“Yeah, thanks,” I reply, watching him grab another piece of bread and buttering it. “Have you made this before?” I ask, putting the finished sandwich into a paper sack.
“Something like it,” Noah comments, moving back to the fridge when he finishes the second sandwich.
He pulls out a bag of grapes, washing them off. I pop one into my mouth, letting it burst under my teeth.
“You’re probably the craftiest person I’ve ever met in the kitchen,” I admit, grabbing another grape.
Noah glances over at me, his gaze falling down to my lips before moving back to my eyes. “It’s fun, making different things. And since you eat so healthy, well, it’s sort of a challenge.” He smiles.
“Well, I definitely appreciate it,” I say, watching as he sets aside a bundle of grapes for both of us. “None of my friends in New York make their lunches. They either get something from the cafeteria or their families have cooks who prepare something the night before.”
“And what did you do?” he asks, putting the grapes away.
“Sometimes, I made mine.” I slip my fingers across my skirt, pressing it flat.
“But?” Noah says, raising his eyebrows at me.
“But, sometimes, I would have the chef make something,” I say with a laugh. “Even though my mom doesn’t work, she’s a terrible cook. And despite not working, she seems to be just as busy as my dad. She’s pretty involved in her social circles.”
“I can’t picture you living in New York,” Noah states.
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
He stops, leaning his back against the counter. “Yeah. You seem to love the company here, talking to people. You enjoy Mum’s cooking for sure.” He grins.
“I do.” A smile pulls at my lips.
“I don’t know,” Noah says, shrugging. “I guess I just can’t see you liking being alone so much. Or really enjoying the city. I know you say you love New York and that you do dinners with your family, but I’m not convinced.”
“What can you picture me liking then?” I ask, not sure where he’s going with this.
“I see you liking it here,” he says, his voice quieter.
I look up at him, catching his eyes. “Why’s that?” I ask, wanting him to continue.
Noah keeps his eyes riveted to mine. “I can imagine you in New York. I know that will always be a part of you. The cold lines, dark colors, no-bullshit attitude. You’re straight to the point and forward. But I see you also really liking being with a family. Spending time studying, slowing down, having a mum who’s always looking over your shoulder. Having me around.” His eyes sparkle.
“Noah, I have a family,” I say. Because the part that he’s missing is that I do love my life in New York. My friends, my parents. “And I genuinely enjoy spending time with them. We always have dinner together and explore the city on the weekends. I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything, Mal. I’m just saying, when I imagine you in both places, I see you belonging here more.”
He continues moving about the kitchen, grabbing something from the fridge.
“Crisps or carrots?” he asks, holding up both.
“Chips,” I reply, feeling a little hazy.
Noah nods, putting chips into each of our bags, and then he zips up our lunches in his backpack.
“Ready?” he asks, moving toward the front door.
I nod, following him.
But I feel so distracted by what he said.
I see you belonging here more.
I try to think back to my life two weeks ago.
Waking up in New York.
Meeting Anna for a coffee before school.
We would pass notes in class and then go to the park to study and talk after school.
Sometimes, we’d go out shopping, wearing our new purchases out for dinner after.
My mind shifts to the lunches my mom hosts at our house. How the caterers would move in and out of our apartment just hours before, setting the table and bringing in food. Then, when everything was ready, it would become empty and quiet again while we waited for guests to arrive. The whole place would smell like flowers for days.
“Talk to me,” Noah says, bumping into my shoulder.
“I was just thinking about home.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was thinking about how I might have gone out for brunch with my parents yesterday. We could spend hours on a weekend afternoon not really doing anything. We would eat and then maybe go to a museum. Sometimes, I liked to stop at my dad’s office after school. I’d take him a coffee and a pastry. It was our little secret. My mom would have thrown a fit, watching us eat chocolate croissants in the afternoon like that. But it’s what made it fun.”
“You’re really close with your parents,” Noah comments, nodding his head.
“Yeah, I am.”
“You must miss them,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I do,” I reply, still feeling funny. Thinking about being home makes me feel almost nostalgic, like I’m looking back in time at my past life. “But the idea of going back to that, it almost seems strange. Of course, I want to see my parents. I miss them a lot. But I don’t know—”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” Noah says, interrupting me.
I shake my head at him. “You didn’t. I guess I just do like it here,” I admit, surprising myself. “More than I expected.”
Noah grins at me. “Well, you did have pretty low expectations.”
I laugh at his response. “I guess I did.”
Don’t pay attention.
Statistics
By the time we get to Statistics, I still can’t shake what Noah said.
Because I’m wondering if he’s right.
I do like it here.
It feels like … home.
And the thought that London, a place I didn’t want to come to, could feel that way is unsettling.
Part of me wonders if it’s just because I didn’t have an option. I either had to make it my home or feel out of place for the duration of the exchange.
But the other part of me knows that’s not true. I’ve grown to care about the Williams. About Harry. Mohammad. I’ve become accustomed to being around them, and I like it. The thought of going home, to New York, to the girl I was before being here feels wrong. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it when I have to leave.
When I got here and realized it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought that time would fly by, and then I would be back to my old life before I realized it. At least, I hoped that was how it would be.
But now, the idea of going home makes my stomach twist up in knots.
I push the thought out of my head, not wanting to deal with it right now.
“At least class today will be easy,” I comment, trying to pull myself back into the present.
I get out my statistics project, slamming the paper down onto my desk, already feeling accomplished. Between having this project over with and getting in an extra-long shower this morning, I decide I need to dwell on feeling grateful and happy rather than confused.
“I think so,” Noah says, agreeing.
When Mr. Johnson walks into class, he looks even happier than usual. His cheeks are almost rosy, and he has a sparkle in his eye that can’t be missed.