30. Nicole
Chapter thirty
Nicole
T he next morning, Adam insists that we personally inform Herb of our relationship. Doing so is not an HR requirement—after filing the paperwork, which Adam did last night, HR reviews it and notifies the supervisor—but Adam sees it as a necessary courtesy. I feel ten kinds of awkward about it, but I have to begrudgingly admit that because we’re a small, close-knit team at Parker Library, it makes sense to get it out in the open.
We go together to knock on Herb’s open door. He gestures for us to come in.
“What can I do for you?” Herb asks.
Thinking about Adam’s bumbling awkwardness talking to me about all this yesterday, I can only imagine how he plans to handle Herb. So, I rip off the band-aid.
“Adam and I are dating,” I announce .
Adam’s mouth drops open and Herb freezes. Both men are staring at me.
“We submitted the paperwork stuff to HR,” I continue. “But we wanted to let you know personally.”
“Oh, uh, sure, of course. Thank you,” Herb stammers.
“We promise to remain professional on the job,” I persist, deftly pinching Adam’s arm. “But if you notice any problems, please let us know.”
“Uh, yes, naturally,” Herb fiddles with some folders on his desk. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Thank you for your time.”
Backing out into the hallway, I whisper to Adam, “Close your mouth.” He blinks at me, and I grin.
“Well,” I smile. “That’s taken care of.” I salute in his direction. “Have a productive workday, sir.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head as I turn toward my own office.
In the middle of the afternoon, I text Adam a meme, just to mess with him. It says:
“dating me is easy u just have to kiss me every 3 minutes.”
He texts back, “After work. Stop distracting me,” with a wink-face emoji.
A few minutes later, he saunters past my office door, then doubles back and casually leans against the doorframe.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hello, work colleague,” I quip.
“Stop being a brat,” he chides, lips quirking .
“Stop leaning seductively in my doorway,” I counter.
He straightens, his smile growing. “Come over after work,” he says earnestly. “I’ll cook dinner. We can watch a movie or something.”
I grin. “Only if Joan will be there.”
Adam drives me to my apartment after work so I can change before we head to his house. He loiters in the living room, poking around, while I change clothes in my room. After wasting too much time debating the options, I finally put on leggings and a cropped T-shirt. I emerge to find Adam studying the framed photos of my family on the end tables of the couch. He looks up when I come out.
“I’ve met Molly,” he says. “This is the rest of your family?”
“Yes.” I point to a photo in an obnoxiously pink, sparkly frame. “Me, of course, Molly, and then the blonde is our younger sister, Olivia.”
“You have blonde hair in this picture, too,” he notes.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s my natural hair color. We took that picture about three years ago.”
“You didn’t dye your hair then?”
“No, I did, when I could. I started dyeing my hair in high school, mostly black.” I cringe when I think of my style back then. It works for some people, and I’m all for doing what you love, but it wasn’t really me. I remember that Adam knows a bit about my backstory here. I can’t believe I told him not only about my darker high school days, but about Steven, too. And it didn’t scare him off. “I got into the more colorful shades starting in college. I was a little broke when that picture was taken.” I laugh. “A few months later, I had some extra funds and actually did a mermaid balayage.”
Adam nods. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Balayage is when you have different colors that all kind of blend one into another. Mermaid style is a mixture of greens, blues, and purples. It was expensive because they have to hand paint the different colors. I saved up a while for it. Hence the natural hair in that picture.”
Adam’s cheeks flush slightly. “You’re beautiful with every hair color I’ve seen you have.”
I chuckle. “That’s cheesy.” But my insides go all warm and mooshy.
“Still true.”
I step closer and wrap my arms around his waist. “Thank you,” I amend. “You haven’t seen my hair that many colors, though, have you?”
He thinks a minute. “Brick red when you interviewed, then a cotton candy pink, but only for a few months.”
“Yeah, I didn’t like the pink as much as I thought I would,” I interject.
Adam continues, “Then like this teal color for a while, and now the lavender. Plus, your blonde hair in the picture.”
My eyes widen, my face buried in his chest. “Wow, you really have been obsessed with me for a while, haven’t you?”
Instead of blushing or hiding, he uses the side of his index finger to tip up my chin, so we’re face to face. “Let’s just say I noticed you from the beginning and could never look away.”
The mooshy feeling is back. I lift myself onto my toes and skim my lips against the underside of his chin. He lowers his head and meets my mouth. After a few minutes, I push my hand against his chest and break away.
“Joan is waiting for us,” I remind him.
We’re quiet in the car, each of us lost in our thoughts. Then I say, “Isn’t it interesting how someone can be totally obsessed with another person, and if the other person feels the same way, it’s sweet, but if they don’t, it’s stalking?”
Adam barks out a laugh. “What?”
“I mean, if Herb had never stuck you on the graphic novel project with me or you never worked up the courage to, you know, actually pursue me, how long until the status quo would have become creepy?”
He snorts. “Are you calling me a stalker?”
I shrug. “I mean, not exactly , but…”
He shakes his head and glances at me briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. “Yes, I think that whether the attention is welcome is an important boundary line between romantic intentions and stalking. Did you ever feel uncomfortable around me? Honestly. ”
I consider the question, recalling our interactions throughout the last six months and before. “No,” I admit. “Even after I realized you had a crush on me, I always thought you were respectful, if a bit obvious.” I smirk.
Adam purses his lips, then reaches across the center console and takes my hand. “You know,” he hums, “sometimes in the two years since I met you, I would look at you while you were lost in thought, in your own little world, and wonder, ‘What goes on in her head? What is she like when her guard is down, and she feels safe to be herself?’”
“Aww,” I coo. “And now you know.”
He squeezes my hand. “Now I know,” he agrees. His tone turns playful. “And I regret it just a little bit.”
I gasp and push his hand away while he laughs. “Back at you, buddy,” I mutter sardonically, but I pull his hand back and press a kiss to his palm. He closes his fingers around it and grazes his knuckles across my thigh.
“I don’t regret it at all,” he concedes. “And I’m looking forward to learning everything else.”
The conversation reminds me of something Molly said in New Orleans. I clear my throat.
“Adam,” I start, heart thumping in my chest. “Did I ever take advantage of your feelings for me?”
“No,” he says quickly.
“Really?” I ask, peering over at him, my eyebrows raised. “I know I must have sent you a lot of mixed signals. I actually hadn’t been to therapy since I moved here. The hassle of finding somebody new and intake appointments and everything. But I had my first appointment with a new therapist last week after we got back from the conference while you were visiting your mom. I think … I think my brain was trying to protect me. After everything with my ex, my brain labeled all romantic relationships as a threat. I think I was literally in the clinical definition of denial. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Hey,” he says softly, squeezing my hand, “it doesn’t matter. We’re together now.”
I shake my head. “But it does matter,” I protest. “ You matter. I promise I’ll do better.”
My relationship with Steven shattered me; I placed my trust in him when he never deserved it, and it made me question my own judgment—how I could have read the situation so wrong. Adam has been showing me for months now that he’s trustworthy, that he cares about me, and that my feelings matter. Even while I was outwardly keeping him at arm’s length, my subconscious recognized Adam as a refuge—his predictability and steadiness are a balm to my anxious brain, especially compared to what I went through with Steven. More than a refuge, really, because I don’t want to use Adam to hide away from the world, I want us to confront the world together. Now that I’ve finally recognized, in spite of my anxiety brain, that I want to be with him, I’m not holding back. I know I can fall for him easily—I think I’m more than halfway there already.
Adam cooks us a chicken dish with vegetables and some kind of delicious sauce that probably contains magic. I don’t ask because I don’t want to know too much and spoil the illusion.
Joan is almost as excited to see me as I am to see her, and while Adam cooks, Joan and I cuddle on the couch.
After dinner, I take advantage of our new relationship status to choose what we watch. I know he’ll yield to whatever I want. I suggest my comfort show, Gilmore Girls . I’m surprised that Adam’s never seen it, not even one episode. So, we start at season one, episode one in Luke’s Diner with Lorelai begging for coffee.
After the second episode, I stand. “It’s getting late,” I say. “Are you about ready to drive me home?”
Adam’s eyes dart from me to the screen. His eyebrows pull together. “But,” he protests, reading the synopsis for the next episode, “Rory and Richard are about to go golfing.”
I laugh. “Oh my gosh! You love Gilmore Girls now.”
Adam sets his jaw. “Yeah, fine. I can admit it. It’s a cute show. They probably need to cut down on the caffeine and sugar though.”
“Fine.” I smirk, plopping onto his lap. “If you want to watch one more episode instead of driving me home and saying goodnight, we can.” I loop my arms around his neck. “It will just mean less time for saying goodnight.”
Adam raises his eyebrows. “Ah, on second thought. Let me grab my keys.”