Nothing More (30 page)

“I'm okay,” Nora says, and licks her lips.

I reach for her hand and pull her closer to me. She hesitates for a moment, then steps to me.

The trash bag full of clothes says otherwise, Nora.

“You don't seem okay.” I raise my free hand and touch the end of her braid. Her eyelids fall closed.

“You can talk to me. You know that, don't you?” I take my hand from her hair and lift up her chin, just slightly, so I can get a good look at her.

Tired-looking blue circles line the bottom of her almond- shaped eyes. They are puffy and my stomach aches at the thought that she's been crying. I run the pad of my thumb over one of her closed eyes and her lips part.

Her eyelashes are so long that they remind me of the feathers on a bird.

A very, very pretty bird.

Oh, my mind is in a weird place.

She nods and I move my thumb back under her chin. Her eyes open, just enough for me to see that she's hiding something.

Her voice is soft and she moves her face away from my touch when she says plainly, “I'm taking care of it.”

I take a step back, wanting to give her space, and she surprises me by grabbing my shirt and pulling me closer. She wraps her arms around my back and buries her head in my chest. She doesn't cry; she just stands there, taking shallow breaths and not speaking.

I rub one hand up and down her back, letting her have the silence she seems to be wanting.

After a few more seconds, she raises her head and stares up at me.

I want to take care of you,
my heart says. Then my mouth says the same.

She takes in my words, her eyes pouring into mine. “I don't want to be taken care of.”

Her honesty stings, but I have to remember that she's a few years older than me and has been doing this life thing by herself for a while.

“I don't want my parents' help. I don't want your help. I don't want anyone's help. I just want to figure my shit out and cause the least amount of problems possible along the way. I will only bring you trouble . . . it's what I do. It's who I am. I'm not saying this to be dramatic—I'm serious, Landon.”

She looks at me, her eyes begging me to listen. To really listen. “I carry too much baggage, and I'm not looking for a knight in shining armor to rescue me.”

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix this, or if she even needs to be fixed.

I'm not used to not being needed. I've always been the fixer. Who I am without that role?

I don't know.

“I know, princess,” I say, trying to add a little humor, break some of this tension I don't know what to do with.

“Eew.” She makes a face of pure disgust. “I'm no princess.”

“What are you, then?” I ask her, genuinely wondering how she views herself.

“A human.”

There's more to her words than sarcasm.

“I'm no damsel in distress, no princess. I'm a woman who is human in every sense of the word.”

My eyes meet hers and she hugs me again.

“Can we just stand like this for a few seconds? Can you just hold me for a few seconds so I can memorize how it feels?”

I hate that her words sound so ominous, like she's saying more than goodbye.

I don't respond. I just hold her in my arms until she lets go a few seconds later.

“I wish you would tell me what's going on,” I finally say when she pulls away.

Her eyes don't meet mine when she says, “So do I.”

Nora stands up straight and opens her eyes wide. “Okay. Let's decorate this cake and give Ellen the best birthday of her life.”

The change in her demeanor is immediate and total. It worries me how quickly she can shut down and change the subject.

I want more from Nora. I want answers. I want to know the magnitude of her problems so I can offer a solution. I want to hold her in my arms until she believes that I'll be here for her. I want to kiss her pain away and make her laugh until she forgets why she keeps herself hidden from me. I want her to know that I see her, even though she doesn't want me to.

I want so many things, but I can't want them alone . . . she has to want them, too. But I give her the response she seems to need right now and plaster a fake smile on my face.

“Let's.” I raise my hand to high-five her and she cracks a smile.

She lifts her hand to mine and smacks it. “You're the corniest person I know,” she says, opening the bathroom door.

I follow behind her. “I'm fine with that.”

And just like that, we're “friends” again.

Tessa and Lila are still in the living room when we walk down the hallway together. Lila is still entranced by her car and Tessa is sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching the little girl with a big smile on her face.

Tessa looks at me, then at Nora, then back to me. Her face doesn't hide her curiosity or her suspicion, but she doesn't say a word.

“Lila.” I bend down to talk to the little girl. “We're going to decorate a cake. Do you want to come into the kitchen with us?”

Lila looks up at me and grabs her car. “Car,” she chirps, holding the shiny Hot Wheel up to show me.

“Yep. You can take your car with you.” I reach for her hand and she takes mine.

“I'm going to close my eyes for a few more minutes and rest,” Tessa says, lying back down.

I tell her to go back to sleep and I walk Lila into the kitchen. Nora follows.

“Well, hi, beautiful. What's your name?” Nora asks.

Lila doesn't look at her, but she says her name and sits down at the table.

“What a beautiful name. Do you like cake?” Nora asks her.

Lila doesn't answer.

I touch Nora's arm to get her attention. She turns to me and I hold my hand up to block my mouth from Lila as I speak.

“She's autistic,” I explain.

Realization dawns on Nora's face and she nods and sits down next to Lila at the table.

“Cool car,” she says to her.

Lila smiles and rolls the car over Nora's hand, saying “zoom, zoom.” I take it as her stamp of approval.

“Do you remember how to make the icing?” Nora asks from her seat at the table.

I nod. “Powdered sugar, butter, vanilla, and something else . . .”

I can't recall the last ingredient even though we had to make the stuff just last night.

“Milk.”

I nod. “Right. Milk. And seventeen drops of food coloring.”

She glares at me. “One or two drops.”

“Okay, so ten drops. I get it.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes. I watch as a sparkle of life comes back to them. “
Two
drops.”

I walk over to the cabinet and grab the box of food coloring. “Well, if I'm supposed to get this right, I may need supervision. Do you know any bakers?”

Take that
, pastry chef.

She shakes her head. “Nope. Sure don't, sorry.” A playful smile lights up her face.

I sigh dramatically and grab a new bag of powdered sugar from the cabinet.

“That's too bad. I can't promise I won't mess this up.”

Nora watches me with amusement in her eyes. “He's an awful baker,” she loudly whispers to Lila.

Lila looks at her and smiles.

I wave a big spoon at the two of them. “Hey, don't go ganging up on me.”

Nora laughs.

I make my way to the fridge and grab the milk and a stick of butter, then I get the mixing bowl out of the dishwasher. I actually do remember how to make the icing.

I think . . .

Nora stays quiet as I start. After the sugar and butter are blended, I add the vanilla and milk. I carefully add two drops of green food coloring and Nora claps her hands as I mix it in the silver bowl.

After a minute or two of quiet, Nora stands up and walks over to me. She unwraps the cake and throws the Saran Wrap into the trash. I dip the spoon into the icing and spread it across the vanilla cake.

“Aw. Look at you. Decorating the cake all by yourself. You've come a long way, young grasshopper.”

I laugh at Nora's banter and she nudges me with her shoulder.

She looks at Lila. “Who does she belong to? I didn't think to ask.”

“She's my friend Posey's sister. Posey had to work this morning, so I offered to watch her. She'll be here in an hour or so to get her.”

Nora looks at me in that way that she does and I feel like she's reading every thought of mine. My pulse quickens.

“You're something else, Landon Gibson,” she tells me for the second time in two days.

I flush under her compliment and I don't even care if she notices.

“You're good with her.” I point the green-icing-covered spoon toward Lila.

“Me? Good with kids?” she says with genuine surprise.

“Yes,” I tell her, and press the tip of my index finger into her nose the way she pressed mine yesterday.

“Hey, you stole that from me!” She turns her shoulders so she's facing me, only inches away from my face.

I rub the spoon over the top of the cake, making sure to get the corners. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

I look up at the ceiling, then back at the cake.

Nora nudges me again. “Liar.”

“I'm a liar and you keep secrets. We're the same—”

The words are out before I can stop them, and I hate the way her face immediately changes from carefree to guarded.

“That's not the same. Secrets and lies aren't the same,” Nora defends herself.

I turn to her and drop the spoon onto the edge of the pan. “I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry.”

Nora doesn't look at me, but I can see her guard lowering with each breath. Finally, she speaks. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“You won't try to fix me.”

“I . . .” I hesitate.

“Promise me.” She holds her ground. “Promise me that and I'll promise not to tell lies.”

I look at her. “But you'll keep secrets?” I ask her, already knowing the answer.

“No
lies
.”

I sigh in defeat. I don't want her to keep secrets.

“Is this my only option?” I ask. Again, already knowing the answer.

She nods.

I contemplate her offer for a few seconds. If this is the only way she'll let me get closer, it's all I've got.

I don't know if I'll be able to keep that promise, but this is my only chance.

With a deep breath, I nod slowly. “I promise not to try to fix you.”

She exhales and I suddenly realize that she'd been holding her breath.

“Your turn.”

She's hesitating this time. “I promise not to tell lies.”

She holds out her pinkie and I loop mine through it.

“It's a pact now. Don't break it,” she warns.

I glance at Lila sitting at the table, content with her car.

“And what happens if I do?” I ask her.

“I disappear . . .”

Nora's words cut at me and I'm terrified by them because I know—I know without a doubt—that she means them.

I
PLANNED TO WRITE THIS
book a while ago, back when I hadn't even spoken with a publisher about the After series. I was writing on Wattpad, trying to figure out what to do with my life. I was so excited to write it, and I couldn't wait to get inside of Landon's head.

Then, when I finally sat down to write it, I was surprised when I wasn't having very much fun. I loved the story, but it felt off, like something was missing and I didn't know what. I typed and typed, sitting in hotel lobbies and crowded coffee shops, but when I read the words back, they felt only half-there, as if I was reading someone else writing my story. (Think fanfiction, but less awesome.)

So with my deadline approaching I knew the story was okay, but I wasn't having as much fun as I did when writing my first series. I went through phases of “OMG, am I even a writer?” and “What if After was the only story in me?”

But then I began to send pieces of it to a small group of my friends who started as readers back when I first began writing but had become some of my best friends. The moments they would read the parts and text me their responses, something clicked. It was so exciting having their reactions and opinions, though most of the texts were: OMFGGG. (Thanks Bri, Trev, Lauren, and Chels. I love love love you guys.)

I soon began reworking the story and basically wiping out the whole first draft, but I still had a little problem. I wanted to write the chapters, mostly live, on Wattpad before sending them to my editor. The concept of this is soooo not common and honestly a little scary for publishers. I understand why, but I really felt like writing on Wattpad was the key. I love the socialized writing, the comments, the adrenaline of posting a new chapter.

The idea of a writer is someone who writes in solitude and quiet, and would never dream of letting thousands of people read their work before an editor does. I panicked for a minute and crossed my fingers that my publisher would understand and consider my idea.

I held my breath and explained my situation to my editor, Adam Wilson, and the first thing he said was “That makes so much sense”—and I could have screamed, I was so happy. He got it, he gets it, he's always understood that not all writers are the same. From the moment I met him, I knew that he got me. (I have used this word about ten times now, LOL.)

Adam is always so open and curious about the new and unique ways of writing. He knows that writers from the interwebs are different, and he has never made me feel like I have to conform to the idea of a traditional writer. He has always encouraged my quirks and praised my ability to do things my way. The publishing industry is lucky to have someone like him.

So Adam, I need to acknowledge you x39394. Thank you for your patience and for always having my back. I can't imagine writing a book without you.