The Way We Burn Read online

  “Can I surprise you?”

  He’s asking if he can surprise me. Is it even possible that he’s this perfect? Or does this just mean he’s too good to be true?

  I don’t doubt that everyone who meets Noah comes away with the impression that he’s strong and capable, that he’s a take-charge kind of man. He fairly oozes power and competence. But with me…with me, he’s different. He’s gentle and considerate, almost hesitant, as if he views me as some sort of fragile, delicate flower that he must handle with great care.

  Something in me loves that—that he treats me this way. He doesn’t do it in an insulting manner, as though he thinks I’m incapable of taking care of myself; he does it in such a way that says it’s because he wants to. That this is who he is. That he treats women with respect.

  “Of course,” I say, distracted by my musings.

  It’s way too soon for me to be thinking this way, thinking that I have enough information to be dissecting him and his motives this way. I’ve known the guy for all of a few months. I could be completely wrong about him.

  I could be.

  But, the thing is, I feel like I’m not.

  I hope I’m not.

  Without another word, Noah hails a cab. When a yellow car swerves in toward the curb and stops, my date opens the door and offers his hand to help me inside. Even though he’s just putting me into the dirty back seat of a smelly cab, it feels like a chariot. And I feel like a princess. All because of the man who’s with me. He’s quietly chivalrous. Effortlessly thoughtful. As though he’s done this a thousand times before.

  Only for someone else.

  Probably the someone who haunts the cemetery of his soul. That’s what my gut says anyway.

  My eyes follow him as Noah walks around the car and then opens the other door to slide onto the seat beside me. I listen with half an ear as he gives the driver an address. It’s to an area I’m familiar with—West Jackson Boulevard. It’s a decent part of town, and not far from here, but it’s also a broad place. The restaurant could be any type of cuisine.

  The cab takes off down the street and I settle in. In the car is absolute silence except for the sound of the springs under the back seat cushion creaking as we weave and dart through traffic.

  I want to say something, but I don’t know what to say. So I try to be comfortable in the quiet.

  Noah stares straight ahead, so I pretend to watch the hustle and bustle of Chicago pass by my window. Not for one second, though, is my attention on anything but the man at my side. His brooding silence spawns a thousand questions in my mind, questions it’s too soon to ply him with. Questions that, by the time I can get them asked, will be too late to matter anyway.

  I have a feeling that if things progress between Noah and me, it’ll happen like a hurricane. A deceptively calm, shockingly intense, all-consuming hurricane. It’ll creep up out of nowhere and hit me hard and fast.

  It will be relentless.

  And I will be wrecked.

  A short while later, the driver pulls to a stop in front of a pizza joint. It happens to be a place I love. Of course, so does most of Chicago. That’s how I found it.

  Noah hands the driver some bills and gets out. Always the gentleman, he walks around to the curb and opens the door for me, offering his hand again.

  I take it and step onto the sidewalk. When I straighten beside him, his eyes search my face. “Is this okay?”

  I smile. “It’s better than okay. I love pizza. I love this pizza.”

  Rather than appearing to be pleased that he chose well, Noah just looks…sad.

  Still so sad.

  “Good. Shall we?” He extends one hand, the other lightly touching my lower back to guide me forward. The warmth of his palm seeps quickly through the material of my dress and into my skin, and I hope for a second that he never stops touching me.

  But, all too quickly, he does.

  He ushers me into the pizza place. The instant the aroma hits my nose, my mouth waters. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, reveling in the scent. When I open them, Noah is watching me.

  “Everything okay?” he asks in his somber way.

  “Yeah. Sorry. It just smells so good in here and I’m starved. ”

  He says nothing, merely nods.

  Conversation is stilted once we’re seated. Or more stilted, I should say. And Noah makes no move to rectify the situation.

  I can’t help wondering why he even asked me to dinner, why he didn’t take the out I gave him. While he doesn’t seem conflicted per se, he seems very distracted, like his head is elsewhere. It makes me feel as though I’m a nuisance. Or an obligation. A date that he mistakenly stumbled into and then couldn’t extricate himself from gracefully, so he just came. Humored me.

  And I hate feeling that way.

  I wanted to come. I think I even needed to come. For me, yes, but also for Noah, the quietly troubled man who haunts the back booth like a lost spirit. I thought he might’ve needed this as much as I did.

  But I think I was wrong.

  Maybe his wounds go far deeper than can be healed. By anyone or anything. And wounds like that…well, there are only a few things I can think of that might cause grief that profound.

  One of them is the death.

  I’ve often wondered about that—whether he’s lost someone. That’s how he seems—bereaved. Maybe his wife.

  Could Noah be a widower?

  That would explain a few other things as well. His reticence, his guilt. That sorrowful look in his eyes. Maybe he’s in mourning.

  It’s been months since he started coming to the diner. If he’s still mourning, he must’ve deeply loved whomever he lost.

  And I’m betting it’s a her.

  The more I think about it, the more that makes sense. Nothing has changed since that very first time Noah showed up at Bud’s. It’s always the same when he comes in—like he’s an apparition who’s stuck in the same routine, day after day. Ghosting through life, going through the motions. Haunting the same old place in the same old way.

  He’s never been with anyone when he’s come in either, and for a guy like Noah, that’s highly suspect. Each and every woman I work with, married or single, would gladly keep him company for an hour. Or a night. Or a week. They’ve said as much. So the choice to be alone must be his. And there must be a reason. And if that reason is a dead wife… I might as well have saved myself the trouble of trying to crack his shell. I’ll never be able to compete with that. I’m not sure I’d even want to try.

  That’s why I need to know.

  Before this goes one step further, I need to know. But how can I find out without seeming like a cold, calculating bitch?

  “Noah,” I begin tentatively. I almost lose my nerve when his endless blue eyes rise from behind his menu to lock onto mine. When I don’t continue, he says nothing. Just waits, watching me closely.

  It’s unnerving, the way he looks at me sometimes. It’s almost like he’s searching for something and then looks away when he doesn’t find it. Or maybe he’s searching for someone and looks away when he doesn’t find her .

  My heart squeezes.

  I shouldn’t be so hurt by that.

  But I am.

  That’s why I just blurt, “Why did you really ask me out?”

  He doesn’t seem surprised by my question, but he doesn’t have a ready answer either.

  He should, of course. For me, I can think of a dozen reasons I wanted to come tonight—he’s attractive, I’m drawn to him, I want to get to know him better, he makes me feel…something. And while I’m not super experienced with first dates and the laws of attraction, the fact that he can’t think of one single reason is a very bad sign.

  Finally, he answers my question with one of his own. “Do you want the truth?”

  I frown. “Of course.”

  Noah lets his menu fall away until it rests flat on the table. He brings his hands together on it and begins to rub his thumb over the base of the fourth finger on h
is left hand.

  His ring finger.

  Oh, Jesus! He is married!

  My heart sinks.

  If there’s one thing I’m definitely not, it’s the other woman.

  A homewrecker.

  A cheater.

  I close my eyes, nausea swelling in my stomach.

  “I,” he begins but then stops. He glances down at his fingers and then laces them together, stilling them almost as though they were toying with one another without his permission.

  A habit, no doubt.

  Another wave of sickness sloshes through me.

  “I lost someone,” he says simply, as if that says it all. And, in many ways, it does. It provides me with a wealth of information and explanation. Things I suspected, but really didn’t want to hear.

  I was right. He lost his wife.

  Jesus.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” My response is soft, quiet. Heartfelt. I really am sorry. Much sorrier than I should be, probably. For whatever reason, it guts me to see this man in pain. And he so obviously is. It’s written all over his face, in his posture. In the very air he exhales. It drifts across the table and whispers over my cheeks, bathing them in shared grief.

  I should get up and leave. Just walk away. Right now. I didn’t sign on for this.

  But I know I won’t.

  As much as this is probably a bad idea—a freaking horrible idea—as much as I’ll probably regret getting involved, I’m not ready to give up on him yet. Not ready to give up on the “us” that I feel could be hovering just on the outskirts of his anguish. On the other side of his torment.

  I have so many questions, but now is not the time to ask them. I know instinctively that it will take Noah a while to open up about her.

  His deep, solemn voice interrupts my internal debate. “Your voice, it’s like hers.”

  I gasp.

  Oh God!

  Now that is a red flag. There’s no question.

  A devastating one, too.

  That’s why he frequents the diner. That’s why he sits in my section. That’s why he seems to seek me out. Not because he’s interested in me, but because he’s interested in who I remind him of.

  I’m part of his past, not his future. Or even his present.

  With that revelation, any hope I’d begun to harbor is dashed.

  Quickly.

  Effectively.

  Ruthlessly.

  “Oh,” I say in answer, my throat oddly tight. I raise my menu in an effort to hide from him the excruciating disappointment that I don’t want him to see.

  But there is no hiding from Noah.

  A few seconds later, the menu is gently tugged from my grasp. I school my expression before raising questioning eyes to his. I pray they don’t reveal too much.

  “That’s why I kept coming to the diner. At first. But now… Now I…”

  The dying ember of my optimism flickers hesitantly back to life. Go on, I want to say, hungry for what might come next. I’m all but jumping at the tiny carrot left dangling at the end of his words. When he doesn’t continue, I prompt, “But now…?”

  Noah’s gaze bores into mine, searching. I hold it steadily, boldly. Whatever he’s looking for, he needs to know that I’m Poppy. I may sound like his dead wife, but I’m not. I’m not her. And I never will be. “But now I come for you. Just you.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I have to know. This could be a deal breaker.

  “I’m positive. I come to see you, Poppy.”

  Pleasure, sweet and complete and uncomplicated, flows through me in a wide, raging river.

  I’m so relieved I slump a little in my seat. After a few seconds, for the first time since we left the diner, my smile comes. My real smile comes. “I’m glad,” I confess honestly. “Like, really glad.”

  One corner of Noah’s mouth tics slightly before he takes up his menu again, obviously ready to be done with the conversation. I know I should drop it, too, but not before I extend an open invitation. It might be my only chance to do so.

  “If you ever decide you want to talk about it…about her… ”

  He doesn’t give me time to go on. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  In other words, he absolutely will not. His tone speaks volumes.

  I bite back anything I might’ve said. I’ll have to be okay with that for a while, but if we keep seeing each other, and things turn the slightest bit serious, he’ll have to open up to me. I’ll need to know more eventually.

  But I can wait. For a while, at least. Clearly, he’s been through a lot. It’s understandable that this would be hard for him. So I’ll be patient.

  Even though patience is excruciating.

  Once more, silence settles down over the table. The waitress comes to take our order. She looks to me and I tell her what I want. She nods, jotting it down, and then looks to Noah. She pauses noticeably, her surprise evident. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting to see a guy who looks like him with a woman who looks like me. Tarzan and Plain Jane.

  And he is Tarzan.

  All harsh beauty and rough edges. Compelling in a way that defies description. One glance is enough to make any woman look twice.

  I see her jaw slacken the tiniest bit before she collects herself. Then, amazingly, she turns into a completely different person than the one who first approached our table.

  “And what can I get for you ?” Her voice is even different. It’s like she morphed into the “Happy birthday, Mr. President” version of Marilyn Monroe in the blink of an eye.

  My first—and very uncharacteristic—inclination is to grab her by the hair, throw her to the ground, and kick the shit out of her.

  But that would be insane.

  Funny, but insane.

  I roll the idea around in my mind for a few seconds as Noah places his order. I abandon it entirely, however, when he promptly dismisses her and turns all his attention back to me.

  I squelch the urge to stick out my tongue at her as she scampers off.

  “So.” Noah laces his fingers together in front of him again. “Tell me what I don’t know about you,”

  “Wow! That’s broad.”

  “Start anywhere you like.”

  My laugh is an uncomfortable titter. “Maybe you should tell me what you think you know about me so that I don’t repeat myself.”

  I’m more or less teasing with my response, not thinking for a second he knows diddly-squat about me. However, I’m pleasantly surprised when he actually complies.

  “I know you’re a waitress. I know you’re responsible and punctual. I know you live two blocks from the diner and I know you hate apple pie.”

  I have to smile at the menagerie of things he’s noticed.

  “How do you know I hate apple pie?”

  “Your nose wrinkles the tiniest bit every time someone orders it.”

  I feel a blush heat my cheeks. I’d have been flattered to learn that he’s noticed me at all me over the previous months. But he more than noticed me; he actually paid attention to me.

  Me.

  “Is that all?” I’m playful because he caught me off guard. I’m not sure what to say.

  “No.” His voice is as smooth and calm and sure as the exotic waters his eyes remind me of.

  “Then, by all means, tell me more.”

  Noah tilts his head to study me. When he begins, he seems almost hesitant. “I know you have a sweet smile that you like to use often. I know you’re not entirely convinced you’re as beautiful as you are. I know you love babies and use peppermint lotion after you wash your hands. And I know your skin gleams like porcelain when the sun hits it just right.”

  My cheeks burn hotter. I have to work hard to stifle the brilliant, thousand-watt smile that’s lurking at the corners of my mouth. How can a few observations like that make my heart feel so full, so happy?

  I know why. Because I’ve never been complimented this way. No one has ever bothered to… Well, no one has ever really bothered
with me at all. I’m used to being more of an afterthought than a first thought.

  That’s why I’m not practiced enough to know how to respond to words like these, words so beautiful and so poetic that they make my heart race.

  “I…I don’t…I don’t know what to say” I stammer because my equilibrium is utterly rocked.

  I should say something else. I know I should. But thank you seems trite, and my mind is devoid of anything other than his observations. His words are projectiles hurled by the winds of this hurricane-of-a-man, and they’re battering away at my few defenses.

  Luckily, Noah gives me an out. “Then tell me what I don’t know.”

  I clear my throat, struggling for clarity when I’d much rather just stare at this man in wonder as I let his words consume me.

  “Well, there’s not a lot to know, sadly. I grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. I graduated with honors, but my college plans fell through, so I ended up working in my father’s TV repair shop until he died two years ago. After that, I moved to Chicago to room with my best friend, who had just split from her boyfriend and needed some help with rent.” I shrug, hyperaware of what kind of picture that paints. “I’ve been at the diner ever since.”

  Noah is nodding. “Never been married?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You?”

  My question was reflexive, but I regret it instantly. Noah’s mouth turns down at the corners and his eyes fall to his clasped hands.

  “Sorry,” I hurry to say. “I…I wasn’t… It’s just reflex to ask that when I’m asked, ya know?”

  “It’s fine,” he assures me. After a few seconds, he drags his eyes back up to mine. It’s clear that it’s not fine . It’s not fine at all.

  Once again, his eyes are overflowing with sadness, as if sometimes there’s too much grief for his body to contain and it just pours out through the windows of his soul.

  Noah tries to give me a smile that says it’s okay, but I see right through it. What I did is anything but okay.

  I could kick myself for setting us back this way. Gone is the man who was just telling me about my beautiful smile and porcelain skin. Returned is the reticent man from the diner, and I can’t help but be disappointed. Disappointed and exasperated.