Teaching Noah | √

020

I COULDN’T STOP thinking about my conversation with Mom earlier today, mostly about her postpartum depression and dad’s reaction to it all. I mentally added it to the list of positive memories Simon asked me to keep of my dad. Though the memory wasn’t mine directly, it was mom’s, and the fact that he had made her happy, made me happy. I’d never thought bad about my dad. I just wondered why he never came back home. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but think it had to do with the disorder. Maybe it frustrated him?

I remembered what Simon said almost immediately— this wasn’t my fault, and this was something I couldn’t control. But, how would he feel or react if he found out that my tics weren’t so bad anymore?

Noah’s voice interrupted my thoughts, “Why do you look like you have tons of stuff on your mind?”

I shook my head as I raised it up to look at him.

“Are you okay?”

You know when you’ve been struggling and doing a good job trying to keep your shit together, but then a person comes along and innocently asks what’s wrong? There was something about that simple, innocent question that just unlocked the gate holding the waterworks, because you just burst into tears. For me, I didn’t burst into tears, but I felt a tear slowly slide down my cheek.

“You’re crying, Riley,” Noah pointed out.

I wiped the stray tear away, “I’m sorry.”

“What have I told you about saying sorry?”

“I’ve been working on it, I swear,” I chuckled lowly.

“Do you need a hug?”

I looked at Noah whose brows drew together. “Go away. You’re not even that affectionate.”

“What do you mean? I am affectionate. I’m literally offering you a hug,” he looked amused.

“Yes, Noah. I do want a hug.”

“I was just kidding.”

“You are a real life jerk.”

His face lit up as he chuckled and got up from the stool on the other side of the island table. He moved to where I sat and wrapped his arms around me. I sank in his arms and felt another tear fall down my eyes, but I wiped it away immediately.

Remembering the exact time I last cried thinking about my dad would be hard. Some days, I thought about him and I was just fine. When I turned 16, my emotions had become a dangerous rollercoaster because it hit me that he probably wouldn’t be coming home again. I hated it.

“You know, I’d really love to go on a rollercoaster,” my voice came out muffled, and Noah pulled away, his eyebrows furrowed, “Is that why you're crying?”

“No,” I shook my head. “Just a random thought.”

“You’ve never been on one?”

“Never. I know it’s stupid.”

“Not, it’s not. Why haven’t you been on one before?”

“I get scared that the thrill of it all might cause my tics to be extreme.”

“Have you ever thought about trying it? Regardless of the consequences?”

“It’s not easy,” I retorted.

“It’s not hard either. You should do what you want to do. I hate saying this, but I’ll say it anyway— life’s too short.”

“I don’t like that saying too.” It was true, though— the saying. Life was too short. A person could be here today, but gone the next day, and the only thing you have left of them are memories, but the same saying has led people to do the most stupid things, so something about it just didn’t sit well with me.