Chapter 11 The Green Plaid Scarf
11
The Green Plaid Scarf
When we leave the museum, Adam drives through town pointing out previous apartments and storefronts that used to be something else, like an Adam Berg Personal Memories Tour guide.
“So why trains?” he asks.
“Umm, they were faster than horses and could bear weight—”
“Not ‘why do trains exist?’?” he interrupts, vexed. “You’re clearly enthralled by this place in a way that puts all of the ‘visiting nephews’ we’ve passed today to shame. Why do you love trains, Alison?”
I tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “Growing up, we had a model train set under our tree. I was always obsessed with it. My dad and I used to work on it together year-round, scouring garage sales for new cars and components.”
I was fourteen or fifteen when I realized it was kind of a lame hobby. My sister was thriving in extracurriculars while I was rewatching a DVD of a PBS special on the transcontinental railroad I’d purchased during a pledge drive with my allowance. Early in my high school career, the train set returned to an exclusively Christmas tradition.
“That’s why you got into your line of work?” He looks at me with irrepressible interest—like my dorkiest source of enthusiasm is somehow the most enchanting thing about me.
“I sort of fell into it. I had all these useless train facts rattling around in my brain, so when I wrote a paper in my college freshman seminar that was essentially an ode to the Trans-European Railway network, my professor got me into the right program and connected me with an internship that turned into a job. And here we are today.” I swivel toward him with a gesture that says ta-da .
His lips quirk. I want to make him laugh—an honest, uninhibited, down-to-his-belly laugh. I think it would be something worth seeing.
“I’m surprised you wound up here.” He tilts his head to indicate the Upper Midwest. “And not Europe or somewhere with more trains.”
My eyes wander out the window toward the dark, hypnotic swells of Lake Superior. “I like it here, and I like my job, even if it feels a bit Sisyphean at times.”
My interest in transportation was never rooted in wanderlust or a desire to escape. Part of what I like about trains is that they’re literally tethered to the ground, part of its landscape. Planes make the world feel smaller, but trains remind me that the world has always been big. They connect you to people all over the continent while still granting you permission to pick your favorite corner of it and build a small, simple life there—only to roam exactly when you want or need to.
“But I’m up for a new job. A promotion, actually. It’s the next step in a career like mine.”
He tilts his head in my direction, eyes dancing between me and the road. “You don’t want it.”
Self-conscious laughter springs from my chest. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re doing your people-pleaser face,” he answers, matter-of-fact.
I rear back. “I don’t have a people-pleaser face.”
“You most definitely have a people-pleaser face. You do it with the Lewises and Russell—”
“And you?”
He shakes his head. “Not so much. You don’t seem to care what I think about you.”
“That’s for sure.” I stare out the window at the passing storefronts before I bite, purely out of morbid curiosity. “So what’s this people-pleaser face look like anyway?”
His hint of a smile is more cocky than happy. “Your eyes empty out and then your top lip curls up a little in this fake smile—”
I cover my mouth. “Stop looking at my lips.”
This earns me another tiny smile. They’re getting addictive. “Why can’t I look at your lips?”
Because then I’ll look at your lips, and I’ll wonder what they feel like. I’ll wonder if you’re picturing the same thing, and this harmless attraction will stop feeling harmless.
“It’s useful in moments like this. To identify the people-pleaser face,” he says, activating his blinker to change lanes. “I know whatever you say next is something you think you’re supposed to say, or what someone wants you to say, or what you—”
“Fine.” I let out a swoosh of air, returning to the start of this dangerous thread I shouldn’t have pulled. “I’m not sure about the job. I’d spend less time thinking about trains and more time thinking about parking lots.”
“It never occurred to me that someone’s out there thinking about parking lots in a professional capacity.”
“Parking is a very complicated problem.” I feel my spine stiffen in defensiveness—even though I too find parking lots fairly soul crushing.
“It doesn’t have to be your problem. Not if you like what you’re doing now.”
“It’s the right next move in my career.”
“Says who?” he asks, puzzled by my logic. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Is that how you live your life? Doing only what you want?”
“No.” He shifts in his seat. “But I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
We fall into silence until he gestures across me with his arm, his other hand still tapping against the steering wheel. “I live down this street. My workshop is in the garage.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s see that.”
He turns to me briefly from the driver’s side in genuine surprise. “Really?”
“You’ve pointed out three restaurants that used to be different restaurants you liked better. Of course I’d rather see your workshop. At least it’s something from present-day Duluth.” He considers me at a stoplight. “Please, Adam. I can’t leave Duluth without getting my peepers on some spindles.”
“Don’t say peepers, ” he says on a weary exhale. Then he turns right.
We park in the driveway of a peeling yellow bungalow. He quickly hops around to the passenger side, grabbing my hand to lower me out of his truck. When my feet hit the craggy pavement, I have to consciously remind myself to drop his hand this time. I’m relieved when all goes as planned.
With a low grunt, he pulls up the garage door and the smell of cut wood hits me like a wall. He sends me a quick, uneasy half smile before tugging the string attached to a lightbulb.
Illuminated in the garage are dozens of unfinished pieces of furniture. I see stools that might become chairs, upturned side tables with four different table legs, and a sideboard that has one door with slats and one door with a wood herringbone pattern.
Despite the confusing design choices, his skill is evident in each piece. Each component on its own is intricate, delicate, and flawless, highlighting the imperfect beauty of the wood.
“You made all of this?” I ask, unable to hide my astonishment.
“Yeah. It’s not that great. Nothing’s done. I’ve been trying out different techniques and styles. I want a collection that showcases what I can do before starting a business in a slightly larger market like Minneapolis. I went down the investor route but…” He looks away from me, kneading the nape of his neck. Wood shavings cover everything like a dusting of snow. Next to a belt sander are Sam’s cabinets, stripped and sanded down to their original raw wood.
“The plan is to build up a client base eventually—do custom pieces—but I’ve been tinkering for a while.”
“How long’s a while?”
“Around six years,” he hedges.
“That is a while.” I walk around the upturned tables. “And all while listening to faux-eighties horror soundtracks.” I pull a face of mock terror.
“This morning, I was listening to John Carpenter.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Ooh. The pure, unfiltered stuff. What’s with the horror movie music?” I ask, leisurely wandering his garage and admiring his skilled craftsmanship.
The space smells like him—well, part of him. Maybe the inside of his house smells like oranges.
He leans into the frame of the garage door, his eyes following me as I invade his space. “It fades into the background and becomes part of the environment.”
“A terrifying environment.”
“That’s what I like about it. It’s immersive. It’s impossible to listen to it without having a physical response.”
“I could see that.” I run my finger along a smooth tabletop. “Can I order a custom piece?”
“Like a table or something?”
“I’d like a wall rack for hanging hiking and climbing gear. Maybe it could have a shelf above it? If I had all of my outdoorsy stuff out in front of me, I’d have no excuse not to use it. Like how the hardest part of working out is getting the clothes on.”
“That’s not accurate.”
I dismiss his comment with a flick of my hand and examine a grouping of furniture. “It’s an expression. I like whatever style this is best.” I point to one side of an upturned coffee table.
“I like this one best, too.” He scrubs his beard with his hand but it doesn’t hide his smile.
I love being the source of that smile.
“It’s beautiful. It’s not too fussy, but it has clean lines and complements the wood grain. It’s like high-end IKEA.”
“Oh, god!” he chokes. He pushes his hands through his hair, clearly scandalized by my comparison.
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” I tug his hand down, laughter bubbling out of both of us. “I oversold my spindle expertise earlier.”
“You talked a big game.”
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand, my giggles teetering over into a full-on fit. “I take it back. I take it back!”
Water presses into the corners of my eyes, and our giddy gazes tangle together. The light of the bulb refracts off the warm richness of his brown irises—there’s a knotty tone and texture to them I’ve never noticed before—but then he blinks and steps away from me, toward his truck.
“It’s getting late, Alison.”
···
By the time Adam drives me back to the deli, the sun has started to set. He parks in the same spot we started in, and I offer a stiff wave goodbye from the passenger seat. When I hop down, I see him trudging toward me from the other side.
It seems that he’s walking me to my car.
So now we’re trapped in one of those awkward moments where you say goodbye but then have to walk in the same direction—except he chose to do this to us, which only intensifies the discomfort. I keep opening my mouth to make idle chitchat, but nothing comes out. My vision drifts to a municipal employee wrapping twinkle lights around a streetlamp, and I smile. Is there any inconvenient feeling a twinkle light can’t fix?
Adam clears his throat. “In a couple of weeks, there’s this massive Christmas display on the water.” He points to the banner on the light pole advertising the bentleyville tour of lights: 4 million+ lights! “It’s the largest one like it in the country.”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming up for work again for a while.”
I don’t know why I say it. I know he’s not asking me on a date, but this walk back to my car feels suspiciously date-adjacent. My insides are shimmering with sweet, anticipatory end-of-a-great-date feelings. Maybe that’s why I think the moment demands clarity.
He looks between my face and the street like somewhere in the space between us he’ll find something else to say.
I point at my Subaru. “This is my car,” I say, pouncing on the quiet, because old habits die hard. Still, the relief in his eyes is palpable. Giddiness bubbles and fizzes in my stomach at the sight.
“It’s a good car for this climate. Do you have snow tires?” He cringes before he finishes speaking, so I know Adam also hears that he sounds like a robot learning passable small talk.
“I do, but I haven’t scheduled the appointment yet.” What is this conversation? “Okay. I’m going to go now. Thanks for showing me the sights.”
Adam doesn’t move. The strangeness of this exchange paired with our proximity spikes adrenaline in my blood. How do normal people end interactions with acquaintances they feel a sparking tension with?
I lean in for a hug, and he accepts, his strong arms fully committing long enough for dopamine to release into my system. It’s a lovely, solid hug—warm and firm. I catch a whiff of his familiar scent. Now that I’ve smelled its source, more notes of his complicated aroma unravel in my nose, like deconstructing a recipe of an indulgent treat.
When he releases me, he doesn’t walk away. Instead, his hands go to my arms as he tilts his head sideways. I think our coats are still touching.
His brown eyes travel down my face and land on the green plaid scarf over my jacket, then lift back to mine. This close, I can admire the flecks of gold I discovered under the lights of his workshop. The way he looks at me tickles my ribs.
Too soon, he returns his gaze to the scarf. I’m perfectly positioned to examine the length of his curly eyelashes until slowly—so slowly—his hands move to my scarf. His fingers still and I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do. My lips tingle with anticipation and the bitter cold.
Finally, he gently straightens the wool fabric. His right forefinger makes the slightest swipe against the sensitive part of my neck, my pulse thrumming beneath it. He might not have noticed his effect on me if not for my sharp intake of breath.
“That’s better,” he breathes. His eyes pin me, examining me like a piece of wood, and I can’t tell if he sees striking potential or a problem to be solved. They dart to my mouth, only for a second, before he takes a step back.
Every one of my nerve endings—even the damaged ones—lights up like a strand of twinkle lights, but before I’m able to form words again, he’s walking away.