Chapter 23
Stella:
The drive back to my apartment was quiet except for Zoe's occasional mumbling and Noah's steady breathing from the back seat.
I kept glancing at him in the mirror, watching the way the streetlights played across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the dark fan of his eyelashes.
Getting them upstairs was another adventure. Zoe could barely walk in a straight line, and Noah had to half-carry her while I dealt with the elevator and my apartment door. By the time we got inside, I was exhausted.
"Guest rooms are down the hall," I told Noah, pointing. "Take your pick—second or third door on the left."
"Thanks," he said, already steering Zoe toward the nearest bedroom. "Let me just get her settled first."
"I'll get her changed," I told Noah, already grabbing a set of clean clothes from my drawer—soft yoga pants and an old SCU sweatshirt. "You can wait outside."
He nodded gratefully and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
Getting Zoe out of her dress and into something comfortable was like wrestling with a sleepy toddler. The whole process completely drained my remaining energy.
I opened the door to find Noah leaning against the wall, looking equally wiped out. He slipped past me into the room just to adjust the pillow under her head with surprising gentleness, then quietly backed out.
When he emerged, closing the door softly behind him, I was pulling a spare blanket from the linen closet.
"Other guest room's all yours," I said, holding out the blanket.
He took it with a nod, but instead of heading down the hall, he sank onto my couch. "Just need a minute," he mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Headache's killing me..."
"Noah, the bedroom's right there—"
But his head tipped back against the cushions, one arm falling slack over the armrest. The blanket slipped from his loosening grip onto the floor.
I stood there, staring at him. Tried to calculate if I could physically move a six-foot-something unconscious college student and decided that was a terrible idea on multiple levels.
I retrieved the fallen blanket and draped it over him.
This was fine. He'd wake up in a few hours with a sore neck, realize his mistake, and move to the actual bedroom.
I retreated to my bedroom and closed the door, as if that could somehow contain the situation to the living room where it belonged.
--
The apartment was too quiet.
I stood in my kitchen, staring at the coffee maker as it hissed and gurgled.
Through the open doorway, I could see him.
Noah was still sprawled across my sectional, one arm flung over his eyes, his dress shirt from last night wrinkled and half-untucked. The throw blanket I'd given him had partially slipped off, one corner dragging on the floor. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
I looked away, focusing on the dark liquid filling my mug. This was fine. Zoe would wake up, they'd both leave, and I could pretend this never happened. Just a few more hours.
"Oh god, kill me now."
I turned to find Zoe stumbling out of the guest bedroom, looking like she'd lost a fight with a tornado. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, last night's mascara smudged into raccoon circles around her eyes. She made a beeline for the kitchen island and collapsed onto a barstool with a groan.
"Here." I slid a glass of water and two Advil across the counter.
"You're a saint." She downed both pills and drained half the glass. "Remind me why I thought ordering that second bottle was a good idea?"
"Because Noah goaded you into it."
"Right. My baby brother, the evil genius." She pressed her palms against her eyes. "Is he still—" She gestured vaguely toward the living room.
"Hasn't moved."
"Of course not. He could sleep through a hurricane." Zoe's phone buzzed on the counter. Then buzzed again. And again. Her face went pale as she grabbed it. "No. No no no."
I watched her expression shift from hungover misery to pure panic as she scrolled through what looked like dozens of missed calls and messages.
"The Seattle deal." She was already moving, rushing back toward the guest bedroom. "The investor is threatening to pull out. I have to—shit, there's a 9 AM flight—"
"Zoe—"
"I'm so sorry, Stella. I have to go right now." She was shoving her phone, wallet, and keys into her purse, not even bothering to change out of the yoga pants and SCU sweatshirt I'd lent her last night.
I followed her to the door, helping her locate her jacket while she barked instructions into her phone. "Yes, I can be there by this afternoon. Tell them we'll restructure the terms. No, don't—just don't let them walk."
"Your heels—" I started, but she was already grabbing a pair of my sneakers from the entryway closet, shoving her feet into them without bothering to tie the laces. Still on the phone, she grabbed her purse and her own heels in one hand.
Then she paused, covering the phone's microphone, and looked at me with desperate gratitude.
"Stella, I owe you everything. Can you just—" She glanced toward the living room where Noah remained oblivious to the chaos. "Make sure he gets back to campus okay?"
I forced a casual nod. "Of course. Go save your deal."
She kissed my cheek, already pivoting back to her call as she rushed out the door. "I'll make this up to you, I promise!"
The door clicked shut behind her.
Slowly, I turned toward the living room.
Noah hadn't moved. He was still sprawled across my couch, completely dead to the world, his face peaceful in sleep. Morning light filtered through the windows, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheek.
I looked away. This was fine. He'd wake up eventually, I'd point him toward the door, and this would all be over.
I retreated to the dining table, opened my laptop, and pulled up next week's lecture slides.
From the couch, Noah shifted, mumbling something incoherent. The blanket slipped the rest of the way to the floor.
I did not get up to retrieve it.
The morning slipped away in a haze of failed productivity. I gave up on the lecture slides around nine-thirty, switched to grading midterm essays, then abandoned that too. By eleven-thirty, I'd reorganized my bookshelves, wiped down counters that were already clean, and rearranged the terrace furniture twice.
Anything to avoid looking at the living room.
But I could still hear him. The soft sound of his breathing. The occasional rustle of fabric when he moved. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, the air thicker, charged with something I refused to name.
Then the doorbell rang.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I crept toward the door, peered through the peephole, and felt my blood turn to ice.
My mother stood in the hallway, perfectly coiffed as always, holding a Bergdorf Goodman shopping bag.
No. No no no.