Page 29 of Lift Me Up

The six-story building looms over us, and I look up, then to Noah. “This is me.”

“Can I walk you in? Or is this as far—” He trails off, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He gives a casual, so casual shrug, “I just… I like spending time with you. I… I don’t want the day to end yet.”

“You can,” I say. “You can walk me in. I’d like that.”

I try to ignore the fact that my head is spinning, of every sign telling me that this is a bad idea. I shove the little nagging Georgie into a closet to be forgotten about, ignoring her waggling fist, buzzing myself into the building. For the love of God, if Franny is in my apartment right now… How would I even begin to explain this situation? What if he just walks me to my door and calls it a day? This was a not-a-date after all… Right?

“So that’s where it all started, huh?” Noah stills in the apartment lobby and stares at the elevator’s ominous door. The out-of-order sign has long been removed.

I glare at it and then look at him, “Yes, that’s the tin can of death I refuse to ever use again.”

“You hike the stairs, huh?” He doesn’t sound surprised by this piece of information but glances warily at the staircase in question.

“I have since that day…” I admit.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back in one?”

“When required, probably, but I might freak out. Or definitely freak out. But if I don’t have to, no. I’ll get my exercise on the stairs, thanks.”

“We could try now if you want to?” He nods in the direction of the door.

“No.” My answer is immediate, but Noah is unfazed.

He must feel the tremble in my hand at the very thought of doing it, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Okay. Then lead the way.”

“You’re only saying that so you can stare at my ass as I walk up first, aren’t you?” I’m joking, mostly, as I start to ascend the stairs.

I glance back, and can see the pink in Noah’s cheeks as he intentionally checks out my ass and then looks right at me. “Oh, absolutely I am.”

FLIRTING. HE. IS. FLIRTING WITH ME.

That’s what that is, right? It’s been too damn long since I’ve done this. I try to make the climb look effortless, swishing my hips a little just in case he is in fact looking. Believe me, the 5-floor hike has gotten easier to do every time, so while I’m barely winded, Noah’s panting. “Shit.” Noah huffs, “You do that every day?”

“Sometimes more than once.”

“How do you do it?” He says with a long breath, trying to keep up. That. That right there shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but good god does it feel fantastic.

“Easy. I just tell myself, ‘I think I can, I think I can,’” I sing-song, making a chugging motion. He laughs, echoing through the corridor of the floor. I point to my apartment door. “This is me.”

“Oh.” He says softly, a little deflated. Maybe he hoped I lived at the other end of the hall.

I try to think about how tidy my house is. All things considered, it’s been a really good week. Those are rare. Welcomed and appreciated, but rare. With my place being decently clean comparatively, I feel confident when I say, “Want to come in for a coffee or something?”

His eyes shift from his feet to my face, the light returning, “Yeah?”

“Why not? The coffee is terrible; I’m more of a tea or pop person, but I have it around for weirdos who like it. And I think if you’re nice, I have some cookies from Franny I can share.”

“Sounds perfect.” He chuckles, waiting for me to unlock the door and show him inside.

Noah takes in my place like he’s only got a minute to see it all, and then he’ll be tested. He finds my bookshelf of books next to my bookshelf of yarn, tracing the spines and snorting at some of the titles. “Do I even want to know what some of these are about?”

“Probably not,” I say playfully, trying to ignore just how much I am enjoying seeing Noah in my living room.

He looks comfortable as he grazes the reading shelf and then peruses the yarn next, grabbing the threaded coils of acrylic, cotton, wool, and velvet. There’s a moment when I see him smile and nod to himself, working to identify the material the yarn is made of or the size of the yarn itself. His pride is obvious when he realizes that he was correct after looking at the wrapper.

“You’re getting better at that…” I note, slipping away to grab coffee-making materials.

My electric kettle turns on, the sad instant coffee comes off its hiding shelf, and I grab creamer from the fridge. I only notice he’s come over to watch me in the kitchen when I turn to ask him what he takes in his coffee, and he’s there, staring at me with soft honey brown eyes.