Second Dive (Kings of the Water #3) - Jasmin Miller Page 0,33

just focus on the painting.”

His hand lifts for a second before he shoves it in his pocket. “Yep, that’s him. And, of course, you can ask questions. I mean, we’re . . . friends, right?”

The way he bites the inside of his cheek once the question leaves his lips is adorable but also speaks volumes. And can I really blame him? Wasn’t I just wondering too if I could be friends with Noah? Not that there are a lot of alternatives. If there are any at all.

I tilt my head. Friends . . . with Noah? “I guess we are.”

“Well, friend, show me what to do.” He gestures toward the supplies, and I nod.

“I did the outlining with the help of a projector most of the week, so now it’s basically just coloring in. I can write down what color goes where and turn it into a paint-by-numbers kind of thing if you want.”

“Sure. I’ll try my best to not screw anything up.”

I barely catch myself from bumping my shoulder into his side in an attempt of reassurance. I don’t think we’re those kinds of friends.

I grab one of the extra aprons from the supply closet along with everything else he needs. A few paintbrushes, a palette, his own cup of water to clean the brushes, and a couple extra rags, just in case. And then we get started. I get back to my octopus while Noah is working on the clownfish.

The minutes tick by, but it’s a comfortable silence. I forgo my headphones this time because I don’t want to be rude. My gesture backfires when my thoughts take over, and my awareness of him rises with every little movement.

I can’t take it anymore and need to look at him. I’m compelled to. Intrigued to figure out how he’s still the same, and how he’s different. This friends thing might be a bit weird, but I do want to get to know this older, more mature version of him.

Because if I’m honest, something about him is off. He looks . . . sad. I thought that was from seeing me, that the anger I saw wasn’t his default personality.

Yet, after seeing him a few times, I’m finding it hard to reconcile this serious, contemplative Noah over the driven, mischievous Noah. He had a certain earnestness to him when he was a teenager. It was necessary to achieve his dreams. But that seems to have changed to something darker.

His eyes are focused, tiny slits as he moves the paintbrush across the wall. Slowing down when he gets to the corners, careful to not color over the outlining.

“So, how’s swimming going?” It’s the first question that bubbles to the surface. But it should be an easy one since it’s well . . . swimming. Noah’s number-one passion that always brings a smile to his face and a shimmer to his eyes.

But neither one of those things happen. Instead, he sighs heavily and lifts his shoulders before letting them drop like they weigh a ton.

I blink at him, my brain needing a few extra seconds to process this strange realization. I’ve never seen a reaction like this from him when it’s about swimming. “Uh-oh, that bad?”

He lazily dips his brush into the paint, continuing to work. “I wish I knew.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He turns to me, and I can’t explain it, but his gaze . . . it’s too much, yet I can’t look away.

My throat clogs from the intensity in his eyes. The rawness, and the fact that he’s letting me see it. “What happened?”

“Nothing really.” His voice is flat and he focuses back on the wall.

After a moment, I do the same, the quiet sound of our brushes on the wall the only noise.

“Do you ever want more from life but don’t know what that more looks like? All you know is that you’re not happy with the way things are going. That something is missing.”

The need to rub my chest at his words is almost impossible to resist.

And why is my chin trembling? Shit.

I know he’s probably talking about swimming, but it’s like he’s talking straight to my soul.

The only difference is that I know what’s missing, or rather who. And that I’ll never get him back.

Fourteen

Noah

Why the fuck did I just say that to her?

Is it because there’s some sort of leftover familiarity with Chloe after all this time? Or because she’s almost like a safe zone, a stranger—yet not—that I feel compelled to