Chapter 25
Stella:
My mother's hand reached for the doorknob.
"Mom, wait—" I started, but she was already turning it, already pushing the door open.
She stepped inside, and I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed for the inevitable discovery, for the mortifying conversation that would follow.
But the room was empty.
Perfectly, impossibly empty.
My mother moved further into the room, the diffuser box held delicately in both hands now like an offering, her eyes already scanning the space with that particular brand of maternal assessment I'd learned to dread over twenty-eight years.
The bed sat neatly made, exactly as I'd left it that morning. My desk stood organized, laptop closed, papers stacked in precise piles. The curtains hung undisturbed. Not a single sign that a six-foot-tall nineteen-year-old student had been hiding in here moments ago.
"Oh, this is lovely," my mother said, moving toward the dresser. She set down the diffuser box and began examining the space with approval. "You've kept it so tidy. Much better than your apartment in grad school."
I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind racing. Where was he? I'd sent him in here. He had to be somewhere—
"The lavender will help with your sleep quality," she continued, turning back to the box. She began opening it with practiced efficiency. "You've been looking so tired lately, darling. Are you eating enough? Getting proper rest?"
"I'm fine, Mom," I managed, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
She was just starting to unwrap the diffuser when my father's voice called from the kitchen, tinged with frustration. "Catherine! Honey, can you come here? This coffee machine is acting up again."
My mother paused, her hands still on the unopened box. She glanced back toward the kitchen, clearly torn between setting up the diffuser and helping my father.
"Catherine, I think I broke something!" my father called again, more urgently this time.
My mother sighed deeply. "I swear, that man can't operate anything more complicated than a light switch." She left the diffuser box on the dresser, still in its packaging. "I'll be right back. Let me go see what disaster he's created now."
She swept out of the bedroom, her heels clicking down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Richard, what did you do this time?"
The moment she disappeared, I quickly scanned the room again. The closet door was slightly ajar—had I left it that way? The window was closed. The bathroom door was open, the small space clearly empty.
Where the hell was Noah?
I could hear my mother's voice from the kitchen, patiently explaining the espresso machine to my father. I didn't have much time before she'd come back to finish setting up the diffuser.
Moving quickly, I slipped out of the bedroom and headed to the kitchen. My mother was bent over the machine, showing my father which button to press, while he nodded with exaggerated understanding.
I grabbed a few slices of bread from the counter, some cheese from the fridge, and a bottle of water, trying to look casual.
"Making a snack, sweetheart?" my father asked.
"Just hungry," I said lightly. "Didn't have much breakfast."
My mother glanced at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You should eat more regularly, darling. It's not healthy to skip meals."
"I know, Mom," I said, already retreating. "I'll be more careful."
I hurried back to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. "Noah?" I whispered. "Where are you?"
For a moment, nothing. Then the closet door creaked open slightly, and Noah's face appeared in the gap, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Jesus," I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. "You scared me. I thought—when I came in before and the room was empty—"
"Stella, I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten since last night."he said with a slight shrug.
Right. He'd been stuck here so long, hiding because of my panic, because I couldn't handle the thought of my mother finding him here.
I handed him the bread, cheese, and water bottle through the gap in the closet door. "Here. Stay quiet. They should leave soon."
He took the food and water gratefully. "Thank you," he said softly, and there was something in his expression—genuine appreciation mixed with a hint of apology—that made my chest tighten uncomfortably.
"Just don't make any noise," I repeated, then carefully closed the closet door, leaving it open just a crack for air.
I made a show of chewing, as if I'd just finished eating, when I stepped back out into the living room just as my mother emerged from the kitchen, my father trailing behind her with a cup of properly made espresso, looking proud of himself.
"There," my mother said with satisfaction as the espresso machine finally cooperated. "Crisis averted."
She started to head back toward the hallway, then paused, glancing at her watch. "Actually, you can set up that diffuser yourself later, darling. Just follow the instructions in the box." She turned and settled onto the couch instead, smoothing her skirt with a decisive air. "Now, Stella, I've been meaning to tell you something."
My stomach sank at her tone. I knew that voice. It was her "I'm about to meddle in your life" voice.
"I met the most wonderful young man at the charity gala last week," she continued. "Jonathan Reed—he's a cardiologist at St. Mary's, very accomplished, comes from an excellent family. I thought perhaps you two might like to meet for coffee sometime."
Oh god. Not this. Not now.
"Mom, I'm really not interested in—"
"He's thirty-two, never been married, and he's looking to settle down," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "Your father and I thought you two would have a lot in common. Both in demanding professions, both driven, both at that age where you should be thinking about your future..."
"I'm not looking to date right now," I said firmly, trying to keep my voice level. "I'm focused on my tenure track. You know how demanding it is."
"All the more reason to have someone supportive in your life," my mother countered. "Someone who understands the pressures of a professional career. Jonathan is very understanding about work-life balance. He's quite handsome too—tall, athletic, very well-mannered."
My father cleared his throat. "Your mother's just worried about you, sweetheart. You work too hard. It wouldn't hurt to meet someone nice. Someone stable."
Someone age-appropriate, I heard in the subtext. Someone who isn't a nineteen-year-old student currently hiding in my bedroom closet.
Just as I opened my mouth to insist, to redirect this conversation back to work, my phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a new notification.