150 Pounds Part 8

Noah angled his large frame in front of the curtain and sat down in a chair to Alexis's left. He crossed one long leg over the other and sat back. He looked too big for the small s.p.a.ce, like that black-and-white Diane Arbus photograph of a giant with his parents in the Bronx. "I'm her knight in shining armor," he said.

"Hey, got you these," he continued, handing her a box of raisins. "Thought you might be hungry since you missed out on my chili."

"Oh! Thanks." She opened the lid with her good hand and dumped them into her mouth. She was starving. To h.e.l.l with inputting their calories into her phone.

"You're not worried about missing the Yankees spring training coverage on the tube tonight?" Dr. Whisk said jokingly to Noah while rooting through a cupboard behind Alexis. His voice came out m.u.f.fled.

"I DVR'd it, of course," Noah said.

Alexis rolled her eyes. Did men have to bring up sports any chance they got? Could they get back to her wound, please?

"Ow!" Alexis yelped. Dr. Whisk had walked back next to her and was examining her finger. The tip had gone nearly white, and light pink near the wound. It had stopped bleeding, but the cut was deep. She could see a shining sliver of bone.

"Sorry, sorry." He clapped his hands together. "What do you say we st.i.tch you up and send you on your way?"

Alexis gulped, then squared her shoulders. She'd once broken her leg during cheerleading practice and not cried a single tear. She'd always had a high threshold for pain. She was her father's daughter. Tough.

"Sure," she said.

Noah scooted his chair around the table and nonchalantly reached out to take Alexis's other hand. He had keys in his pocket that jingled when his leg moved.

"Um. What are you doing?" she asked.

"Holding your hand," he said. "I got forty st.i.tches on my back once. Fell rock-climbing on Flagstaff Mountain. f.u.c.king killed."

"Er ... thanks, I guess," Alexis said.

It didn't hurt as much as she'd thought it would. Whisk injected her with pain meds. It was more of a tugging sensation, with a p.r.i.c.k of pain every time the needle dipped into her finger. The st.i.tches looked like a line of shiny black ants. She blew air out of her mouth, which made her wispy hair go up and down, and tried to hold her finger out straight.

"Don't look at it," Noah said. "Look at me."

So she did. She stared into his eyes, which felt a little like swimming naked in the ocean at night. He had a tiny ring of gold inside his left iris.

Fifteen st.i.tches and approximately one zillion forms to sign later, Alexis found herself sitting in a very uncomfortable green plastic chair in the hospital cafeteria across from Noah, doing something she never thought she would do: licking the sides of an ice-cream sandwich.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" she'd said, when Noah had come back with it to their little table.

"It's called an ice-cream sandwich. Ever seen one before?" he joked, putting it on the table and unwrapping it for her.

"I can do it myself with my other hand," she said crankily. "And what happened to getting me a salad?"

He didn't say anything, just looked at her with a bemused expression. "Some people might think the appropriate response in this situation is a simple thank-you."

Alexis sighed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. It had started to rain in sheets that flung against the large windows in the cafeteria. She had to raise her voice to be heard over it. "I am on a strict-calorie diet. No more, no less. I don't change it, no matter what. So please, enjoy the ice cream yourself. Oh, and thank you. Sorry if I didn't say it right away."

Noah pushed back his sleeves. Alexis found herself staring at the soft brown fuzz that covered his muscular arms. She had the overwhelming urge to run her hands over him. She felt glad he wasn't very hairy. She liked her men neat.

"h.e.l.lo, earth to Alexis," he said kindly. "Now listen. You happen to be sitting here with a professional chef. I know all there is to know about food. And I can tell you that this here ice-cream sandwich is known in some circles to be the epitome of fine dessert." He held it up, slowly taking off the white waxy paper like he was undressing a woman. "Notice the soft, spongy texture of the chocolate. The milky white vanilla ice-cream filling. Rome was not built in a day. And this sandwich didn't just one day formulate. It took years and years of experimenting to get it right. And you're going to turn it down?"

She was trying not to laugh.

"Listen." And he touched her arm, the gesture new and yet familiar at the same time. His voice was soft, soothing. She could listen to him talk all day. "You've had a s.h.i.tty night. I just thought a little sugar couldn't hurt. I think our Dr. Whisk would approve."

So she took the treat from him, held it in her undamaged right hand, and took a small bite off one corner, putting her lips over her front teeth like a horse to keep from getting stung by the cold. It was delicious. She ate it quickly, like a prisoner who had been starved and just let out of her cell for a bite to eat. Noah sat back in his chair, crossed his long legs, and watched her, satisfied.

When she was finished, the unthinkable happened: Alexis Allbright, writer and founder of Skinny Chick, asked for another ice-cream sandwich. And ate it just as quickly as she had the first. And then ... a third. At one point she took out her phone to input the calories and the number was so high she had to blink twice because her vision had blurred with shock.

They sat there for an hour, mostly in silence. But it was a comfortable silence between them, unusual in that they were two people who before this night had never met. Noah eventually went to the counter and got himself an ice cream. He ate his with the wrapper still attached, and he'd pull it down as he took bites, which Alexis found odd and charming. Her painkiller started to dissipate, which made her finger throb again, but she enjoyed his company and didn't want the night to end. Glancing at the clock above the checkout woman, she realized it was nearing midnight.

Somehow, by taking this cla.s.s she'd signed up for as a lark, a way to have material to blog about, she'd cut her finger all the way to the bone and was now sitting in this gray cafeteria listening to the rain and eating an ice-cream sandwich with Noah. Life was funny, a day could shift its shape to reveal something else, something different. Life was like one of those Silly Bandz rubber bracelets that look round on your wrist, but when taken off spell LOVE.

He'd been watching her. "Can I give you a lift home?" he asked.

"Oh, I could just take a cab," she said. She felt pleased when his face fell.

"But you've just nearly cut your finger off. What if you have the sudden need for another ice cream? No, I think you'd better let me drive you home. You're not safe to wander around by yourself. You might hack off a leg or something."

"I barely know you. How do I know you're not a secret ax murderer?" she asked, using the back of her hand to open the swinging opening of the garbage can nearby to throw away all of their wrappers. When they stood up he towered over her, even in her heels.

"I'll save the axing for another day," he said. "I think you've been through enough tonight."

As they walked toward the front of the hospital Noah's shoes made sloshing sounds. Alexis realized he had no umbrella, and it was pouring outside. "Your shoes are soaked!" she told him.

"Nah," he said. "Nothing that a little heat on your feet in the car can't fix. Besides, I hate carrying umbrellas around. I like to just feel the rain on my face."

"Okay, whatever," Alexis said. She pushed him a little. She only came up to the middle of his back and she felt solid muscle under his shirt. "Hippie."

He looked back at her, surprised. Then he grinned. "I'd push you back, but I wouldn't want to hurt a cripple," he said. "Especially one who can't handle a knife."

She stuck out her tongue at him.

They pa.s.sed a young girl sitting in a wheelchair and clutching a gigantic, rosy-cheeked baby boy with a huge wide face shaped like a cable satellite dish. He was very close to ten pounds and had Elvis hair, jet-black, which stuck straight up. His big face bunched and he started wailing when he saw Alexis.

"Babies always cry when they see me," she told Noah. She'd meant it as a joke, but it came out sounding awkward. They entered the large revolving door at the same time and she was pressed up against his back, which felt firm. She had the strange urge to hug him around his waist.

"Well, it's not surprising. Did you ever realize how much you frown?" he asked. "You look pretty scary."

She punched him in the arm. "What the h.e.l.l? I do not."

"You do! You should see yourself. Frowning at everyone. What are you so mad about?" She felt her face go red.

What indeed? Her father, fist smashing down on the dining room table, scattering bright green peas from his plate all over the floor after she'd told him she was quitting law school, her mother drunk at Mark's funeral, falling all over the casket and ripping off the American flag, the young Marines with their rifles and stiff posture who pretended they didn't see her. Yeah. She was mad about a lot of things.

She stopped walking. "It's none of your business how often I frown. And I just didn't think your joke was funny. It was pretty lame, in fact. Kind of like you."

She turned on her heel and started walking down First Avenue, annoyed with Noah, but even more so with herself. What was she thinking, letting herself be rescued by the chef from her cooking cla.s.s? Okay, yes. He was cute. And funny. And he made all the little blond hairs on her arms stand up when he came within five feet of her. But the man wore boots with mud caked around them, the car he drove her over in smelled of dog (Alexis was a cat person), he had no real job, her mother, with her old-fashioned views about marrying in to money, would have had a heart attack just knowing her daughter had gone out with this guy. Alexis squared her shoulders. If he called, she wouldn't answer. If he stopped by the gym, she'd ...

Suddenly she felt an extraordinarily large hand wrap around her upper arm. She was whipped around, and found herself b.u.mping right into Noah's chest, which was really a mistake because suddenly she breathed deeply and smelled cedar, like when you open an antique trunk, along with a mixture of clean sweat and laundry detergent.

"Where are you going?" Noah asked. He laughed. "G.o.d only knows how you walk so fast in those little torture devices you call boots. I'm six-three and I can barely keep up with you! You're like a cheetah when you take off. I had to run the whole block to catch you!"

She stared at him, her neck straining a little to look up into his eyes. She'd been outright rude to him and it didn't even seem to have registered. He was still looking at her with the same friendly expression, though a little bewildered.

"I was trying to get away from you," she said in a low voice that would have scared most men. A taxi honked on the street in front of them, making them both jump.

"What would you want to do that for, woman?" he asked. "It's obvious that you're madly in love with me. Let me drive you home, at least."

"Are you serious?" She opened her purse and took out a small mirror. She adjusted her thin hair roughly, pinching sections with her fingertips. "We are totally incompatible. All you do is eat. I hate food. You're like eight feet tall and I'm barely over five feet. You're a laid-back surfer type. I'm a b.i.t.c.h in heels." She closed the mirror with one hand, making a loud snap sound.

"You say tomato, I say tomato, you say potato, I say potato. Tomato! Tomato! Potato! Potato!" He was completely un-self-aware, as he danced a jig in the street.

She giggled, despite herself. He was an anomaly: a man who looked like a Calvin Klein model but who was so silly.

"See?" Noah said, laughing. "I'm already making you laugh. I'm good for you. My parents have been happily divorced thirty years and they always said they were too similar. Opposites attract."

"How can you be happily divorced?" Alexis asked. "That doesn't even make sense. It's an oxymoron. Anyway, I'm fine to catch a cab home. By myself." She held her arm out straight, trying to hail a cab. When she was by herself all she had to do was stick one skinny leg out into traffic and cars would come to a screeching halt. Noah was cramping her style.

Not taking the hint, he continued to cheerfully stroll alongside her, jumping in a puddle and sloshing rain down the side of her leg. He didn't seem to notice her sharp look. The bright red emergency room sign cast a shine on the pavement behind them. "My folks had me way too young," he continued. "They were both seniors at University of Colorado in Boulder. My mom had to finish up her spring semester the following year. I think they got married so they could live on campus with me; there was some kind of family housing. But they always said they were more like best friends than really attracted to one another, and the night they made me was meant to be more like a one-night stand. My parents both remarried and my dad has two awesome little boys, and I have a younger sister who lives in California."

She wondered which parent was black and which one was white, but of course asking that would be rude.

"You want to know what races my folks are, right?" he asked.

"What?" She stumbled on the sidewalk, and Noah grabbed her arm to steady her. "No! G.o.d, you are so self-centered," she said, rolling her eyes.

The man is like a d.a.m.n Labrador retriever, Alexis thought wryly.

"So Dad's white and Mom is black. I know! It's usually the other way around."

"Um. I didn't say anything," Alexis mumbled.

Without pause, he continued: "Everyone is back home in Boulder. My parents are great. They meet for lunch once a month and catch up. I think the lunch probably consists of throwing their hands in the air and wishing I'd settle down and start my restaurant already. I've been tossing around that idea for so long now they've both been driven crazy by it."

"So why don't you, then?" Alexis asked. His story about his family had caught her attention. Despite wanting to be home, telling Billy what a disaster of a night she'd had, she loved hearing about people's lives.

"I don't know." He sighed, ran his hand through his thick curls, and leaned against a stop sign. "I guess I just haven't found the right s.p.a.ce yet. Another chef buddy of mine wanted me to go in on a Meatpacking District upscale barbecue place with him but he couldn't snag a liquor license and the project got held up and then I pretty much lost interest..."

"Continue," Alexis said.

"The idea I have is kind of weird, too, but ... okay. Picture this." He spread his arms wide, like he was a director setting up a scene. "A brewery!"

She stared at him.

"There are plenty in Brooklyn, like Kelso and Sixpoint, but not too many in Manhattan. I've got the ingredients written on the back of a napkin that I keep in my pocket." He reached inside his back pocket and showed her the napkin, which was crumpled and had lint clinging to it.

"It's just something I've been dreaming about for a long time. I've got a buddy, also from Boulder, who wants to go in on it with me, use all-local ingredients from the Tri-State Area. We could serve pub grub, and have a real relaxed, outdoorsy kind of vibe. Hamburgers. Fish and chips. Wings, ribs. Sawdust on the floor. Live acoustic on weekends. Thought I could call it Off the River Ale House, something like that. It's a joke, see? 'Cause it's way far from the Hudson. My buddy Peter that I rock-climb with at Chelsea Piers makes killer sliders, he said I could buy the recipe from him and use it. I could really use your advice, since you know New York and started your own business. I just need the right place to hang my shingle out front. Know of any cheap places for rent where I can do all that?"

"Actually ... I can't believe I'm saying this, but I do," Alexis said. "There's a store that just went out of business across the street from where I live. I'll show it to you when you drop me off."

They walked close to one another over to his car. She felt bad, suddenly. Noah was a nice guy. And really, really hot. Why was she being so nasty to him? Could it be because she'd never actually liked a guy before? One-night stands got old after a while. But he was so ... earnest. So easygoing. What did he see in her? She pictured him more with a big, tall, healthy-looking professional volleyball player. With tan legs and big white teeth. There was an empty storefront across the street from her apartment where the old fur shop had stood forever. It couldn't hurt to just show it to him, right?

He stopped in front of the blue Subaru he'd driven her over in.

"Well, here's Mister Blueberry. Might as well let me take you home since no cabs are stopping for you."

"Mister Blueberry?"

He looked sheepish. "I named the car that in college and it kind of stuck. I know, it's pretty silly."

"Hmph," Alexis responded.

Water bounced off the windshield of his Subaru. She did a little hop and skip to get off the pavement and into his car, soaking her feet and boots in a humongous hidden puddle on the way. She heard a clang as one of her earrings fell out of her ear and bounced off into a puddle with a splash.

Noah reached around, using the light from a nearby streetlamp to locate the earring. "Here ya go," he said. He wiped it on his pants leg. "Good as new."

"Er, thanks," Alexis said, gingerly taking it from him and putting it in her purse. Since it had fallen on the dirty street, she'd just as well have left it there.

She shivered inside the car and again was. .h.i.t with overwhelming eau de doggie. She pinched shut her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth. Noah glanced at her and burst out laughing. "Are you getting ready to dive into a pool or something?"

She rolled her eyes. "Um, so do you have like ten dogs, or what? It stinks in here."

"Listen, beggars can't be choosers. And yes, I am the proud owner of a very large, breed-confused mutt named Oliver who likes to watch ESPN when I'm not home."

"Really?" She had an image of a big, s.h.a.ggy dog sitting on a beat-up couch, watching television through a mop of hair.

"Yup. Sometimes he'll switch back and forth to CNN, but he mainly likes to watch football. He used to be a Broncos fan, but now he tells me he's rooting for the Giants more and more. It's a little disappointing."

She eyeballed him, then laughed out loud.

"So who else do you live with, besides Oliver?" she asked casually to prove how she was just asking to be polite, not out of any interest. She leaned forward and turned the heat on. Her thin gray tank was sticking to the tiny buds of her nipples. Noah politely averted his eyes as she reached into her shirt and adjusted her black bra, which was sticking uncomfortably to her ribs. Her sweater had gotten soaked with blood and it was scrunched up in her purse.

"Just Oliver," he said. "He's like my son. My furry son." He flicked on his right turn signal. It made a flashing red light in the dark velvet of the car. "You have any kids?"

She laughed unexpectedly, then choked. He had to slap her on the back.

"No. Definitely not."

"That little baby we saw when we left was pretty cute, though," he said.

Alexis wrinkled up her nose. "I don't want kids, but if I ever do have one it will be a beautiful, skinny baby. None of those elephant folds on my baby's thighs."

He laughed a big laugh, throwing back his head. Streetlights they drove past made the subtle gold streaks in his dark brown curls shine. "Did anyone ever tell you you're completely insane? You need to mellow out a little. Babies are supposed to be chubby, that's what makes them so cute."

She glared at him, watching his profile as he drove. "I don't think I need mellowing out. I think I just need a ride home, thank you." She fixed him with her scariest look, a cross between Anna Wintour and Naomi Campbell right before she chucks a cell phone at a maid, a look she'd practiced in the mirror many times, but Noah just laughed.

"Why are you squishing your face like that? Did you fart or something? Do you need a Tums?"

"No, I do not need a Tums. That's disgusting," she said, scooting farther away from him in the car toward the window.