6. Nicole
Chapter six
Nicole
T he day after Adam and I meet to discuss the title list for the graphic novel proposal, a new message pops up on my work account almost as soon as I open the program on my computer screen that morning. It’s from Adam. It’s a square meme with a few lines of text against a solid background:
“I’ve started investing in stocks. Beef, Chicken, and Vegetable. One day I hope to be a bouillonaire.”
I can’t hold back a laugh, even though the joke is hella corny. I shake my head, smiling. Another message pings.
Adam Burgess: Morning. Here’s a link to my meme library if you’re still interested
I click the “laughing face” reaction to the meme message and then type my reply .
Nicole Delaney: Definitely interested. Thanks for the laugh this morning!
Adam Burgess: [smile emoji]
The timing of his meme delivery is so precise, I wonder if he was waiting for my account to switch to available so he could send it right away. The day before in his office, he was … awkward. Although I get the sense that’s par for the course with him. I thought for a minute he was checking me out, but quickly pushed the thought away. It didn’t feel creepy, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable, but I don’t know, it was weird. Then it was my turn to be awkward when I found out he manages the library’s social media accounts. I was shocked, and I probably should have done a better job hiding it. I didn’t miss the glint of hurt in his eyes at my reaction.
I sigh loudly. I’m obsessing about past conversations again. I take a deep breath in and refocus, using a technique my therapist told me about: the five-four-three-two-one method. I look around my office and name five things I can see: my desk, my computer, the hallway out the open door, the bookcase, the glaring blank walls. Now, four things I can touch: the cold from my water bottle, the softness of my gray trousers, the solid armrest of my chair, my phone in my hand. Three things I can hear: the voices of my colleagues down the hall, a chime from my computer as an email arrives, the rumble of the air conditioner as it turns on. Two things I can smell: the pear hand sanitizer I rubbed on my hands a few minutes earlier, the mustiness of the library air. One thing I can taste: the toothpaste still lingering on my tongue from getting ready for work that morning. Another breath and I shake the tension from my shoulders. Time to start the day.
Friday morning, I come into work to find another meme waiting for me. It’s a photo of an older man with a thick white beard and an old-fashioned straw hat. He’s standing in what looks like a grassy field, a farmhouse in view behind him. The text says:
“Be careful where you shop online. We ordered a german shepherd and now this guy lives with us.”
There’s no message this time, just the meme. And yes, I chuckle. And groan. So cheesy.
On the Monday before Thanksgiving, Adam and I are ready to put the finishing touches on our proposal. Adam has combed through the list of titles, and as promised, didn’t veto a single one. He said they are all owned by at least one other academic library, and most have awards and professional recommendations we can use to cite their legitimacy. I shake my head thinking about it. I’m finding Adam difficult to read. On the one hand, I know Herb assigned him to this project—it’s not like he chose to come in and be a buzzkill. But on the other hand, when he uses dismissive words like “touchy-feely”, I have to wonder where his personal beliefs fall. Is he really that committed to keeping the peace at Harkness College? And at what cost?
Because of the holiday, work time is limited this week, so we squeeze in a quick meeting during lunch. We’re the only ones in the break room, and we sit across from each other at the small table, our knees nearly touching. Once we iron out the final points of our project—I’ll get it cleaned up and send it to Herb before I leave for the holiday—we sit in silence for a few minutes, eating our lunches.
“Thanks for this morning’s meme.” I smile at Adam. It was super silly: a picture of sticks of butter arranged to look like Stonehenge. The text shows a conversation between two people. The first asking, “is that butter?”, to which the second replies, “no, it’s stonehenge.” And finally, the first person quips, “I can’t believe it’s not butter.” At the top is the caption, “This is just margarinally funny.” I didn’t laugh this time, but I did roll my eyes so hard I almost got dizzy.
Adam smiles back. “You’re welcome,” he says. “I’ve got hundreds more where that came from. Literally.”
“And you’re going to send them to me one by one?” I ask, hoping he realizes I’m teasing.
“That’s the plan.” He smiles again.
He takes another bite of his salad, and I can’t help but compare it to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I have in front of me. And chips. And Dr. Pepper (because, of course, I am a Texas girl). The salad does look good. It’s colorful with at least three kinds of vegetables in addition to the lettuce. Looks like shredded chicken mixed in there too.
This is the sort of lunch I ought to be eating. But the planning it takes to buy the fresh vegetables at the store, and then cut them up and put them all together before work each morning sounds exhausting. Plus, I’d get tired of it quickly. I’m a little jealous of Adam’s willpower. I just know that by the third day of packing salad lunches, I’d leave that thing sitting in the refrigerator and be walking down the street to buy something yummy at a nearby café.
“Your salad looks good,” I comment. “Do you always eat so healthy?”
Adam shifts a bit uncomfortably. “I try to,” he answers. I think he’s going to change the subject or just go back to eating in silence, but he continues. “My dad passed away a few years ago from a heart attack. He wasn’t the unhealthiest guy ever, but he didn’t really take care of himself either. He was only seventy.” He sees my expression and adds, “Yes, my parents were older. He was forty-five when I was born. Anyway, my mom and I were devastated to lose him so soon. I decided then to do my best to take care of my health.”
I’m stunned into silence. I’m … not sure why he just told me all that. I’m not sure what to say. Finally, a thought, though not a very sensitive one, stumbles out of my mouth, “Seventy years is a good, long life.” Do I mean that to be reassuring? I’m honestly not sure.
Adam considers me for a few moments, watching my quickly reddening face. “How long until your parents are seventy?”
I do the calculation in my head. “About fifteen years.”
“In fifteen years, will you be ready to let them go?”
Of course not. I mean, fifteen years sounds like a lot, but considering that I’m not even dating someone now, that would mean my parents wouldn’t be around for my kids’ graduations or weddings. My chest aches thinking about it.
“No,” I answer .
“I wasn’t ready to let my dad go either. And I don’t want my wife and kids to go through what my mom and I did. So, I do everything I can to live a healthy life.”
My eyes flick to his left hand. “You’re married?”
His eyes widen in surprise, and he shakes his head. “No. No.” He laughs uncomfortably. “I should have said my future wife and kids. Whoever they may be. No. I’m single.” He meets my eyes briefly as he says this, then they dip back down to his hands.
“My parents married young,” I share. “They were in their mid-twenties when my older sister was born. You’re right. I can’t imagine being without either of them. I’m sorry you went through that.”
Adam nods slightly in acknowledgement. “Where did you grow up?” he asks.
“Austin, Texas. The rest of my family are still there, except my older sister. She lives in New Orleans. Where does your mom live, or any siblings?”
“My mom’s in Naples, and I’m an only child.”
“Are you heading home for Thanksgiving? How far is that?”
The library closes after noon on Wednesday until Monday morning. I’m not looking forward to it.
“I am. It’s about five hours to drive from here, so not too bad. How about you? Going to Texas for Thanksgiving?”
I make a face. “No. I decided to save money and just buy the flight home for Christmas and not Thanksgiving. My sister Molly—the one who lives in New Orleans—isn’t going either. I’m bummed, but since we get so much time off around Christmas, I’ll be able to have a nice long visit then.”
Adam has a strange look on his face. He starts to say something and then stops. He clears his throat. Finally, he says, “Well, Christmas will be fun. I’m sorry you don’t have plans for Thanksgiving though.”
I shrug. “I can catch up on my reading.”