Page 59 of Finding Noah

I shook my head. “Nah, I eat ‘em plain.”

“They're good like that,” she agreed. “But I like them with some raspberry jam.”

“Hmm,” I grunted with a nod as I watched her open a packet of jam. “So, uh …” Don't say it. Keep your mouth shut. “How was, uh … how was your date?”

Fucking idiot.

Meg balanced her croissant on her lap as she removed a plastic knife from the bag. Then, as she smeared the jam over the top of the pastry, she shrugged.

“It was good,” she replied. “He's a nice guy.”

I grunted again. “That's cool,” I muttered, trying not to sound too disgruntled despite feeling downright murderous.

“Yeah,” she said, allowing her lips to curl into a gentle smile. “He took me to this, uh … this really nice restaurant on the water. It was all seafood, and he didn't know I didn't really like seafood, so he”—she started to laugh softly, and my jealousy mounted higher than fucking Everest—“he was so embarrassed. We ended up at this burger place down the street, which was way more casual than we’d planned, so we were all dressed nice in this little hole-in-the-wall, and …” She shook her head, laughing to herself. “Anyway, we had a nice time.”

A lump had formed in my throat at some point while she was talking. I tried to swallow it down, but when it wouldn't budge, I cleared my throat and took a bite of my croissant. No longer did it taste good—nothing possibly could—but it helped pave the way through my tightening throat.

“I'm glad,” I said, but I wasn't. No, I was a damn liar. “You gonna see him again?”

She didn't hesitate to nod. “Yeah, we're gonna go out in a couple of days.”

“Nice,” I said, nodding.

And, you know, it was nice. She seemed happy, and I wanted her to be happy. But, holy fuck, I wanted her to be happy with me. She was never going to be though, and I had to understand that. I had to get that through my thick, fat skull.

We can be friends, I thought. It's fine to be friends.

And maybe, if I told myself that enough, I'd start to finally believe it.

***

“So, let me ask you something,” Meg said a couple of hours later, after we watched a movie together on the iPad she'd brought in her giant tote bag.

“Yeah? What's that?”

She still sat on the folding chair, and I couldn't imagine it was all that comfortable. I was perched at the edge of the cot that felt an awful lot like sleeping on the ground the one time Dad had taken me camping. Bars separated us, and I didn't appreciate the way they distorted my view of her face and the curls I was desperate to tangle my fingers in.

But despite the discomfort and distance, the time I had spent with her in this room only built for one was some of the best hours of my life. It hurt to know they likely meant nothing to her when, for me, I knew they were changing my life, even as they happened.

“What are you going to do?”

I tipped my head with question. “What do you mean?”

She turned in her seat to fully face me and lifted one hand in a shrug. “You know, like, with your life. What are you going to do?”

It was something Mom and Dad asked me regularly in casual, inconspicuous kind of ways. Over dinner, while watching a show, during a weekend fishing trip. They'd throw that question at me without any pressure to respond, and often, I didn't. Because I didn't have the answer I knew they wanted. Silence seemed better than lying. But right here, with Meg, honesty seemed like my only option.

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing,” I admitted, shifting on the cot to make myself more comfortable—if that was at all possible.

Meg nodded slowly, dropping her blue gaze to the beige tiled floor. “You don't … have goals? There's nothing you want to do? College?”

I huffed a brusque chuckle. “The hell would I go to college for?”

“I mean, depending on what you want to do with your life …”

I licked my lips as I hunted for words that weren't coming. “I don't … there isn't …” I groaned and scrubbed a hand over my mouth, keeping my eyes on the twelve ceiling tiles.

Then I was quiet, aware of the pity radiating from her and the shame taking flight in me. The realization that she now knew just how much of a loser I truly was for not having a plan.