“Welcome to my hometown,” Noah says as we approach the final archway on the bridge.
I turn to look at him. “Do you live here?”
“Sure do. So, what do you think?”
“I love it. It reminds me of autumn.” Why did you say that? Why can’t you just speak normally? my inner voice instantly yells.
“The colors?” Noah says.
“Yes.” I breathe a sigh of relief that he understands what I was trying to say.
“I get that. Your hair reminds me of autumn too.”
I look at him questioningly.
“Autumn has all the best colors.”
I look away but my mouth won’t stop curling into a grin.
As we drive off the bridge, Noah carries on his running commentary of turns and intersections until we get to a way quieter, residential area where the streets are narrower and lined with trees. I begin to properly relax again.
“Thank you,” I say, staring out of my side window at the row of tall brownstone houses. “I feel so much better now.”
Noah grins at me. “No problem. Let’s go get the tiara and then we can get on with the rest of the Mystery Tour.”
“Good plan.”
Noah turns the corner into a small street lined with quirky-looking cafés and stores. It’s like an American version of the Lanes. He pulls into a parking spot and turns to me and smiles. “You sure you’re OK?”
I nod. “Yes, definitely.”
He reaches over to the backseat for a scuffed leather biker’s jacket and puts it on. Then he looks up and down the street, like he’s checking for something, before he gets out of the truck, and I follow. It feels good to be outside on solid ground. I take a deep breath of the crisp cold air.
“The store’s just up here,” Noah says, pointing ahead of us.
As we walk past a secondhand bookshop, the door opens and a girl comes out. She looks at Noah and smiles like she knows him, but he just keeps on marching ahead.
“I think we just went past someone you know,” I say, running to keep up with him.
“What?” Noah looks distracted.
“That girl, back there.” I turn and look back to see the girl still standing outside the bookshop, staring after us.
“No, I don’t think so.” He pulls up the collar on his jacket against the cold. “Here we are.” We’re standing by a store called Lost in Time. The window is crammed full of antique treasures. Noah opens the door and bustles me in. It’s like walking into an Aladdin’s cave. Everywhere I look I see something that immediately makes me want to take its picture—an old sewing machine, a gramophone, rails of vintage clothes. Elliot would love it here. I feel a wistful pang and wonder how Elliot is doing with Dad. I cannot wait to see him again and tell him all about Noah.
As I follow Noah through the store, I see a beautiful china doll dressed in a dark blue velvet dress with a lace collar that’s yellowing from age. Her hair is long and silky and the exact same shade of auburn as mine. She even has some freckles painted onto her nose. The doll is sitting on top of a pile of old books and her head has flopped to one side, making her look really sad. I instantly reach for my camera and take a shot. As the flash goes off, Noah jumps and spins around to look at me.
He instantly relaxes.
“She looks so sad,” I say. “I wonder how she ended up here. I bet she misses her owner.” I pick up the doll and straighten out her dress. “I hate the thought of abandoned toys. When I was younger, I wanted to start a toy orphanage. But then it got a bit out of control because every time we went to a school fair or walked past a charity shop I’d want to rescue every toy in there.” Stop rambling, my inner voice snips. I put the doll back on the pile of books.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Noah says.
I look at him hopefully. “You do?”
“Uh-huh. Only with me it’s musical instruments. I can’t stand it if I see an old guitar abandoned in a thrift store. Instruments were made to be played.”
I nod. “Just like toys were made to be played with.”
“Exactly.”
We look at each other and smile and I feel a strange sensation inside of me, like on some invisible level, part of me and part of Noah just slotted together.
We both walk over to the counter at the far end of the shop. An old man with an epic curly white mustache is sitting behind the counter, reading a book. “Yes,” he says without even looking up.
“We’ve come to collect a tiara,” Noah says, looking at the scrap of paper Mum gave him, “for a wedding.”
“Have you now?” The man slowly puts his book down and peers at us over the top of his glasses.
Noah and I glance at each other and I have to fight the urge to giggle.
“Aren’t you all a little too young to be thinking about getting hitched?” The man continues staring at us.
“It’s not for our wedding,” Noah says.
“No—we’re not getting married!” I exclaim, a little too forcefully.
Noah frowns at me. “Are you saying you wouldn’t marry me?”
“No—I—yes—I . . .” My face starts working its way through the crimson spectrum.
“And after we’ve been together for a whole”—Noah pauses to look at his watch— “a whole one hour, fifty-seven minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, playing along with the joke. “I know it’s been ages, but I’m just not ready for that kind of a commitment.”