What happened over the next hour was a mishmash of things I didn’t want to know about my mother, as it was some kind of one-woman confessional that started with a re-creation of her birth and ended with her current situation of being a student and feeling out of place. I kept checking the door for Noah, but he never came in. He’d probably gotten caught in traffic, too, and I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved that he’d missed this.

The lights came up and I stood, cheering for my mom. I was easily the most enthusiastic applauder. I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned to see Noah in a ball cap, wearing the hood from his sweatshirt over the hat. He also had a denim jacket on and dark pants.

“Hey,” I said, feeling surprisingly awkward, both from the lack of contact and not knowing where things stood between us now.

Apparently he didn’t feel the same way, as he said, “I missed you,” and then wrapped me in another amazing hug. I buried my face against his neck, breathing in deeply. I felt like I could happily live in the circle of his embrace.

“You didn’t call,” I said without meaning to.

“I should have. I was so busy every minute of the day. I’m sorry.”

And just like that, all was forgiven. His touch was just that overpowering. “Why are you dressed like that?”

He pulled back. “What do you mean? This is to disguise myself so people don’t mob me. It works.”

“How? You look like the Unabomber. How does that not draw more attention to you?”

“What’s drawing attention to me right now is you loudly comparing me to a serial killer and bomb maker.”

“Whatever you say.” He was holding my hand, and I laced my fingers through his. My heart sighed happily. “Did you see the show?”

“I missed the first ten minutes.”

“What did you think?”

His face went blank, and I realized that he was trying to hide his real reaction from me. “It was . . . interesting.”

“Is that doublespeak for it was terrible and you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings?” Because it had been pretty bad.

“I can tell that your mother really loves acting and the theater,” he said diplomatically.

“She does. Why do you think she named me Juliet? Most of my memories with my mom revolve around being at our community theater with her.”

“Do you love it the same way she does?”

“It’s never really been my thing. But you said you liked the theater. Do you have a favorite play? Or maybe a favorite playwright?”