NOAH IS quiet on the drive home after the game. But his shoulders are straight and proud, and a very faint smile pulls at his mouth. It’s not a bad quiet, I think he’s just reflecting.
When I pull into our designated parking spot in the garage and we begin walking down the street to our townhouse, Noah surprises me by starting up a conversation.
“So,” he starts.
“So… what?” I tease.
“Do you have any idea who those guys were?”
I look down at him. “What guys?”
He gives a subtle shake of his head. “The four guys who sat by you at the game. The ones you were chatting with.”
My brows knit together as I think about it. They were all broad shouldered, I assume from muscle, and quite good looking. Especially the one with dark hair and dimples. But pretty boys aren’t really my type.
“No. I guess I thought they were there watching their kids.”
He laughs and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. I want to bottle it up and listen to it over and over. It sounds just like my dad’s laugh, except not as deep.
I nudge his shoulder playfully. “Are you going to tell me who they were?”
He rolls his lips with his teeth, contemplating. “Nah. I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.” Then he takes off in a run toward the front door of our house.
“Hey! Not fair.” I chase after him, huffing and puffing when I catch up to him. I really need to start working out again, I miss feeling strong.
I unlock our door and we tumble inside. Noah is smirking, obviously amused by my ignorance.
“Give me one clue.”
“Hmm.” He looks up at the ceiling as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook. “Hockey.”
“That’s my clue? That’s worthless!”
Noah chuckles a low laugh under his breath. “Whatever you say.”
I smile at my little brother. “This is nice.”
He wrinkles his nose, then turns and walks down the hallway into the living room. “What’s nice?”
I follow him and we both sit on the sofa. “This.” I gesture between the two of us. “Us talking. I like when you talk to me, it feels like old times. You used to be so chatty during FaceTime, but now you’re so quiet around me.”
His shoulders tense and he looks away from me. Of course, I ruined the moment. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?
“It’s just that,” Noah starts, but slams his mouth shut and runs a hand through his dark hair.
“Yeah?” I encourage him to continue, but try not to come across as desperate.
“You look so much like her.”
Tears fill my eyes, knowing he’s referring to Mom.
“Sometimes it’s hard to look at you, it just makes me miss her so much.” His voice is barely above a whisper and his admission absolutely breaks my heart.
“I understand,” my voice breaks. “You remind me so much of Dad, Noah. This is all so hard.” I squeeze his shoulder and he doesn’t pull away. “I miss them too. So much.”
He nods and one lonesome tear streams down his face. His shoulder leans into my hand so slightly, I almost think I’m imagining it. I want to hold my brother, to hug him. But he’s not a little boy anymore, and I’m scared to push him, scared that he’ll retreat from me again. So I keep my hand on his shoulder until he excuses himself to take a shower and head to bed.
Once Noah’s room is quiet and I’m sure he’s asleep for the night, I run a hot bath for myself. I need to relax my body and my mind after this day. I’m in a weird mood, like I’m feeling everything at once. I feel hopeful after my interaction with Noah and him finally opening up to me. I feel broken that it’s hard for him to look at me because it makes him miss Mom. I feel an ache in my chest at how much I miss Mom and Dad and wish they were here. I feel exhausted emotionally and physically from work today.
It’s all too much.
Pouring my favorite bubble-gum-scented kids’ bubble bath into the hot water, I inhale the scent and take a deep breath. Bubble gum may not be the most relaxing scent, but it sure makes the best bubble. The only tub is in the master bedroom, my master bedroom, I remind myself. Even though my parents’ belongings still fill the space. This is my home now, I need to stop thinking of it as just my parents’ place. I love that their memory will always be here, but part of me still feels like a visitor just passing through. I know Mom and Dad would want me to feel at home here, so I need to make more of an effort to make it feel that way.
Starting with moving my crap up here to the master and turning my old room downstairs into a home gym. All I’d need is a squat rack and weight bench and I’d be set. Lifting was always my stress release during the long work weeks that come with being a travel nurse. Not to mention difficult patients or weeks where we dealt with a lot of death. It’s part of the job, but that doesn’t make it easy… physically or emotionally. I need to be strong, not just for myself and my job, but to be a good example to my brother.
But tonight, I’m sliding into this bubble bath, turning on a mind-numbing audiobook, and relaxing. Tomorrow, things are changing.
Tapping on my phone, I find my audiobook app and press play on the book with the golden retriever of a hero, Prince Romeo. I slip into the water and an embarrassing amount of bubble-gum-scented bubbles. A good bubble bath is almost as good as a strenuous workout when it comes to stress relief.
This book is a Bachelor style romance where the prince has to find a wife, and a bunch of girls have been sent from different kingdoms. Prince Romeo is clearly in love with Alexandria already, and in his mind, none of the others even come close.
I sigh and sink deeper into the tub, closing my eyes as I listen to the story unfold. The hero is about to kiss the woman he loves, finally. But they’re interrupted a split second before their lips meet, by Jezebel, the book’s drama queen.
“No! Why??” I yell at the phone. I’ve yelled at this book more than I usually do. “I’m here for mindless relaxation and swoony kisses!”
Jezebel is fake crying and Prince Romeo takes her aside to see what’s wrong, leaving the woman he loves behind. I resist my urge to throw my phone across the room. Yeah, weight lifting is definitely the superior stress relief option. I grab my phone off the side of the tub, pausing the book. I can’t handle Romeo’s idiocy tonight.
Instead, I pull up Instagram and start mindlessly scrolling. The Washington Wombats page has a new post, it’s a graphic of the Wombats logo, the final score of tonight’s game, and the background is a photo of Mitch talking to the boys on the bench. I smile at the sight of him towering over the boys, wearing his track pants and zip-up jacket. Too bad the sleeves aren’t rolled up to show off his tattoos.
I tap the photo to see if he’s tagged in it, and sure enough, he is. My heart leaps when I tap again and the gram takes me straight to his profile so I can cyber-stalk him. I’m left disappointed when he doesn’t even have a profile pic, and he only has one post. It’s a picture of him signing with the D.C. Eagles eight years ago. His young face is clean shaven, and his arms don’t appear to have any tattoos yet. I smile at this version of Mitch, he might look younger, but his expression is still the same grouchy one I’ve grown accustomed to.
I glance at the followers and see he has ninety thousand, but he’s not following a single account. I snicker, unsurprised by any of this. Mitch Anderson doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys being in the public eye, or who thinks of posting on social media.
My stalking session reminds me I haven’t set up a time for Noah and Mitch to work together, so with a deep breath, I scroll to find the text he sent me after I gave him my number.
It’s short and not sweet, with only two words.
BIG MAN
It’s Mitch.
I type out and erase several different messages, unsure whether to be friendly, snarky, or funny. In the end, I choose simplicity, because he’s doing us a huge favor.
ANDIE
Hey, It’s Andie. I was wondering what days you could work with Noah this week? My days off are Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.
I stare at the screen for two whole minutes. No response, and no typing bubbles. I set my phone back on the ledge of the bathtub. I should’ve just kept listening to my stupid book.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to put the text I sent him out of my mind. Maybe he’s busy, maybe he went out with friends. Maybe he has a girlfriend! Oh, my gosh. Of course the famous hockey man with arms of steel would have a girlfriend. Probably several. And how’s he going to have time with all these girlfriends of his if he’s helping Noah? My texting him was utterly ridiculous. Picking my phone back up, I type out another text.
ANDIE
No pressure, though.
ANDIE
I’m sure you’re busy.
Still nothing.
ANDIE
Let’s just forget about it!
The more texts I send, the more anxious and weird I feel. Setting my phone back on the ledge again, I sink down into the tub until my head is completely immersed. Can I just stay here and forget I ever sent all those texts to Mitch Anderson?
I feel the vibration of my phone through the tub and pop up through the surface of the water… and bubbles. Bubbles that taste really bad, by the way.
Reaching for my fluffy yellow towel that’s hanging a few feet away on a towel rack, I dry off my hands and face before glancing at my phone screen. Two texts from Mitch. I grab my phone so fast, heart racing, that I almost drop the phone into the bathtub.
BIG MAN
Sorry I was in the shower.
I scoff. “With all your girlfriends?” I mutter to myself in a stupid voice.
BIG MAN
I can do Wednesday. What time?
I take a deep breath.
ANDIE
Are you sure you’re not too busy?
BIG MAN
Blondie, I’m the opposite of busy. Now, what time?
ANDIE
Let’s do 4PM.
“Blondie.” I scoff. “How original.”
But I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. I wonder what it would sound like when he says Blondie out loud, all deep and rumbly and annoyed. He’s always annoyed, actually. Brow always scrunched. Realizing I’m smiling at the thought, I quickly make my expression neutral, even though no one’s here to see me.
Mitch is nothing like the sweet-as-a-cinnamon-roll hero in my book. But then again, Prince Romeo in said book keeps pursuing the other contestants in his search for a wife, when he already knows he’s in love with one of them.
Something tells me a guy like Mitch wouldn’t do that. No, if he was really into someone, he’d be all, this is my woman. No one touches her.
And hell if he wouldn’t sound really sexy being all alpha and possessive. Goosebumps graze my skin under the hot water in my bath.
Pull yourself together, Andie.
“So, I was thinking,” I say the next morning to a bleary-eyed, messy-haired Noah. “What do you think of helping me spruce this place up a bit?”
I study his face from my seat next to him at our small table next to the kitchen. His features are the perfect mixture of Mom and Dad’s, whereas I look like a clone of my mother. He has our Dad’s thick, dark hair and eyebrows, but our Mom’s warm brown eyes and full mouth. I don’t think he realizes how handsome he is, I wonder if all the girls in his class have crushes on him.
His eyebrows raise as he chews his mouthful of sugary cereal—Saturday mornings are the only time I’ll allow it—then they furrow slightly, like he’s deep in thought. Noah swallows. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”
“Really?” That was too easy. “Of course, I don’t want to change too much. And I want all the photos of Mom and Dad to stay up.”
He nods, surprisingly calm about this. “I think it would be… nice.” Noah looks at his cereal like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “The house has seemed really sad, you know, without them. Maybe changing things up would help.” He scoops another bite of cereal into his mouth.
His honesty makes my eyes burn with tears. I choke them back, not wanting to ruin the moment.
I clear the lump in my throat. “Yeah, I feel that way too.” I pause, biting my bottom lip while I think. “I thought about moving my stuff to the master and turning my old room down here into a gym.”
His eyes widen and a small smile plays on his lips. “Really? That would be awesome. I’d like to strengthen my legs.” He pauses. “But I think I should get the master bedroom.”
“Nice try.” I reach over and muss his hair. “Do you have any decorating ideas?”
He smooths his hair back down, stands, and walks over to the kitchen sink. He’s thoughtful as he rinses out his now-empty cereal bowl. His back is to me, but I hear him say, “Could we paint?”
“Yeah! Which room?”
He turns and glances around the open kitchen, living area we’re in. It’s currently painted a light green color. “This room.”
I nod. “Green was Mom’s favorite color.”
“I know. It makes me kind of sad.”
Again, I hold back tears. After losing a loved one, every small change seems bigger somehow, like the world is just moving on without them, even though your heart isn’t.
“What color are you thinking?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion again.
“How about D.C. Eagles red?” He says it with such a straight face, it takes me ten whole seconds to realize he’s joking, and I burst out laughing.
“You had me there for a second.”
Noah smirks.
Standing up, I set my hands on my hips and survey the room. “How about a pale blush color?”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “I have no clue what that means.”
“Grab your coat, we’re going paint shopping.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re at one of those giant stores that smells like lumber, perusing the paint swatches. We decide on a happy yellow color and spend a small fortune on paint supplies. This could be a complete disaster, seeing as neither of us have ever painted before.
But the last nine months have been the two of us against the world, both of us learning how to do life without our parents. Balancing the hardship of moving forward with bittersweet remembering. Painting is no different than anything else we’ve conquered, and it’s probably the easiest new thing we’ve attempted together.
If it ends up terrible and we hate the color, or we splatter it everywhere…
We can fix it. We can learn from it, we can conquer it.
