa today to see how she’s doing. She seemed fine the last time I saw her. Hardin did, too, aside from choking that dude in my living room. My eyes scan the kitchen, remembering the taste of Nora on my tongue. The sweetness of her fills my senses again, and I grab a cupcake from the pan while I daydream. The way her fingers dug into the countertop when I lapped my tongue over her wetness will forever be etched into my mind.

  The noises she made when she came set off an animalistic need inside me. All I could think about then, and even now, is her. She’s quickly becoming an obsession of mine, and I don’t think I could stop now if I wanted to. Nora’s clothes were all around my kitchen only hours ago. Two hours and fifteen minutes ago, to be exact. She must have grabbed them and changed on her way out. My clothes did look so, so good on her.

  Too good on her.

  Everything she wears looks too good on her. She has one of those bodies that make oversized T-shirts and jean shorts look sexier than lingerie.

  When I take a bite of the cupcake, my stomach growls, annoyed at how long it’s been since I ate. The only thing that’s been on my mind is Nora, Nora, Nora. How can I find out more about her? I bite off another piece of the onion cupcake and walk to my room to get my laptop.

  When I get back to the couch, I have another missed call from Dakota. I flip my phone over so the notification doesn’t distract me and open my laptop. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but my first instinct is to go to Facebook. Facebook is definitely the home base of internet sleuthing. I click on the search box and type in her name. Nora . . . wait, what’s her last name?

  Oh, man. I don’t even know her last name.

  I run my hand over my hair and grab my phone. I tap on my mom’s name and put the phone on speaker.

  She answers on the third ring. “I was just talking about you.” I can hear her smile through her words.

  I laugh. “Good things, I hope.”

  “Of course. We’re here at drinks—well, I’m not drinking, of course—at South Fork, and we ran into Sophia’s parents. We were literally just talking about you; how strange.” Her voice is soft, and I try to keep my voice the same, despite the nervousness creeping up my spine.

  I peer at my laptop and look around the room. Her parents are there, right now, with mine. What are the chances?

  Another sign.

  “Umm, t-tell them I said hi?” I stammer.

  Maybe something will come up related to their last name, since I can’t exactly ask my mom while I know she’s with them.

  “Landon says hi,” my mom says, and I hear muffled voices in the background. A few seconds pass. “They told me Sophia moved back to Scarsdale. I didn’t know that, honey.” I get the feeling that this is something my mom expected me to mention to her.

  If it were true, I would have.

  Why do Nora’s parents think she moved, and what did they mean by “back” to Scarsdale? If I hear Scarsdale one more time, I may lose my mind.

  Maybe I can get some information from her parents. It would help me solve the mystery of her.

  “How long ago did she live there again?” I ask my mom, and I hear her ask them.

  “Just recently. A few months before you moved to Brooklyn,” she says. “They say they send their best wishes to you and they hope you’re enjoying your new city. They’re used to their babies being out of the house.” Then she teases, “I’m not.”

  “Tell the . . .” I pause, hoping my mom will fill in the blank.

  “I’ll tell the Rahals you said thank you, and I’ll call you back later today. Is that all right?”

  Jackpot.

  I type Nora Rahal into the search bar, and a few pages pop up, none of them her.

  “Landon?”

  “Umm, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Mom, love you guys.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch next to me.

  I type Nora’s sister’s name, and hope I can spell it correctly. Stausey Rahal doesn’t appear, but a profile under the name Stausey Tahan does. When I click on the profile, Stausey’s face appears. I know instantly that it’s her; I can tell by her features. Dark green-brown eyes and high cheekbones. She’s slightly thinner than Nora; her face is more narrow, and her lips aren’t as full. I scroll through her profile and quickly discover from the photos and comments that her husband, Ameen Tahan, is a surgeon. He seems to have had quite the career. I scroll through picture after picture of Stausey and her husband holding huge plaques and diplomas with his name on them.

  And I work at a coffee shop . . .

  I should fit right in with this family.

  I manage to navigate through her photos and find an album named “Bandol,” dated two years ago, and click on the folder. At least fifty pictures load onto my screen. Nora’s sister should update her privacy settings. Any crazy person could find out so much about her in just a few seconds. Especially given the pictures she has here. The photo that catches my eye first is of Stausey in a tiny red bikini, kissing her husband, with his chiseled abs, under the stars.

  I keep going to find pictures of Nora. A flash of a yellow bikini catches my attention, and I enlarge the picture. It’s Nora, all right, wearing a strappy yellow bikini that barely contains the curve of her hips. A man is standing next to her; his black hair is thick and heavy on his head. She’s laughing, and his arm is around her waist, holding her to him. I can see the possessive position of his shoulders, and I can sense his ego in the set of his strong jaw. I mean, seriously, the dude could cut a steak with that thing. I brush my hand over my own jawline. I could maybe cut through warm butter?

  I stare at the picture for so long that it hurts.

  Who is he?

  I scroll over the image, hoping either of them are tagged, but no luck. Nervously, I click to the next picture. Nora with her feet in the ocean, a notebook on her lap. She’s wearing the yellow bikini again, but the man from the other picture isn’t in this one. Her hair is braided into two strands, and she’s even more tan here than she is now.

  God, she’s beautiful.

  Someone knocks at my door, and I jump up. Nora, please be Nora.

  I wipe my palms on my sweats and open the door.

  A little surprisingly, it is Nora, dressed in black pants and a red shirt with a plunging neckline. Her lips are painted bright red, and her eyes are lined with dark makeup.

  “Hey,” she says.

  Her lips are so . . . so . . . I can’t form a thought except that I feel immense relief to see her standing here, in my doorway.

  “Hey.” I hold the door open for her and she walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine.

  When I join her inside and close the door, she grabs hold of my T-shirt and presses her lips against mine.

  chapter

  Seventeen

  NORA’S LIPS ON MINE are more than welcomed, if
not exactly the first thing I thought she would do when I saw her in my doorway. But here she is, pushing my shoulders against the back of the door, her breath hot on my lips. Her hands are wild as her body presses against me and I attempt to catch my breath.

  I put my hands on her hips, and her teeth gently pull at my lower lip. I lift one of my hands to cup her breast, and my fingers brush over her hard nipple. She’s not wearing a bra.

  When she pulls away, I reach for her. My back is tight against the door, and she’s stepping away from me. Red stains of lipstick practically illuminate her full lips, instinctively causing me to lick my own to remember her taste.

  “I . . .” Nora starts, stops, searches for words. Her eyes circle the room and land back on me. Her mouth falls open, but she doesn’t speak.

  I don’t think I want to hear what she has to say. She’s good at making excuses for why we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing, and right now I want to ignore what might be right or wrong and just grab her by the waist and pull her to me. Her breasts are full, barely contained by the low cut of her shirt, which is the same bright red as her lipstick.

  “What are you wearing?” I’m mesmerized by the shirt.

  Nora cocks her head to the side and looks at me. She looks down at her outfit and back to me. “Clothes?”

  Thinking before I speak is definitely something that I should work on. To try to wash away that awkward moment, I reach for Nora’s arm and pull her back to me. She doesn’t stop me from pulling her into my arms and holding her.

  “I missed you. When you were gone just now,” I say through her lips on mine. She’s so warm, her body feels like summer nights in Michigan: languid humidity and fireflies twinkling in the yard. I would catch the fireflies in a jar but let them go soon after. Nora reminds me of a firefly, surprising and bright. Not to be kept in a jar. Never letting herself be kept in a jar.