Noah Czerny didn’t have a great track record with weddings.
The last time that he’d been at a wedding, the night had ended with him getting piss drunk and falling off of a table after a rousing round of “Sto lat,” which his mother had found much less amusing than the rest of his extended family. He’d been seventeen at the time, and full of a youthful energy that still hadn’t quite burned off by the time he hit twenty-two. But his problems this time had less to do with being on top of a table than they had to do with trying to get someone out from under a table.
“Opal,” Noah said, cradling his hand to his chest. There were toothmarks on his hand—and not normal, dull toothmarks, but marks from the razor sharp teeth that had recently pierced up through his niece’s gums. “You can’t stay under there, okay? You’ve got to get ready.”
Opal sank farther into the shadows beneath the table, and Noah let out an exasperated sigh and looked over his shoulder at Ronan, who was rearranging the same table placement for the eighth time since Noah had walked into the room. “Ronan,” he said, not bothering to disguise the pleading tone to his voice. “Your daughter literally bit me. With her teeth.”
“Then don’t put your fingers near her face,” Ronan said, bored.
“How did I end up on babysitting detail, again?”
Adam hadn’t moved his head from Noah’s lap since he’d dragged himself home from his engineering final, face flushed and eyes glazed. It wasn’t like Noah minded–a sick Adam was a pliant, snuggly Adam, and Noah was helpless in the face of that–but it had made it impossible to record his video of the day.
Three minutes into an attempt at a recording, Adam had let out a pathetic noise of discontent that had ended with Noah stroking his hair and whispering until he fell asleep again. It wasn’t until later that he realized he’d still been recording.
Adam’s phone was frozen for a solid two minutes before all of Noah’s text messages came flooding in. He’d shut the damn thing off twenty minutes into his shift–when Noah, bored with the lack of internet at his mom’s and overjoyed at Adam’s newly instituted unlimited texting plan, had already texted him five times in order to send him various pictures of a sad looking frog man.
Adam was not big on the internet. Not in the way that Noah, with his video blog and his fanbase (mostly made up of people Adam imagined to be frothing at the mouth at any given moment, given his limited interactions with them), was. He knew what the big social media platforms were, even if he avoided them.
He didn’t understand memes. The ones Noah and Ronan tended to quote back and forth in rapidfire succession always flew over Adam’s head, and Adam didn’t care to keep up.
His phone unfroze, finally, and a quick thumb through his messages showed him that either Noah had vomited up a surrealist novel on his phone or Adam was having more memes inflicted on him. He scrolled back to the first message as he waited for his car to heat up, trying not to shiver.
Most of them were stupid–inside jokes that Noah had with the world but not with Adam–but Noah started personalizing them at some point. There was a photo of Noah with his little sister, both holding up forks twisted up with pasta, captioned, wen your mom come hoem and make hte spaghetti
A picture of Noah with his head stuck in a hole in a tree, with a sign in his handwriting taped above it that read TANTRUM HOLE.
The most recent one–sent an hour ago–was just a text.
average person misses adam parrish 80 times a day" factoid actualy just statistical error. average person misses adam parrish 1 time per day. Noah Georg, who visits his moms house & misses adam parrish 10,000 times each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
Adam was shaking, now more from laughter than from the cold. He flipped to his contacts and dialed Noah’s number.