Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,63

and drained on the plate beside his mug. A brow raised, she inquired, “Insomnia?”

“Something like that,” he replied, shrugging. The glow of the television cast blue and purple light across him, the white of his shirt looking radioactive. She watched the patterns, like breathing tattoos, as the swirls danced across his skin. Between the wafting hazelnut and the low thuds of Noah's knee against the counter, the moment was the weird kind of perfect – her favorite kind, like something she just might dare to capture on the canvas.

Guilt nudged her with the spasm of nerves. She could feel it in her chest, in the same way longing swells. Noah didn't owe her anything– yet she still coerced him into helping her, though he obviously had strong feelings against it.

It was the same situation as when he dropped her off the night before– he didn't want to, even as far as to warn against it, relaying a distinct bad feeling. She ignored it and got burned, her expectations crushed.

The fact of the matter was, Aly didn't understand his hesitations. Maybe he was bluffing about his former disbelief, perhaps he was afraid, or worse, he would get in trouble, or was suspicious someone else fabricated a hoax. She couldn't tell. He wasn't being straightforward, and the gamble was a guess was as good as any.

He has family obligations– maybe I'm interfering again.

Biting her lip, she continued, “You know, if you’re not up for it, we don’t have to go. I was really upset... I shouldn’t have asked.”

He shook his head. “Honestly, it's not a problem. As in, no worries – at all. I’m good.” As though he noticed his mug for the first time, he smiled into it, standing to refill. “Coffee?”

Aly rubbed the glaze of sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

Frowning, Noah peered into the dark, eyes focused on the clock across the diner. “Just after four, I think.”

At all hours of the night, she could wade barefoot into the little kitchen of her mother’s condo and find the woman pouring over papers – bills, textbooks, some too-sexy pocket paperback – and chugging the brew.

She smiled, surprised the memory didn’t pang. Realizing he was waiting for a response, waving an empty mug that matched his, she said, “Thank you, but not yet.”

He nodded to himself, chewing his cheek. Finally, he set everything down, looking up. Voice low and intent, he explained, “My dad, my brothers… they’ll all be getting up for the docks soon.”

“We should leave, then, right?”

He halfsmiled, raising an eyebrow. “Is the jerky-jerk at work?”

Rolling her shoulders, Aly said, “He is.”

“Are you ready, then?”

She grinned. “I am.”

CHAPTER 16 | NOAH

Aly’s house was a culture shock. Where his parent’s place was claustrophobic, stuffed with thrift-store junk and old carpeting, the Glass home had cathedral ceilings and hardwood. Alongside massive windows, the furniture was few and far between. It smelled unlived in and childless, like the walls didn't know laughter, crayons, or the smell of lasagna. Everything was stifled, covered in solid white oppression. In spite of its simplicity, the place was overwhelming. In the short walk through the downstairs, he hadn’t been able to take much in. Their footsteps echoed as she lead him to the stairs by the hand.

After a short agreement, Aly disappeared to take a shower, leaving him to wander her bedroom. He'd never thought to wonder where she slept, but this wasn't something he'd picture. It would make sense, since he never thought she fit well with a soulless ice man like Greg. Everything she owned seemed to peel away from the walls, as though Aly herself repelled from the house. A bed and a dresser, summed up the majority of her room. Pardoning an overpacked bookshelf, the space seemed devoid of her personality. As though she was still resisting the order to move in, Aly condemned her possessions to wallflowers. It was the walls themselves that he found fascinating. It was like visiting the tunnels.

The paintings were amazing – as individuals, as a collection. He wouldn't even know what to call them if everything wasn't labeled. Amongst vintage portraits, still-life pastry displays, apocalyptic landscapes, and wide-eyed deer frozen in confrontation, there were the cities – Paris, London, New York, Dublin, Moscow. Aly ran across the world with a brush.

It was a gallery if he'd ever seen one, the shades arranged to leave an ombre across her walls. Floral cards stapled to the corner of each canvas listed dates and mediums, a hint