Nothing Less Read online

  Nora’s phone rings, and she stares at the screen. Her face falls. “Damn. I have to go.”

  Right now? In the middle of my Welcome to Brooklyn Tour?

  “Now?” I step toward her, taking her hand in mine. I worry that she may pull away, but she doesn’t. Her hand is warm in mine. I straighten my back and look down at her. “You have to go now?”

  She nods. “I need to go to Scarsdale. I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

  “What’s in Scarsdale? Is that where you’re staying now? You never told me what happened with Dakota and Maggy.”

  Nora squares her shoulders and threads her fingers through mine. “And you never told me why you two broke up.”

  She’s changing the subject again. “I don’t want to talk about Dakota.” I would rather be doing at least a hundred other things than talking about Dakota right now, after our amazing afternoon together.

  Nora leans up on her toes, her lips only inches from my ear. “And I don’t want to talk about Scarsdale,” she whispers. She leans into me, and I melt, warming to her body against mine.

  “I want to know you. Let me,” I say softly.

  Nora lifts her face to mine, and I forget that we’re on a crowded sidewalk. “I’m trying.”

  Her lips are soft as they brush over mine. “I’ll come”—Nora’s words are delicate, and she speaks with her lips still on mine—“by your place in a few hours. Okay?”

  I nod, unable to say much of anything, and she disappears.

  chapter

  Ten

  WHILE I MAKE MY WAY back to my apartment, I can still feel Nora’s lips on mine and I can still smell the coconut scent of her hair. She’s so confusing, so frustrating and addictive. While I’m in the elevator, I briefly consider turning around and heading to the subway. I could find my way to Scarsdale, now that I’ve been there.

  Would she be upset if I did?

  Yes, I’m positive that she would be.

  My apartment is empty when I get there. I know Tessa’s at work, but I assumed at least Hardin would be here. Still, I’m sort of glad that I can have some time alone to think about Nora and who she is, what she’s hiding.

  Would our meal today be considered a date? I paid for it; she fed me. Nora literally fed me, and the memory of it is still scorching through me. I need a distraction. If I sit here thinking about Nora feeding me, Nora kissing me, I’ll go insane.

  I walk into the kitchen and grab a Gatorade and sit down on my couch. Hardin’s binder is smack-dab in the middle of the table. As I move it over, a few pages fall out. I grab one and don’t even bother trying to decipher his scratchy handwriting. What is all this? My curiosity gets the best of me, and I find myself flipping through the pages. It looks like some sort of diary that I should most definitely not be snooping through.

  From that day on, his words bled from his veins. It was unstoppable, no matter how much pressure he applied to the wound. The words bled from him, staining page after page with his memories of her.

  I put the page down and shove it back into the binder. I don’t know what this is, but I’m positive Hardin wants to keep it that way.

  • • •

  I’ve been watching episodes of Arrested Development on Netflix and staring at the clock on the TV since I got here.

  My apartment is quiet. No matter how many random thoughts I try to focus on, time barely moves. Time is one of those inevitable forces that humans can’t control. One of the few things, actually. As humans, we are obsessed with time and the idea of manipulating it. Some of the most incredible stories focus on the idea of time. Usually the idea is that if someone had a time machine, they could change their past and their future. They could become rich and famous or even rule the world. Right now, if I had a time machine, I wouldn’t go all crazy and try to change my entire life, or the world. I would simply fast-forward a few hours so I could see Nora.

  Well, if she still plans on coming, that is.

  Jason Bateman is on my screen trying to keep his dysfunctional family together, and I’m trying to keep my mind off Nora. She was more open today than usual. She told me about her family trips to Europe and her sister, Stausey. It’s weird to think about her family in Europe, sunbathing and eating strange foods and drinking tiny black coffees while I was running around my plat, hanging out with Carter and Dakota, eating Mikesell’s potato chips and drinking water from our faucet. Sometimes I would get a Mountain Dew, and it was a treat. Her reality was light-years from mine.

  A tapping at my door has me on my feet in seconds. When the door opens, beautiful Nora is there, grocery bags in both hands. Since she left me outside Juliette, she’s changed into a black T-shirt and wiped some of her makeup off. Her shirt is so long that I can’t tell whether she’s wearing shorts . . . not that that it would be a problem if she wasn’t.

  Her hair is braided now, and draped over her shoulder. She’s wearing black sandals, with two straps covering the span of her feet. The buckle reminds me of a Pilgrim’s belt.

  My words come before I can stop them: “You are so beautiful.”

  I don’t mind, and she doesn’t seem to, either. Her eyes fall to the floor, and she smiles. For the first time since I’ve met her, her smile is unguarded. It’s completely natural, like walking or speaking, and it’s beautiful and I love her.

  Well, I don’t love her. I barely know her, but she has a smile that would make any man believe he loves her.

  “Hi, Landon.” Nora walks past me and into the apartment. The energy inside my place changes with every step she takes. She makes things brighter. The ceiling even seems higher when she’s around.

  Instead of sharing that information, I respond with a simple “Hi” of my own.

  We’re both quiet as we go into the kitchen and I help her with the bags. She grabs one from me and puts it on the counter closest to the stove, a few feet away from me.

  I start pulling things out of the brown paper bags: an onion, a bottle of olive oil. “What is all this? Did Tessa have you stop by the store or something?” I pull out a wheel of cheese. Goat cheese, to be exact.

  Nora opens the fridge and sets a half gallon of milk on the top shelf. “No. I’m going to make cupcakes.”

  I lift the next item up to my face. Fig spread. “With figs?” I point to the onion on the counter. “And an onion?”

  She nods, closes the fridge, and walks over to me. “Yes, and yes.”

  Doesn’t sound like a very good cupcake, but, sure.

  As she moves around my kitchen, I’m fascinated by the way she moves, so self-assured, so comfortable in her own skin. When she lifts her arms to open the cabinet, a pair of dark denim shorts peeks out from beneath her oversized black T-shirt. So there is something under there. Which is . . . fine.

  She hasn’t made a peep in a few minutes now. She turned on the oven in silence; she wiped butter across the bottom of my cupcake pan without saying a word.

  I’m going to have to start the conversation, it seems. She’s standing in front of the stove, the cupcake pan resting on the burners.

  “How was Scarsdale?” I ask.

  She turns her cheek so that I can see her face. “It was Scarsdale,” she responds flatly. “How’s Brooklyn?”

  I smile. “It’s Brooklyn.”

  Nora turns back around to the stove, but her shoulders move up and down ever so slightly as she quietly laughs to herself.

  I don’t know what to talk about. I want to talk about so many things, but it’s hard to walk a tightrope and talk at the same time. I think about the last time we were in this kitchen, her hands squeezing my biceps as she moved her body against mine. The taste of her mouth when she moaned into mine. I reminisce about the curve of her luscious hips as she rocked them on my lap.

  “Is something wrong?” Nora asks as another wave of memories hits me. I think back to the first time she touched me. She was so forward, running her finger down my bare stomach. The air in the kitchen has become so thick with awkward silence and tension tha
t I can barely find my breath.

  I shake my head, lying.

  I sit down at the table, and Nora moves around me to grab the carton of eggs from the fridge. The oven beeps, giving notice that it’s reached the temperature needed to make Nora’s mystery cupcakes.

  She sighs, and I want to scream because I have so many things to say but no way to say them. I want to touch her, but I don’t have the strength to do it.

  “Are you sure?” Nora’s voice is quiet, her shoulders squared. “Because you’re being weirdly quiet, and it sure seems like something’s wrong.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say without risking her fleeing. “If I say anything, you’ll disappear. Remember?” My voice has an edge that I didn’t mean to include.

  Nora turns around to look at me. She wipes her hands on a towel and walks over to where I sit at the table. “What makes you think that?”

  This woman is insane. “You said it. You told me if I try to fix you, you’ll disappear. It’s frustrating.” I pause to make sure her eyes are on mine. “It’s frustrating that I want to be around you, but I feel like I’m walking on eggshells while wearing cleats. I don’t know how to talk to you, or what to say. I know that you aren’t ready to let me in yet, but you have to at least crack the door, because I’m out here reeling, hoping you’ll at least consider letting me in.”

  Nora studies my face. Her eyes move from my mouth to my eyes and back to my mouth again. Her eyes are softer now, her brows slightly furrowed. “Landon”—she takes the seat next to me—“I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I don’t want you to hide the way you feel or be afraid that I’m going to run at a moment’s notice.”

  My finger runs across the wood sticker on the table, which is peeling off. Another IKEA fail, but this time I’m grateful to have it as a distraction.

  “Landon, look at me.” Nora’s fingers are warm when they touch my chin, lifting my face. “Let’s play a game. Okay?” She moves her chair toward me. I want her fingers on my skin once more. Before I agree, she starts again. “The only rule in this game is that we tell the truth, okay?”

  I like the sound of this game, but it seems too easy. “The whole truth?”

  “And nothing but the truth.”

  “So help you God?”

  She gives me that smile that makes me think I love her. “For as long as you both shall live?” Nora says, and we both laugh. “I think those are wedding vows.” Her laugh is natural, like her beauty. “Oops.” She smiles humorously.

  I try to stop my laughter. “I like the idea of this game. But what’s the prize?”

  Nora licks her lips and pulls her pouty bottom lip between her teeth. I watch her suck it for a second. “The truth,” she says.

  I can’t think of anything I would rather be doing than touching those lips. With my lips, with my tongue. Even with my finger. I just want to touch her. I need to.

  I need to touch her like I need to breathe.

  “Whose truth? Mine or yours?” I know that they aren’t the same.

  “Both,” she says with certainty.

  I stare at her with steady eyes. “And when do we begin?”

  The braid on her shoulder is falling loose, tiny hairs sticking out of the bundle. She runs her fingers over it as if she can hear my thoughts. “Now. I go first.”

  I nod in agreement. That’s fine with me.

  She takes a deep breath and tugs on her hair tie. Her fingers pull through her dark hair, unknotting the waves. “When we were at the station in Scarsdale, you said that you missed me. Was that true or not true?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Yes. True.”

  She smiles. I watch her fingers weave her thick hair back into a braid.

  “My turn.” I continue to pick at the chipped edge of the table. “Did you miss me? Truth or not truth?”

  She nods. This feels an awful lot like Katniss and Peeta’s Real or Not Real game. I stare at Nora, waiting for her to actually say the words. She doesn’t.

  “Words aren’t real until you say them.”

  She stares back at me appreciatively. “Not true.” Watching her say so, I can feel my chest ache. She holds her hand up. “I meant that what you just said isn’t true. Words are real when we write them down. Taking the time to make them permanent makes them real.”

  I shake my head to disagree. “Words can still be erased if you write them down. But if you say them, they always exist.”

  Nora leans away, resting her back on the chair. “The words only exist until you don’t mean them anymore.”

  I study her, and I’m cautious with my response: “I promise not to say things that I don’t mean.”

  My hand reaches for hers, but she pulls away.

  She hesitates, then says, “And I promise not to say things I’ll want to erase.”

  chapter

  Eleven

  NORA GESTURES TO THE BUTTER and the carton of eggs she’s placed on the countertop. “Do you want to help me make the cupcakes?”

  “If by ‘help’ you mean ‘emotionally support you through your baking process,’ then, yes, I would be happy to help.”

  She’s amused by my answer, and I love the way her soft laughter fills my small kitchen. I’m no help in the kitchen—my mom can vouch for that. Nora stands on her toes to grab more ingredients from the cabinets. I begin to wonder why she put all the groceries away if she knew she was going to use them. Women are weird.

  “Let’s play my game again,” Nora suggests.

  I go and stand next to her. Her hands are busy measuring white powder in a cup. Flour, maybe?

  The fact that she wants to play her truth game again means she’s willing to share more truths. This makes me happy. I’ve never felt so desperate for information about someone in my life. She says so little, yet I feel so much for her. How is it possible? She makes me question everything I thought I knew about relationships. With Dakota, everything was pretty simple. It took months, maybe even years, for me to realize that what I felt for Dakota was more than friendship. Dakota confessed her feelings for me first, which made it easier to share mine with her.

  “Let’s play my game instead.” I’m not exactly sure what my game is.

  Nora turns to me and licks her lips. It’s like she knows how sexy she is and she uses that knowledge to torture me. This woman is going to make me crazier than I already feel.

  “My game . . .” I search through the pages of my cluttered brain. “My game is that I get to ask you three questions. You have to answer at least two and can pass on one. Then it’s your turn and I do the same.”

  Nora raises an eyebrow and leans against the counter. “And what’s the prize for your game?”

  I look at her and hope that my excitement doesn’t show through my words. “The truth, just like yours.”

  She nods and stares at me, taking me in. “You didn’t change.” She points to my coffee-stained T-shirt.

  I look down and wonder why I didn’t change when I got home. I had time. I lay on my couch for almost three hours. I definitely could have changed.

  Wait . . . I look at her and shake my head. “No distractions.” I take a step toward her. I know her tactics, and this time I’m not going to let her distract me. “Are you scared to play a silly little game with me?” I lower my voice and notice the way her neck moves when she swallows.

  She has a faint cluster of freckles on her chest, climbing up the base of her neck just above the collar of her oversized shirt. I follow the curve of her neck up to her face. Her eyes are on mine, and this time I’m not looking away first. I want to be in control of this game.

  “Nora.” I take one more step closer to her. Electricity hums through me, straightening my spine, steadying my voice. “Are you?”

  She swallows again. Nora’s eyes are wide, and her hands are behind her, gripping the countertop. Her heart is pounding. I swear I can hear the blood rushing through it from here. I reach out. My fingers graze the skin of her shoulder, and I trace a line
down her chest, across where her heart lies and back up to her neck. She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling under my touch. My heart is racing, just like hers. I wonder if she can feel my pulse through my fingers.

  I close the rest of the space between us, and Nora’s body leans into mine. She’s so close. Her eyes never leave mine, and I want to kiss her for the rest of my life.

  Nora blinks, and my heart stops. Did I say that out loud? Please, please tell me that I didn’t actually say those words.

  “I go first.” Nora blinks again and pushes past me. Relief floods me. My mouth can’t be trusted to stay quiet when she’s near.

  She pulls open one of the bottom cabinets and grabs a mixing bowl. “How long do you plan on living here, in New York? What’s the last song you listened to? Where’s your biological dad?” Nora’s first round of questions are solid, to say the least.

  I don’t want to answer about my dad, but I can’t expect her to be open with me if I don’t do the same.

  “I don’t know. I thought about moving back to Washington, but I’m starting to like it here. The last song I listened to was . . .” I pause, trying to remember. “It was ‘As You Are’ by The Weeknd. And my dad, he’s dead.”

  Nora’s expression changes, and I get the feeling she thought I would skip the last question. If she were me, she would have. I wanted to.

  “My turn,” I say before any condolences can be expressed. “How long have your parents been married? What’s the last book you read? How long was your last relationship?”

  Nora’s eyes turn to me. I look away. I know which question she’s going to skip.

  She takes a deep breath and pretends like she’s completely focused on her baking. With another breath, she speaks. “My parents have been married for almost thirty-two years. Their anniversary is in just a few weeks. The last book I read was called Marrow. It was so good and so fucked-up. And I’m skipping the last question.”

  I nod, taking in her answers. I wish she would have proven me wrong, but I’m not going to complain. Not yet, at least.