The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch
CHAPTER 7
I’ve been lying awake for a while now. The whole room is pitch black, but I can see the outline of Noah’s body lying next to me. I am right in the middle of the bed. Being alone for so long has made me a selfish sleeper, but luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. He looks quite happy, squished all the way over to the edge hugging a pillow. I sit up a bit to test how asleep he is. He doesn’t stir at all, so I risk moving more. It’s very early in the morning but I have already stayed longer than I normally do. Normally I leave before I’ve fallen asleep. But not last night. Last night I slept surprisingly well, even though Noah’s snore was quite impressive. The whole bed shook when he got really ramped up. I’m just glad I woke up before him, avoiding the awkward morning shuffle.
I’m as careful as I can be getting out of his bed, but I still end up placing my feet awkwardly on the floor, half tripping over my tangled limbs. I look back. He is still snoring gently.
Last night was fun, and I smile at the memory. Even snoring he is quite cute. Lying on his front, shoulders exposed, you can see that he looks after himself. Not to an off-putting extent, but just enough that his arms and shoulders are nicely muscled. Call me vain, but I like a man with good shoulders. It probably harks back to some primal need for your mate to lift heavy Ikea furniture. Those Malm dressers are hefty.
I turn away and start to pick up my clothes. My trusty and complicated bra is still on (even Noah’s Lothario hands couldn’t figure it out, although he did get closer than most … I kept having to distract his hands or swat them away), but all my other clothes have been tossed around the room, and it takes me longer than ideal to find my underwear. I start to panic. The slight hangover isn’t helping. The front of my brain feels dry and shrivelled.
I really need to leave. This is why sometimes sex can be dangerous. Every now and then it can make you want to feel more than you do, and I need to leave before we risk having sex again, in the daylight. I’m not one for daylight sex.
Pants finally located, I leave his bedroom to find the loo, relieved to see my bag in the corridor. I couldn’t remember where I had put it. I was indeed distracted last night. It feels good to achieve your goals. When I reach the bathroom, I turn on the light, but immediately turn it back off when the extractor fan starts up. I shall have to do this using the feeble amount of morning sun peeking through the tiny window in the bathroom.
I look back into his room to make sure the noise of the fan didn’t wake him up. He still appears to be fast asleep so I close the door as quietly as I can. The transition between being here and not being here is my least favourite period of time because it’s fraught with danger. Make too much noise and you risk waking up the other person and having to engage in the awkward morning-after conversation.
But when I’m safely in the bathroom with the door shut, I can’t help but snoop around. It’s small, but there is still room for a mini wall cupboard. It’s one of those ones that also has a mirror attached. They are as practical as they are aesthetically displeasing, but they are always where secrets are kept. On opening it, I can see that Noah is no different. There are traces of girl in here, but only traces. A pink toothbrush. A couple of hair clips. Some old moisturizer that I can’t believe originally belonged to a man. Some cheap mascara. The eclectic choice of objects adds to the feeling that they have all been abandoned, left here accidentally by previous conquests.
I don’t snoop for too long as I don’t want to risk detection. My hungover brain momentarily considers using the pink toothbrush, but I decide against it. I have no idea how many others have used it. Instead I decide to give my teeth only a very quick finger brush using some of Noah’s toothpaste. I have gum in my bag which will make the commute back home significantly less anti-social. It’s not ideal, but it will do for now, and no way am I using a random girl’s toothbrush. After a cursory splash of my face, with a bit of extra rubbing to get rid of the under-eye panda look, I pick the cleanest-looking towel to dry with. Dirty towels have always confused me – why go through all the effort of washing yourself when you are just going to fall at the final hurdle?
After a quick spray of something that looks like man deodorant, I’m finally ready for the outside world. I take a deep inhale, open the door as quietly as I can and tiptoe out of the bathroom. As I make my way down the corridor, I grab my bag on the way and look back one last time to his bedroom.
‘Good morning.’
I freeze mid-tip, before the toe.
I plant a huge smile on my face and turn towards the voice, half hoping that Noah has a flatmate.
He doesn’t.
I do a little wave. ‘Morning!’ My smile and pitch are definitely over-compensating. Noah is standing in the hallway. The part of the hallway between me and my exit. Where did he come from?
‘You were going to leave without saying goodbye.’
My smile turns into more of a grimace. ‘Maybe.’
‘Ripping the shirt off was a bit much, huh? Sorry. Sometimes I get a bit caught up in the moment and try out a new move.’ I had actually forgotten this happened; I’m pleased and also disturbed now that he’s reminded me. ‘My ego is kinda bruised, but I think I can tempt you to stay.’
In the morning light I can see that he has some premature greys speckled through his hair. I wish I hadn’t seen it. Grey hair on men does something to me.
‘You think so, huh?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘I think you want breakfast.’
‘Breakfast? What kind of breakfast? Pancakes?’
He looks at me like I have just performed a magic trick.
‘How did you know that I was craving pancakes?’
This is precisely why I normally leave before I fall asleep. Even the most unattachable man can’t help but pretend he wants you to stay.
I grip my bag a little tighter. Holding on to my decision to leave. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
He cocks his head slightly to the side. ‘Do what?’
‘Pretend you want me to stay. Last night was fun, but I don’t need breakfast. Even breakfast in the form of pancakes.’
At this he takes a step towards me, hands outstretched, beseeching.
‘Ah, but I didn’t say you needed breakfast.’ He gently takes the bag off my shoulder and puts it back on the floor, pretty much exactly where I picked it up from less than a minute earlier. ‘I said you wanted breakfast.’
I look at him and shake my head. ‘I don’t want breakfast.’
He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You don’t want pancakes? What have you got against pancakes? What have pancakes ever done to you?’ He looks faux offended on behalf of the pancakes.
It’s almost enough to make me smile. OK, it is enough to make me smile. But not enough to make me want to stay.
‘Nothing, I just—’
‘Great. It’s settled then.’ At this he goes into the kitchen, and I am left standing in the hallway, contemplating my next move.
Most of the time I believe that leaving is the way to avoid awkwardness, but somehow, in this particular situation, the idea of leaving doesn’t sit well with me.
So I follow him.
He briefly glances back at me, probably to make sure I’m following.
Once in the kitchen, he opens his arms out. ‘This is the kitchen. I’m assuming you know how to cook?’
I just stare at him, working out the puzzle. ‘You don’t actually care whether or not I want pancakes, do you?’ I point at him. ‘You want pancakes.’
He grimaces, cheekily. ‘Guilty as charged.’
I start to back away.
‘No, no, no. Don’t leave.’ He gently grabs my shoulders. ‘I can cook, I just can’t cook breakfast. The best I can normally manage is toast, but I woke up this morning with a real desire for pancakes. And I have a long shift starting in about two hours, and I need to be fuelled for it. Pancakes will fuel me.’ He nods as though I should find this endearing. I don’t. I feel like he’s playing me. ‘And I make a great coffee.’
Caffeine does sound good. I had planned on buying one on my way back home, but once you factor in the obligatory accompanying croissant, having a coffee here would save me about ten pounds. I sigh. I always get hungry about fifteen minutes after I wake up, and my traitorous stomach rumbles. From Noah’s face I can tell that he knows he’s won. ‘Fine. I take milk and two sugars. And I’m not washing up.’
‘Deal.’
He watches me from his seat at the breakfast bar as I make the batter. We both feel like fluffy, American-style pancakes, so this is what we are having.
‘I can’t believe you don’t need a recipe.’
I just shrug. ‘I mean, it doesn’t help that you don’t have a set of scales, but if you know what the batter should look like, it’s easy enough to figure out the quantities.’ I stir, finally happy with the mix. ‘Frying pan?’
At this, Noah jumps up, comes over to my side. ‘Would one of these work?’
He opens a drawer to reveal the most beautiful set of saucepans I have ever seen and the old person inside me, the one who can see the benefit of orthopaedic shoes, starts to drool. I spy a particularly pleasing-looking heavy-bottomed saucepan that would really elevate my delicate melting capabilities. Chocolate, sauces, sugar. That kind of thing. But they all look suspiciously underused.
‘Do you ever cook?’
‘Of course. Why?’ He is back on his perch, watching me.
‘These pans look brand new.’
‘Oh.’ He hesitates a bit. ‘I’m really good at cleaning.’
‘Uh huh.’ I want him to know that I know that he’s lying, but I don’t push him on the subject. Instead I pick out a frying pan. It’s not a specific pancake pan, but it should do.
I’m glad at least that I can pretend to be too busy with and distracted by the pancakes to talk. The longer I stay, the more uncomfortable I feel, but cooking always calms me. Now I wish I had taken the time to shower, but I didn’t know I would be coerced into cooking breakfast. Instead, I have used coffee to mask my slight morning breath. A finger brush really doesn’t accomplish much. At least I washed my face and sprayed myself with his deodorant.
The pan has heated up, so I wipe away the excess butter and pour in a bit of the batter, getting into my groove.
I’m still actively avoiding looking at him, and instead concentrate on the pancake in front of me. I flip it once it starts bubbling and taste a bit once it’s cooked to make sure it’s OK. I was pretty sure the quantities would work, but I am relieved to find that it tastes pretty good and has a nice texture, despite not letting the batter rest for very long.
As if by magic, Noah appears on my left-hand side. ‘Hey, I could’ve tested that if you needed me to.’
‘I call it the cook’s reward, but here,’ I try not to think about how I mentally compared my hypothetical wedding with Chris to a tester pancake, and give Noah the rest before turning back to cook up the remaining batter.
With Noah watching, I decide to do something I haven’t done in ages. I draw a smiley face on the pan with the batter and a spoon, and let it cook for a bit before filling in the rest of the pancake.
‘What’s this?’
‘Pancake art.’
‘Pancake art?’ He looks at the pan. ‘I didn’t know you were an artist.’
I scoff. ‘I wouldn’t call this art, and I am definitely not an artist, but you have to admit …’ I flip the pancake to reveal its smile. I don’t finish my sentence. I don’t need to.
Pancakes are even more fun when you draw with them.
Noah’s face is pure joy when he looks up. ‘What else can we draw?’
After all the pancake batter has been used up, and the shapes all piled on a plate (the dinosaur was a bit over-ambitious and definitely looks more like a cloud), Noah lays out plates and cutlery, and even finds some blueberries and maple syrup, and we sit down to eat at the breakfast bar. I take a sip of my coffee. Noah wasn’t lying.
‘This is delicious, thank you.’
He smiles and nods in reply, and then tucks into a slightly blobby star.
Without anything to do, I’m once again feeling a little awkward. Noah, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the awkwardness. Or possibly he is just very practised at eating morning-after breakfasts. I wonder how my pancakes compare to the last girl’s.
To reduce the tension that only I feel, I search my mind for a topic of conversation. Any topic. Any conversation. Well, anything that isn’t too personal. I search the deepest depths of my mind, but can only come up with an age-old debate: waffles or pancakes. I wish I could come up with something more interesting, but I can’t. And I need to fill this awkward silence with something.
‘I know we’re having pancakes, but waffles are so much better.’ My argument is boring, but flawless. ‘They have pockets. Pockets improve everything.’
The shock in Noah’s voice and on his face lets me know that he doesn’t agree. I don’t mind, I’m just relieved that he’s indulging me. ‘What? No! Pancakes are better. They are more versatile.’ At this he points towards the plate that is still laden with all of our edible artwork. ‘Both in terms of looks, and also accompaniments. Sweet. Savoury. Fruit. Maple syrup. Bacon. Pancakes go with everything.’
I make a face. ‘I have never understood pancakes and bacon.’
‘You’re missing out.’
‘Maybe, but waffles are still better.’ Out the corner of my eye I can see him start to shake his head. ‘As a man, you will never know the annoyance of rarely having pockets. I can forgive your lack of understanding, but I will never agree.’ I take another bite.
‘Well, either way, these are amazing.’ Noah dives in for more. His obvious joy at eating them makes me slightly happier that I stayed. ‘So’ – he swallows and gesticulates at the kitchen with his fork – ‘how come you know so much about cooking?’
I can’t quite remember all the details of our conversation last night, but knowing that he isn’t the relationship type, I figure I have nothing to lose, or indeed gain, so decide to tell him the straight-up truth. Plus, I’m too tired and a little bit too hungover to lie convincingly. ‘I bake cakes. Celebration cakes. Wedding cakes. Birthday cakes.’ I tell him the truth, but I hope that by sandwiching the wedding cake confession in between two more mundane events it can be hidden. Glossed over. ‘So a knowledge of flour and egg mixes kinda comes with the territory.’ I help myself to some more syrup, trying not to worry too much about his face, which will inevitably say, ‘Holy shit, I wish I never asked. I must now escape this situation.’
‘Huh.’ I risk a peek. His face actually looks quite calm. He nods. ‘A handy skill. All my profession has taught me is how to treat sinus infections.’ He takes another bite.
I wish I could remember more about our conversation last night. If he told me what he did or not. I search my memory but come up blank. All I can remember is laughing. I pick up the syrup.
‘I’m an ENT doctor.’
I put down the syrup. He is the owner of a proper profession. This is also why I don’t like telling people what I do. I frequently find myself feeling like a fairly useless human.
He swallows and nods. ‘OK, it’s a bit of lie. I know fractionally more than just how to treat sinus infections, but it hasn’t taught me anything as good as this.’ He uses his fork to point at the remainder of his last pancake. ‘Honestly, you can come again.’
I wiggle my eyebrows. ‘I came plenty last night, if you remember.’ And I did. It was a miracle. But then, I guess he’s had a lot of practice locating and dancing with the clitoris. Also, he took instruction very well. It was so refreshing. A lot of men are too egotistical and arrogant to take instruction.
In a shock move, one that I am definitely not prepared for, he responds by kissing me on the lips. He tastes like coffee and maple syrup. I can feel his slight morning stubble against my lips. It’s not unpleasant.
Despite what my hormones are yelling at me, I force myself to break off the kiss before it leads to more. I avoid his eyes and look around. ‘I like your apartment.’ And I do, especially now that I have the opportunity to see it in daylight, without quite so many heady distractions. Noah’s apartment is really … honest. There is no other way to describe it. It isn’t full of leather and hard lines and expensive lamps. Things bought to show off. The sofa is nice, but it is definitely on the comfortable-looking side of the scale. I can see photos up on the wall, and some randomly chosen prints. There is a dying plant in the corner. And books. He has a big, messy bookcase that doesn’t appear to have rhyme or reason to it, but each book looks well read. All the spines are cracked.
‘Thanks. My sister is actually an interior designer. She wants to change it up, but I like it as it is.’ He looks around almost like he is taking it in for the first time.
‘You have a sister?’
‘Yep. Lucy.’
‘Is it just the two of you or do you have more siblings?’
He nods. ‘It’s just the two of us. Well, and a dog.’
I can see that. I can see him growing up in a picture-perfect family. I look around. It seems like everywhere I look this morning, conversations I want to avoid come my way. I change the subject, again.
‘Nice plant.’ I smile so he knows I mean it in a kind way.
‘Thanks.’ He looks across at it. It does look really, really dead. ‘I had to work hard to kill that guy off. I should probably get rid of him, huh?’ He looks at me, almost for approval, but I remain silent. ‘It’s my own fault. I thought living close to the hospitals I work at would be a good thing, but it just means I’m always on call.’
I nod, but I have no real comeback to this. I work long hours too, but nobody’s life depends on the work I do.
I look down at our plates. There are a couple of failed pieces that are too deformed to eat, but apart from that, the pancakes are over.
This is the perfect chance for me to make a move. With nothing left to eat, I have no ties here. I sigh to prepare myself, and signal to Noah, that I am about to leave. Everyone knows the significance of the ‘I have to leave now’ sigh. It’s practically a requirement to make it in this situation.
‘Talking of work – I imagine you need to start getting ready. I can leave now.’ I start to move, not so subtly shifting in my seat to try and get off, but Noah puts his hand out to stop me.
‘You’re really keen to get out of here, huh?’ He looks at the clock. ‘But you’re right. I should probably get ready.’ He looks back at me, eyebrow raised. ‘Unless … my shower is big enough for two.’
I shake my head. This is a hard no for me for many reasons, not the least of which are my spent energy supply and my soul, which is already at home, lying on the sofa trying to rehydrate my body. ‘Terrible idea. The only thing that should get turned on in the bathroom is the shower.’ He looks at me and smiles at the pun. Distractions really do work. ‘Think about it. All the tiles. All the water. All the potential to slip.’ I shake my head and close my eyes for emphasis. ‘No. I’m outta here.’ I open them back up again, only to find myself gazing into a pair of perfectly bluey-green eyes.
I really need to leave before it becomes obvious that I am hiding more than just a need to be at home.
Finally, Noah’s face adopts a look of resignation. ‘OK, you can leave, but give me your number.’
I hesitate. I can’t help the question that comes out.
‘Why?’
He scoffs and looks at the ceiling. ‘You are really doing a number on my ego here.’ He looks back at me. ‘I had fun last night, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ That has never been in doubt.
‘OK, so maybe we could have fun again.’
I think about it. He’s promised fun. Only fun. In many ways, we could be the perfect pair, with neither one of us wanting more. I guess there is no reason why I couldn’t see him again. At least until the fun ends.
I shrug, non-committal and nonchalant. ‘OK. We can have fun again.’
He gets his phone out and I give him my number.