Growing Up in Cedarbrook
The years passed easily.
Noah rode his bicycle to our house almost every afternoon in Cedarbrook.
He knew exactly which kitchen cabinet contained the cookies.
He helped Gracie with reading.
He listened patiently while she told long stories that wandered through several unrelated subjects before eventually arriving at the point.
My mother, Diane, tolerated Noah’s constant presence with an amused smile.
My father, Richard, rarely looked up from his newspaper when Noah entered.
But Gracie always waited beside the front window for the sound of his bicycle tires.
By the time I was seventeen, my feelings toward Noah had changed.
I never told him.
I barely admitted it to myself.
Instead, I imagined a future while brushing my hair or finishing homework at the kitchen table.
Noah and me.
Gracie living nearby.
The three of us remaining connected exactly as we had always been.
I convinced myself Noah imagined it too.
