Hard Pass by Sara Ney Page 0,49

use manners.

Beverly comes with our leftovers and tells us the car is already out front, idling when we push through the doors to outside.

The ride back to the burbs, back to my place, is pleasant as we both search for things to say. It’s not awkward silence, but silence just the same—a newness to the whole thing that fills me with excitement and anticipation.

I invite him inside when we park and he grabs the takeout from the back seat where we stowed it. Judging by the size of the bags, Beverly threw in a few other things.

I can’t wait to dig through it.

Noah is big. Fills my kitchen after we’re settled in, our shoes by the front door, his navy stocking feet a contrast to the rest of him. So tall and imposing.

I shiver a little, turning away from him to retrieve some plates, then, “Should we just warm up the containers? Like, do we even need plates?”

“Good call—let’s just eat out of the boxes.”

So we do.

Seated on the floor in my minuscule living room, Noah and I tear through our meals like savages, an entire hour after they first arrived at our table. We were too distracted to eat then.

“Is it always like that?” I want to know, cutting through the pork riblet resting on a bed of risotto.

He raises one shoulder into a half shrug, chewing his steak. Swallows. “Eh, sometimes. It depends on where I go? I’m less conspicuous at, say, the mall, or like at the coffee shop the other day. Glasses and a hat help.”

“Sure, I can see that.” I pause, thinking. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“You know.” I wave a hand airily around. “Having everyone know who you are, but you don’t know them,” I clarify.

“I won’t lie, it’s weird. Real hard to get used to.” He uses a knife to spear through a hunk of meat; it hovers halfway to his mouth. “People come up and know all this shit about me, like my birthday or my parents’ names and where I was raised. And I don’t know who they are at all. Kind of creepy, but…no close calls. Yet.”

“What do you mean by close calls?”

“Stalkers.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Stalkers? Like—that come to your house?”

“Yeah, it happens. Superfans or people get pissed off and go crazy blaming you for a loss. It doesn’t get any realer than that.”

“So no one has ever stood on your lawn and shouted at your windows?”

“No.” He laughs. “But I live in a gated community, and there’s a fence around my house, too, so…”

Ah. I see.

Not an apartment, not a condo. Not a shithole he rents. “Do you have roommates?”

“God no.”

The tone in which he says it makes me laugh and I bite down on my bottom lip to hold in a huge grin. “Guess you don’t need to split the rent, eh?”

I can’t believe I actually have the lady balls to allude to the fact that he has money. I’m so tacky sometimes.

His smile is rueful. “You’ve met some of my friends—can you imagine living with Buzz Wallace?” He feigns a tremor rippling through his body. “I’d kill him within a week.”

“Is he that bad?”

“That bad? That—” He gives me a stunned expression, a playful one. “He’s the fucking worst, pardon my French.” Stops. “I don’t speak French.”

“Is he one of your best friends?”

Noah tips his head to the side as he considers the answer to this. “Uh…I don’t know. He does some pretty fucked up shit.”

“What kind of fucked up shit?” I don’t mind cursing since he’s done it twice in the span of thirty seconds.

“Acting like an asshole when he was pretending to be me. He comes over, eats all my food and never feeds me. Lets himself in—once I found him in my backyard with three random women. You have a house, dude—don’t use mine as your sex dungeon.”

“Sex dungeon!”

“Okay, maybe that’s me being dramatic, but he doesn’t need to bring anyone over without telling me. It’s rude. My home isn’t a fraternity house.”

“Were you in a fraternity in college?”

“God no—when would I have had the time? I entered the draft as a senior, and you have to prepare for that months in advance to be eligible, so I had no life.”

“You didn’t date?” Yes, I’m fishing for information on his love life.

“Uh—no.”

“Because you didn’t have time?”

The vegetables on his fork hang there, halfway to his mouth. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“What kind of answer is that! I didn’t date in college either,