Chapter 5 But It Didn’t Snow
5
But It Didn’t Snow
The next morning, the early November chill bites at my face the moment I step off the light rail into the Minneapolis air. The season is well past its peak, and most of the trees are naked sticks with only the last bits of fall foliage clinging to them.
Fall’s the season I like the least because it’s the most fleeting one. It’s always orange and vibrant in my memories, with a pumpkin coffee in my hand to warm me just a bit. In reality, that fantasy season lasts about ten days, tops. The rest of the season is cold, dead, and gray.
The only saving grace is that today is November 1—the official start to the Christmas season, per the reigning queen of Christmas, Mariah Carey. People all over the city will be decorating their trees, wrapping their rooflines with twinkle lights, and decking their halls.
Tonight, I’ll break out a spruce-tree-scented three-wick candle (the more wicks, the better), plug in my tabletop artificial tree, and queue up a Christmas movie. Until then, I’ll be stacking plates and mugs with the North Shore Grump.
The apartment door is unlocked when I arrive. I announce my presence by telling Adam I’m making coffee and take his silence as drowsy assent. My mindless chatter fills the quiet as I open a bag of the coffee and the toasty aroma of the beans fills my nostrils.
I shoot three feet into the air when Adam—a man who I was certain was puttering around the bedroom—strolls through the front door like a goddamned teleporter. Coffee beans scatter across the counter and onto the wood floor with little clinks. I gasp and grab the kitchen island to settle myself—beans crunching under my feet—as Adam surveys the mess.
I recover my breath over the sound of the last beans clattering off the counter. “You scared the crap out of me. I was talking to you in the other room this whole time.”
“Did I answer?” His lips press together in amusement, and I’m certain he’s never met anyone he finds more ridiculous.
I scoop the smashed beans off the floor and into the trash. “What were you doing outside?”
“Looking for Sam’s car. Did you move it last night?” His question sounds suspiciously like an accusation.
“I don’t have the keys. It should be in his spot in the underground lot.”
“I moved it to the street so you’d have a place to park.” He seems annoyed that solving this mystery requires so much conversing with me.
“I take the train.”
“What train? Do you mean that streetcar thing? Do people use that? It stops like every block,” he says, apparently more baffled by this development than by the missing car.
“It’s more of a tram. Did you move the car back last night?” I ask, already pulling out my phone to check my alerts. “Yep. There was a snow emergency.”
He stares at me blankly.
“You can’t park on the street during a snow emergency. The city tows your car, and it’s like a three-hundred-dollar ticket.”
“I know what a snow emergency is. It’s just…but it didn’t snow,” he argues, either with me or the City of Minneapolis or possibly weather in general.
“It was supposed to snow, so they called a snow emergency. It probably got towed.” I show him my text alerts.
“But it didn’t snow.” His brow furrows and frustration stiffens his shoulders.
“I’ll look up which impound lot it went to.”
“But it didn’t snow!” he growls.
His hand grazes mine on its way to Sam’s key fob on the kitchen island. The tiny flutter in my stomach at this skin-to-skin contact catches me by surprise.
“Welcome to the ruthless world of overnight street parking in Minneapolis,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket.
···
We’re not the only ones burned by the fickle Minnesota weather. Adam commiserates with at least a dozen other unlucky souls. “But it didn’t even snow!” they exchange over and over in the cold echo chamber of the temporary impound lot.
The Cities are so vigilant about keeping streets cleared on plow routes that getting towed is practically a rite of passage. If Adam had a sense of humor, I’d offer to buy him a cupcake to commemorate the event.
All signs point to Adam not having a sense of humor, least of all about our current predicament.
Unlike impound facilities serviced by permanent structures with floors, walls, and a working HVAC system, Sam’s car was brought to an overflow lot created for the winter towing season, which means we’re standing in an open field where the city hosts community carnivals in the summer. The moment the temperature drops below freezing, it transforms into the seventh circle of hell, if hell were miserably cold.
Last night’s icy rain has turned the patch of dirt in front of the canopy-covered counter into slippery, squishy mud. We shuffle forward in silence with the slow-moving, disgruntled clump, our only sign of progress our increasing proximity to the propane heater pushing dry, tepid gusts our way.
“Are your feet okay?” Adam asks.
His question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Are your shoes holding up in the mud? You’re not cold?” His eyes scan my boots for deficiencies.
Adam’s thick work boots were made for these conditions. My ankle boots—already caked in mud—are barely managing to keep my toes dry.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Good.” He offers me a curt nod. If his words were an attempt at compassion, no one told his face.
When we finally make our way to the front of the line, Adam places himself directly in front of the attendant. It’s a power move. I’ll handle this, his stance commands. “I’m here to pick up a car. An SUV.”
“Oh, yeah?” The large man shifts on his stool. His face is the kind that looks permanently tired, as though he’s too far in sleep debt from the daily grind to ever dig himself out. Those sleepy eyes are fixed to the clipboard he’s scrawling on.
“It’s an SUV.” Adam lifts the key fob as Exhibit A, but the attendant doesn’t so much as blink. “It’s…uh…black or dark blue, maybe.”
I push him aside with my hip. “It’s a navy blue Acura. License plate number six seven two YKX. And it’s one of those specialty state park plates.” I hold up the picture of the plate displayed on my phone, but the attendant doesn’t budge. “If that helps you find it.”
Adam removes a money clip from his coat pocket and slaps Samuel Lewis’s driver’s license on the counter. “If that helps.”
Finally, the attendant flips through the pages of the clipboard and walks away.
“You have a picture of his license plate on your phone?” Adam says. His posture suggests he’s accusing me of something, but of what? I’m not sure.
“I emailed it to my landlady so she wouldn’t have Sam towed. Why do you have his ID?” I accuse him right back.
“It was in his personal effects.”
The cold formality of personal effects stops me in my tracks. “You mean from the morgue?” My voice is the angry whisper of an unwitting accomplice.
“Of course not! What is wrong with you? His wallet was in his luggage in the rental car. His parents had it all sent to the apartment.”
“Then just say it was in the apartment. Personal effects sounds so creepy.”
The attendant returns with a yellow receipt. “That will be three hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty-six cents. We take cash or checks. As soon as you pay, I can release the car to the registered owner…” He glances down at the receipt. “Samuel Lewis.”
Adam pulls out a worn leather checkbook like an elderly person paying for groceries, writes it out in barely legible scrawl, and hands it over. The attendant studies Adam’s check. Then the two of us. Finally, the driver’s license. “Neither of you are Samuel Lewis.”
“That’s the ID for Samuel Lewis.” Adam points to the card in the attendant’s hand.
“But it’s not your ID. You’re not Samuel Lewis. Based on the check, I’m guessing you’re Adam Berg. I can only release the car to Samuel Lewis.”
Adam rubs a hand over the back of his neck until he makes a decisive move for his pocket. “You have the money. We have the right ID. What if you show us to the car and look the other way on the names?” Adam slyly pushes a bill toward the attendant. He’s expertly smooth, until he removes his large hand, revealing a ten-dollar bill.
The attendant snorts. Pointing to a sign under the canopy, he tells us, “Each day Samuel Lewis leaves his car here earns him a fifty-dollar fee.”
“This is ridiculous,” Adam argues, raking a hand through his hair. “It didn’t even snow!”
The attendant’s brows form a sharp V. “Kid, I don’t handle the weather. I just tow the cars.”
A truly idiotic idea pops into my brain, and I blurt, “Can I pick it up if I’m Samuel’s wife?”
I can feel Adam’s eyeballs burning a hole in the side of my face.
The attendant tilts his head. “Are you Samuel’s wife?”
“Yes.” My frozen feet stumble closer to the counter. “But I kept my last name,” I add, in case he checks my ID.
“Do you have a marriage license with you?”
I reach into my leather crossbody, as if a marriage license for me and my ex-boyfriend will appear inside like a divine miracle from the towing gods. “Do married people carry around their marriage licenses?”
“Married people don’t ask that question.” His eyes flit up, victorious, and then back to the clipboard.
He pushes back the check, driver’s license, and paltry bribe and shoos us from his counter.
“Can you give us a second?” I pull Adam by the arm out of the attendant’s earshot.
Adam angles his mouth down and murmurs directly into my ear, his hot breath moving strands of my hair. “So you’re a widow now? My condolences.”
I ignore him, pitching my voice low. “We should tell him he’s dead.”
He actually harrumphs—a sound I assumed existed exclusively in Winnie the Pooh . “They can’t release a dead person’s SUV to two random people.”
“Maybe he’ll feel sorry for us,” I say. We pivot toward the stickler attendant, who is cracking sunflower seeds in his mouth while a red-haired woman weeps before him in frustration. He’s unmoved by her hysterics as she sulks back into the ornery collective.
I rub my hands together for warmth as I brainstorm. “What about Sam’s parents?”
“They winter in Florida. They’ve only been coming up for…” Adam’s sentence falls away, and he adjusts his jacket anxiously.
“Right. Sorry.”
The reality of Sam’s death seems to wash over Adam anew.
Suddenly, brilliance strikes me. “Sir?” I recapture the attendant’s attention. “One of my friends had her car towed, and another person was able to pick it up with a note. Is that an option for Sam?”
The attendant puffs a sigh out his nostrils. “It needs to be signed and notarized.”
“Thank you!” I smack my hand on the counter triumphantly before making a heel turn toward the parking lot, assuming Adam is following. When we reach his beige truck, I yank at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. I pull two more times until Adam bleeps the locks, and his smug smirk smacks me in the face.
“I don’t know why you’re so confident. Dead men can’t write notes, Alison.” His flat, arrogant affect and eye crinkle remind me so much of Harrison Ford in Working Girl, I want to scream at Chelsea and Mara for putting the image in my head.
“We don’t need Sam,” I say when we’re safely in his truck. “We just need a notary.”
—
Russell Rossi is the only notary I know socially. He does something in real estate that sounds a lot like being a Realtor, but, per him, it’s decidedly not. He’s been a fixture in Sam’s social circle ever since they met camping near the Boundary Waters a few years ago, but I haven’t seen him since the funeral. Had my correction about my role in Sam’s life not gone completely over his head, I might have avoided this nightmare entirely.
Russell answers the door of his Lyndale duplex apartment shirtless—despite knowing we were on our way to his house.
“Alison, babe! Come in.” He wraps me in a hug, and I awkwardly pat his bare, sweaty back. The two men exchange dude-bro nods. “Adam. Long time, no see. Well, before…”
Russell looks momentarily off-balance before leaning back and slapping his pecs in recovery. “I was lifting, but I always have time for you.” Russell winks at me.
Even though he does nothing for me chemically, I giggle and inwardly groan at myself so loud I almost hear it.
Actually, I do hear it. I look behind me and find its source in Adam’s disturbed expression. Russell winks a second time for good measure and disappears into an office.
“Something wrong?” I hiss at Adam, irritation ringing through my words.
“It’s like I’m not even here. Should I find someone else to drive your boyfriend’s car home? You guys seem to have—”
“Quiet. He’s doing us a favor.”
“What do you need stamped, babe?” Russell returns with a pouch. “You know, I don’t normally work weekends. You’ll have to make it up to me.” Russell’s voice is thick with interest, but I know better than to take it seriously. This is not my first encounter with Russell Rossi. Like a goldfish, he’ll forget any apparent fascination with me about three seconds after I leave.
I lean against the kitchen counter, where he’s setting up. “Sam’s car got towed this morning, and they want something notarized that’ll authorize me to pick it up.”
Confusion cascades over Russell’s face, dropping the Casanova curtain. “ From Sam? I can’t knowingly notarize a forged document. I took an oath.”
“An oath?” Adam scoffs.
“Yeah, man. An oath. The whole point is to verify the signers’ identities to prevent whatever shit this is. Why didn’t you move the car for the snow emergency?” Russell asks.
“It didn’t…” Adam flutters his eyes shut rather than repeat himself. “We should get going.”
Russell bobs his shoulders and rubs his left pec.
“Wait,” I call out, because after enduring a wet, bare-chested embrace from this man, I refuse to leave empty-handed. “You only verify the identity of the signer, right? Not the enforceability of the letter?” I have the beginning of a bad idea forming, but it’s the best we’ve got. I scribble on the notebook paper in front of me.
Alison Mullally is authorized to pick up Acura MDX #672 YKX registered to Samuel Lewis.
I hand Russell my ID and gesture to Adam to do the same. “We’ll sign it as ourselves.”
“Does Adam have the authority to—”
“We’ll worry about its enforceability, but as you can see, no one’s pretending to be anyone they’re not.” I press on.
Russell frowns, and I briefly switch tactics, offering my sweetest smile. “Can you verify our signatures? I can’t tell you how much it would help us out.” I pout my lips slightly. I’ve seen Chelsea pull off this move with great success, but I haven’t practiced it enough to know whether I look sexy or constipated—high risk, high reward.
Russell reveals all of his perfect white capped teeth, and I know I’ve got him. He removes his stamp and ink pad from a pouch. I write in a loopy, purposefully illegible script. Adam seems to follow suit, or he just always signs like a toddler.
“Good luck.” Russell scoff-laughs as he verifies our signatures with his stamp.
“Thanks.” Adam’s gratitude pains him.
Russell repacks his notary pouch. “Alison, you’re sorting out who’s getting Sam’s stuff, right?”
“Not really. I’m helping Adam pack everything to get the condo ready for sale. We’re not distributing anything.” I look questioningly at Adam, but his eyes are narrowed on Russell.
“Sam promised me some mountaineering gear for the Patagonia trip. I mentioned it to Sam’s mom at the funeral. She said I should talk to you about picking it up.”
Adam slants him a seething look. “Our thirty-two-year-old friend promised you ‘gear’ in the event of his accidental death? And you asked his mom about it at her son’s funeral?”
“He was giving it to me for the trip. What’s your problem?” Russell flexes and crosses his arms defensively over his chest.
“That’s fine, Russ.” I collect the letter from the table, stepping between the two men before this display of testosterone gets out of hand. “Text me what to look for, and we’ll figure something out.”
Russell faces me with a cocky grin, but his eyes are fixed on Adam, watching for sudden movements. “Good. We can meet for drinks after. You’re still coming to Patagonia in January, right? Sam wouldn’t have wanted you to miss it.” Russell doesn’t wait for my response. “It’ll be therapeutic. I always find returning to nature to be the perfect clean slate. A rebirth.”
I remember when Sam invited me on this trip. We had only been on a few dates. It all sounded incredible—hiking in the mountains, camping under the stars every night, nothing but the pack on your back. He invited me along like it was nothing—like such an experience was even a possibility for a recovering homebody like me.
I said yes, and it was the most intoxicating feeling. I loved being the type of girl who agreed to spend two weeks in Patagonia with a handsome stranger. I could tell Sam liked that girl more than the real me. But the more time we spent together, the more obvious it was that, to me, the adventurous girl was still a goal. To him, she was a lie.
Adam grimaces, which only makes Russell’s grin look toothier. Russell is as slick and uncontroversially handsome as a reality dating show contestant, while even Adam’s sourest expression is undeniably trustworthy. It’s the eyes, I think. They’re solid and seemingly honest.
“You two can pick through Sam’s stuff another time.”
I look daggers at Adam before presenting my forced smile to Russell. “We better get going. Thanks for your help, Russell.” I push Adam out the door before me.
“I’ll text you,” Russell calls out as I’m stepping into the truck.
Like him, Adam’s truck is beige on beige on beige. Still, it’s impressively tidy—not a speck of dust or McDonald’s wrapper in sight.
Adam adjusts his mirrors from the driver’s side of his bench seat. “If you want to stay here with him, I can figure out how to get the car back on my own.”
“Why would I stay here?”
“Alison, baby, let’s get a drink, just the two of us,” he mocks.
My eyelashes flutter with faux sweetness. “Someone’s cranky. I’m sure he would have invited you too if you hadn’t been scowling at our only hope for getting the car.”
“I wasn’t scowling.”
“So that deep ridge forming between your brows is just your face then. My mistake. Either way, you can’t get rid of me yet. It’s my name on the note.”
“Don’t let that stop you from shooting your shot with Russ. His shirt’s already off, and he doesn’t strike me as a generous lover. I can wait.” He cranks up the heat and unbuttons the top two buttons of his khaki-colored coat.
My eye snags on the denim lining I recognize as the outside of yesterday’s jacket. Does Adam only own one jacket? “Don’t be gross. He’s your friend.”
“Uh, no. He was Sam’s friend. And apparently your friend.” Adam fastens his seat belt, the click of the buckle emphasizing the word. “Although I don’t usually drape my sweaty body against my friends.”
“Friends hug each other.”
“That was not a hug,” he says with a snort. “That was a full-body press. That was foreplay.”
“He was being nice.”
“The nicest. Tell me, do nice people claim their dead friend’s stuff at his funeral? I’m trying to get a sense of how we’re defining nice here.” Adam gestures between us on the bench seat, tipping his mouth into that infuriating smirk that crinkles his eyes.
“He wants the gear for his trip. That’s all.” I pull my seat belt too aggressively, and it locks. I jerk at it uselessly three more times—trapped in a Three Stooges physical comedy bit against my will—before I’ve released it enough to get my belt to click. I let out an exhausted breath and gather the courage to face Adam.
He shakes his head, his mouth pushed up in what—on anyone else—would be an effortlessly handsome smile. “That was…wow.”
“Please drive to the lot so this can be over,” I say with the simmering rage achievable only by someone who’s been moderately inconvenienced. “We have to deliver this note before the lot closes.”
He twists toward me and extends his arm across the backrest to reverse out of Russell’s drive. His finger grazes a strand of my hair, and he recoils like he’s been burned. I’m suddenly very aware of how small this truck is. If I leaned back an inch, his hand would be cradling my neck. The thought makes my skin hot because my defective nervous system can’t decipher the nuances of this dynamic.
He seems to notice this near-touch too and bends his elbow, resting his clenched fist behind the bench. “That note’s a crime,” he says, like a spark of electricity didn’t just flicker between us.
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No. I’m a carpenter.”
“Like Jesus?”
An irritated breath passes through his teeth. “No, like custom Nordic furniture.”
“You’re joking.”
Adam’s eyes flash to mine before returning to the road. “Why would I be joking?”
I round on him gleefully. “I didn’t think Nordic furniture makers existed outside of Hallmark Christmas movies. Are you responsible for teaching a workaholic woman the true meaning of Christmas or is that a different grumpy carpenter? Do you guys work in shifts?”
“I’ve never been so happy to have no idea what someone is talking about.”
“It’s a compliment, really. Few jobs lend themselves to romantic proclamations of love in the form of matching rocking chairs.”
“It’s an ordinary vocation. There are many furniture makers in the world.”
“I’m sure there are hot toy store owners too, but I’ve never met one.” I blush, mortified that I called Adam hot while trying to insult him. Wasn’t Harrison Ford a carpenter when he was discovered by George Lucas? The thought forces a shiver down my spine.
“This conversation is ridiculous.” His eyes shoot death glares at a VW Golf that passes us without signaling. “And technically, I work for a building contractor. Furniture’s a hobby until I get my business off the ground.”
“What do you need to get it off the ground?”
He ignores the question and continues driving. He seems to deploy silence whenever he’s finished speaking to me. This rankles me, for some reason.
I lean my head against the window, the glass cool against my temple. “I wish I had a Hallmark Christmas movie profession. I’d love to own a candy cane store.”
“There’s no market for that.” He drums his thumb against the steering wheel. Adam is always in motion, I’m noticing, like an impatient child. I prattle on with my movie musings until I’m interrupted by my phone’s vibrations.
“What?” he asks. His frown is a true upside-down smile, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was disappointed I’ve stopped listing impractically twee Christmas movie occupations. It’s an impressive look too. I thought only two-dimensional emojis could contort their lips with such severity. The stark contrast of hard lines formed by his chiseled jaw and the soft, cartoonish expression paints a surprisingly adorable picture.
“It’s Russell.” I read off my screen. “Following up about something called a ‘canyoneering harness.’ Sounds uncomfortable.”
“Is that why you’re doing all this?” His voice bends, not quite angry. Hurt. “So you and Russell can pick through Sam’s life for scraps?”
The whiplash from his words practically tosses me through the windshield. “Scraps? What are you—”
He jerks his hand through his messy hair, his jaw tightening like he’s trying to barricade the words inside his mouth. “You don’t need to stick around to get whatever you’re hoping for. I’m sure Judy will let you have whatever you want.”
“Why are you being such a jerk?” I spit the words out, fueled by my righteous indignation. “I’m helping Sam’s family. Mrs.Lewis wanted me to do this.”
“Because Judy thinks he was serious about you!” A wave of regret instantly washes over his face. He drags his eyes from the road to see the wreckage of his direct hit. “I didn’t mean it like that. Well, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it.”
A bitter laugh shakes out of my throat. “Should I appreciate your honesty?”
“I only meant he didn’t talk about you much, and when he did it always sounded so casual.”
“Oh my god.” My words fall out on a drained exhalation.
From his defeated look, I can see he’s not saying any of this to hurt me. And he’s right—Sam broke up with me, after all—but it’s humiliating to have your ex-boyfriend’s indifference toward you detailed by a third party.
He adjusts and readjusts his grip on the wheel. “This isn’t…I’m not saying this right.”
“No, you’ve been very clear. You don’t want me here, and Sam never cared about me. Or talked about me. Ever.”
“That’s not what I said. I said he didn’t talk about you much .” His eyes flit upward like he’s thumbing through the dusty filing cabinet of his brain. “I remember him asking if I’d go skydiving in your place, because you refused to go.” Based on the way his mouth practically trips over itself to soften its blow, my face must be doing something bad. “But he made you sound kind of funny when he told me about it.”
“Skydiving is ridiculous. Why would I voluntarily participate in a flight’s worst-case scenario? If you’re not exiting a plane on the ground, something’s gone horribly wrong.”
“Yeah, that!” I get a glimpse of an animated Adam before it disappears behind his mask of detachment. “I liked that. I told him I couldn’t agree more.”
I can’t tell if he realizes he’s making this worse every time he opens his mouth. He’s hitting on my every insecurity without even trying.
“Alison.” Concern passes over his face. “I—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I cut him off. We sit in an unbearable silence the rest of the way back to the impound lot, and the fact that I bet he’s loving my loss for words only fuels my quiet rage.
“There’s no way this scheme works,” he says when he throws the truck into park.
“Have a little faith in me, Berg.” I slam the truck door shut.
Icy moisture pricks my nose, and I hold out my hand to marvel at the perfect cotton candy flakes floating down onto my glove. Finally, it’s started to snow, and I can’t even enjoy it.
We wait in line for the second time today and present our deliberately worded note to an even more apathetic attendant who’s openly watching hockey on his phone. With a disinterested glance at the notebook paper I hand him, he accepts Adam’s check, and we trudge into deeper mud toward the navy SUV in the distance.
I step into a puddle of sludge, but when I pull my left foot forward, it refuses to follow. Tragically, my momentum doesn’t stop. My stomach flips as my right foot slides out from under me, my left still mired in the muck.
It happens slowly enough for the thought to crystalize in my mind —I’m about to faceplant into ice-cold mud —but fast enough that I can only manage to yell, “SSSuuuuuhhhhh!,” which I assume is a portmanteau of many curse words.
I’ve extended my hands in acceptance of my filthy fate when Adam turns from beside me, his large frame meeting mine. “Whoa,” he says, like I’m livestock. I lean into the wall of his body to catch my breath. It feels too good to rest here—even if only for a second—and when he’s not pressing on my fears like they’re a bruise, he’s steady and warm, if a bit stiff.
“Are you okay?” His hands grip my arms and stand me back up with minimal effort. He ducks down, his eyes surveying my face for signs of damage. We’re close—so close that I can make out the shape of snowflakes catching on his long eyelashes. His nearness overwhelms me.
The air bites at my cheeks, and I finally remember to breathe. It creates some much-needed space between us. “I’m fine. See?” I manage to pry my foot from the sludge as an unnecessary visual aid. He nods, his intense brown eyes splicing me in two.
We both register that he’s still holding me by my arms and break apart. He walks ahead, and I quicken my unsteady pace to follow. The navy blue SUV appears in front of us. He wordlessly passes me the keys.
I open the car door, about to climb in, when I feel Adam’s hand brush against my arm. “Will I, uh…Are you coming back next weekend?” he asks.
I want to be angry with him, to write him off as an asshole unworthy of my time and effort, but his guilty face is so achingly genuine. It pulls at my heart like a loose thread. It’s those infuriating eyes. They’re so gentle and guileless that I have to look away when I tell him, “I’ll see you Saturday.”
“See you Saturday.” His voice is low and sure, like he never told me he didn’t want me here. Like it was never up for debate.
He turns away and walks back in the direction of his truck. He looks over his shoulder twice, and I scold myself because both times, I’m looking back, frozen in the spot where he left me, the warmth of his hands still skittering across my arms.
But I can’t help but stare. Adam Berg has a phenomenal walk.