Baby, I Think We're Basically Just Friends

I was halfway through a practice exam when Noah Bell knocked on my apartment door with a paper bag of tacos and a smile I knew was going to cost me at least forty minutes. "I'm studying," I called. "I brought food. That's basically studying." I checked the timer on my laptop. Twenty-three minutes remained in the timed verbal section. I could ignore him, but the smell of grilled peppers was already getting through the door. "Leave it outside." "I could. But then you'd have to get up." "I can get up." "Can you, though?" I opened the door because my concentration had already lost the argument. Noah stood in the hallway wearing a black T-shirt, a denim jacket, and the kind of effortless smile that made strangers tell him their secrets in coffee shop lines. His dark hair was damp from the rain. He held up the bag. "Peace offering," he said. "You interrupted a test." "Then I'm offering you a better test. Can you identify the tacos by smell?" I stepped aside. "You're not funny." He came in. "That sounded convincing." I shut the door behind him and glanced at my laptop. The clock kept running. My score could wait until after dinner. That was how Noah had entered my life, through a door I'd been too tired to keep shut. We'd met three weeks earlier at a friend's birthday party in Marlowe, a fictional-sized coastal city that was just big enough to have decent coffee and small enough for everyone to complain about rent. I'd gone because my friend Tessa had threatened to bring a cake to my apartment if I didn't leave it. Noah had been at the party because he knew the bartender, the birthday girl, and apparently three other people who had all assumed he was there with them. He was a freelance lighting technician, which meant he worked long hours when a theater or concert needed him and picked up shifts at a neighborhood bar when it didn't. He talked with his hands, laughed easily, and flirted without making it seem like a job interview. When he asked what I did, I told him I was a research assistant at the Marlowe Children's Health Center and was applying to clinical psychology programs. "Do you like the work?" he asked. "I do." "Then why do you look like you're about to fight a printer?" I looked down at the practice questions on my phone. "Because I'm also trying to study for the GRE, finish a manuscript for my supervisor, and convince three faculty members to write recommendations." "Sounds restful." "It's an exciting lifestyle. I've started celebrating when the washing machine works." He laughed. I liked the sound of it. I liked the way he listened without making a performance out of it. I also liked the fact that when I said I didn't have time to date, he didn't insist that the word date could mean anything. We'd gone home together after the party. The following morning, I'd told him I wasn't looking for a relationship. He'd told me he wasn't either. A week later, we'd made the arrangement official over takeout on my couch. No exclusivity. No expectation of constant messages. No meeting family. Either of us could end it without a trial or a speech. If one of us started dating someone else, we'd say so before we slept together again. It had sounded clean. Sensible. Exactly what I needed. Noah unpacked the tacos on my coffee table and sat down beside my study notes. "Your flash cards are getting aggressive," he said. "They're the only people in my life who don't expect me to answer texts." "I don't expect you to answer texts." "You sent me five." "I was trying to be considerate from several different angles." I took a taco and leaned back against the couch. "I have six weeks until the application deadline. After that, I have interviews and then I wait. I can't take on a complicated relationship." "I know." "You're not going to decide I'm secretly your girlfriend?" "No." "You're not going to get jealous because I'm studying instead of seeing you?" "I might get jealous of your study guide. It seems to get more of your attention than I do." "That's because the study guide doesn't flirt with my roommate." "I haven't met your roommate." "Exactly. It has impeccable boundaries." He smiled and stole a piece of pepper from my taco. "I don't want a relationship. I have work that changes every week, and I like my life. I'm not going to promise you something I can't give." I appreciated the honesty. It was easier to be honest when no one was asking for a future. "Good," I said. "Then we're on the same page." Noah lifted his taco. "To a page. Not a whole book." I clinked mine against his. Later, after I'd finished the exam and complained about the questions that seemed designed to punish people for understanding words, Noah kissed me against the narrow strip of wall between my kitchen and the living room. He didn't ask me what I wanted our lives to look like six months from then. He didn't need me to say I'd missed him. He didn't stay the night. He left before midnight, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, and I returned to my laptop with warm hands and a clear head. For the first few weeks, I thought I'd found the perfect solution. I could want somebody without needing them to want more. I could be close without making space for anyone else in my plans. At least, that was what I told myself.