Four Weekends and a Funeral

Chapter 14 The Flaw in the Design

14

The Flaw in the Design

Fifteen minutes later, Adam pulls into the parking lot of the Susanna Swann Breast Cancer Center and parks next to my skyward SUV. I climb into the passenger side of his truck and close the door behind me. I know what his question is when he faces me, and his warm, dark eyes beg me not to make him ask.

My hands lift defensively. “I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t have cancer.”

“Does your cancer doctor see a lot of perfectly healthy people on Sundays?” His voice is stiff, and worry etches the lines of his face. His hair is stuck up like he’s been nervously pulling at it at every intersection. If I hadn’t been staring at that jaw for the past two weekends, I might not have noticed that, right now, it’s clenched.

“Yes. Exclusively.”

He shuts his eyes. I can’t believe I ever saw his face as stiff and unreadable. It’s so expressive when you know what you’re looking for. Reaching over, I smooth the creases in his forehead with my hand. His breath deepens and slows. His reaction would be proof of something if we were anyone else, anywhere else.

I pull my hand away and sit back in my seat, and he leans away too.

“I have the breast cancer genetic mutation, brCA1. But I don’t have cancer.” I blurt the second sentence again for emphasis. I’ve learned this particular health disclosure requires that frequent reminder.

I take a breath. “You know how Angelina Jolie—” I cut myself off when I realize Adam is likely as familiar with her brCA journey as he is with the Kardashian offspring.

“Most people have tumor-suppressing genes, but mine don’t work. I’m okay now, though. I got a preventative double mastectomy where they removed my breast tissue, and I went from probably getting breast cancer to probably not. So, again, I don’t have cancer, despite what the building suggests. I still screen for ovarian cancer until I remove my ovaries, but the risk is only about forty-five percent over my lifetime.” I rub at my forehead, clumsily telling Adam in a few sentences what took years to come to terms with and months to recover from.

“That’s like a coin flip.”

“It doesn’t work like that. The risk increases as I get older. I have a little time to decide what to do next, but, yeah, I need to remove my ovaries eventually.”

“What would that mean?”

I like that he doesn’t ask me when I’m planning to remove them, what my game plan is, or if it’s what I want, because the answers are: possibly soonish; I don’t know; and of course not, but my genetics don’t fit with my personal desires.

He only wants to know what it would mean for me, how it would make me feel to be a single, nippleless woman in her thirties taking hormone replacement medication to stave off the side effects of a self-induced menopause.

“It means…I have a lot of decisions to make. But it could be so much worse. Other women with brCA get breast cancer. My mom did, but now she’s healthy, thank god. So it’s not like I can be angry or sad about cheating death.”

“I’m not sure it works like that. You feel what you feel.” Adam moves closer to me, deliberately this time. There’s only a wisp of air separating our knees. His eyes have a weight to them that presses me against the passenger window. I swallow.

“Why didn’t you tell me what your appointment was for?” He’s not accusing me of withholding anything, just curious about the way and why of me, because all of a sudden, we’re not some guy and his best friend’s current girlfriend. We’re something else entirely, and I’m not sure when that happened or if I could stop it if I tried.

When Adam and I were strangers, the detail that Sam had dumped me felt inconsequential. Now it feels important and too late to set him straight. Would it change anything? Would he understand? Would he even care?

“It’s not a secret,” I answer, smoothing my coat. “But it’s something I haven’t figured out how to share.”

It’s true. I never spit it out quick enough, and I watch the emotions pass over the person’s face— But, honey, you’re so young, and when they understand I don’t have cancer and feel foolish, What kind of person allows someone to think they have cancer for even a moment?

“And then you’d do the thing people do where they indiscreetly stare at my boobs, searching for the flaw in the design.”

“Men do that to you?” Adam’s eyebrows fly upward.

“Everyone does that to me.” I see Adam work to keep his eyes on my face. “You’re doing it right now!”

“Only because you brought it up like a challenge. It’s like daring me not to think about elephants. It’s impossible.”

“Likely story, perv.”

Shocked, Adam laughs. It’s a nice laugh. His whole face brightens, and the low sound rumbles through the truck cab. His happiness vibrates on my skin.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think he’s leaning toward me and closing the space between us. Then he clears his throat, and I lean back—the spell broken.

Adam points himself forward. “I’m guessing Sam knew.”

I nod. “Mara and Chelsea think if not for the surgery, Sam and I never would’ve gotten together.”

“How’s that?”

“After my recovery, I wanted someone who would push me to live life. I wanted to be more adventurous, outdoorsy, and extroverted. Sam’s lazy Sunday was mountain biking in the morning and a raucous barbecue at the lake in the afternoon. He was the human embodiment of exposure therapy.” I smile at the memory of my wild and wonderful friend.

“Why do you want to change so much?” he asks, his eyes pinning me in place.

“Near-death experiences should change people. Workaholic stockbrokers survive plane crashes and quit to start nonprofits. Cancer survivors become triathletes. I was supposed to have this near-death moment, and I skipped it—mitigated it out of existence—and instead of whatever relief or cosmic insight I would’ve gotten, there’s just…” I press my hand to my heart, where the ache prods me. “A life- altering diagnosis should alter you. I shouldn’t go ‘back to normal’ after this. I have to make my life mean something.”

My left hand fusses with the silicone lining of the cupholder, but then Adam places his hand over mine, stilling me. His calloused palm burns my skin.

We’re both quiet for a moment, like we only have so many words left and the wrong ones in the wrong combination could cost us. Finally, he breaks the silence to say, “You mean something, Alison.” My knuckles flex up against his until he gently removes his hand from mine. “Sam pushed me like that too, you know. Mostly in a good way. I was so uncomfortable during my freshman year of college. I was sure I didn’t fit in and everyone could see it when I walked into a room. But Sam liked me, and I felt, uh, chosen, I guess. But things changed when we got older. Sam always wanted me to be more like him. He wanted me to risk everything for a half-baked carpentry business, but I had bills and responsibilities. He’d say I was making excuses, but I was never bold enough for him.”

“We don’t talk much about you and Sam.”

Adam clears his throat, but I wait.

“I try not to think about him too much,” he finally says. “We’d been drifting apart for a while. He’d always stop by on his way somewhere else, and I’d see him when I was visiting my family, but it wasn’t like how we used to be. He was obsessed with my business and when I was moving. We fought about it the last time I saw him.”

He closes his eyes. I don’t rush to fill the silence. I hold it. Protect it.

“That day, he was so insistent about me starting my company and moving back. He’d tried to get me to rush my plans before, but those conversations had always been like ‘Move in with me, man! It’ll be epic!’?” I can hear Sam’s voice in my head when Adam says it. “This was different. He was…frustrated. He said I was in a rut, and he wasn’t going to watch me stand still anymore. He pointed out everything he wanted me to change. My job, my life, my relationships—or lack thereof. I told him to shove it, and we argued. My last words to him were passive-aggressive directions to a scenic lookout point. But we were supposed to meet up for New Year’s, so I just thought we’d figure it out by then. He was planning to set me up at his party with some girl who was ‘perfect for me,’ and I was already strategizing how to blow it off.”

My heart is in my throat. Even though we’d stayed friendly, Sam never invited me to a New Year’s party, and I can’t stand to hear about some perfect girl for Adam that isn’t me—yet another heavy presence between us.

“I remember feeling so relieved he was leaving. I remember thinking, This is so exhausting. He’s so exhausting. You must think I’m a monster.”

“No. Not at all.” I clasp his right hand in both of mine. I want to imbue my touch with a small glimpse of how much I think of him. Not enough to give me away, but enough to show I could never see him as a monster.

His eyes tangle with mine, and I’m sure he’s going to pull his hand away. Instead, he threads our fingers together.

“I thought he and I would have time to figure it out. Or maybe not. Maybe I was ready to let the friendship go, but now he’s gone for real, and I feel so awful.” The apple in his throat bobs. “At the funeral, Mrs.Lewis kept calling me Sam’s best friend. I kept thinking, That can’t be true . He deserved someone better than me. That’s why I’ve wanted to take care of everything. I think I thought this condo thing could be some sort of messed-up penance for being a horrible friend.”

“Is it working?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. I open my mouth to tell him he’s not alone in those feelings of trying to be someone else for Sam’s family. We have so much more in common than he knows.

But I forget how to form words when his roughened thumb starts to draw circles on my skin, and goose bumps cascade up the surface of my arm, spreading across my body in waves. I’ve nearly lost myself in the simple pleasure of holding hands when he asks, “When’s the tow truck coming?”

I shake my head and reflexively grab for my phone: a thirty-something’s comfort object. I pretend to scroll through text messages before answering. “Soon, I’m sure.”

The loss of his touch leaves me cold.

Not for the first time, I wish I knew what I wanted from Adam. There are a million reasons I shouldn’t want anything at all. He’s a temporary fixture in my life, and he’ll disappear back to Duluth as soon as the condo’s ready. I know we’ll probably never speak again after this.

The heat kicks on and the unmistakable scent of onions wafts upward, killing any mood.

“Is that lunch?”

He blinks. “Yeah, it’s from the same place as yesterday. With the salad dressing you like.” The plastic bag resting by his feet crinkles as he pulls out a brown, compostable container. “You’re lucky you even got a lunch. I figured out this address was a cancer center while I was waiting for my sub and left.”

“Without your sandwich?”

He shrugs like it shouldn’t have been a question. Like this isn’t the most swoon-inducing thing a man has ever done for me.

I stab at a piece of lettuce. “I’m sorry I didn’t explain why I was here. I didn’t realize it’d, uh, affect you.”

He steals a cherry tomato from the top of my salad and takes the container out of my hands to place it on the dashboard. I pivot toward him, because even without saying so, I know what he’s about to tell me is important. “You, uh, your health, it…” He stumbles over his words, a pink flush erupting on his cheeks. “It matters to me, Alison. You do. Knowing you were here and imagining you might be—” He presses his eyes shut and inhales through his nose before he opens them again. His gaze focuses on me, as if he’s reminding himself that I’m still in front of him, healthy and in one piece. “So, yes, it affected me. And I left my sandwich.”

These simple words shoot fireworks through my abdomen.

“Admit it.” I lower my voice, worried any increase in volume will push him away before I’ve memorized the intensity in his eyes at this moment. “You didn’t want to be my friend, but I wore you down with my delightful personality.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re friends,” he says simply. “Personality notwithstanding.”

My tension feathers across my skin until it releases into the air, humming around me with a cold, lonesome shiver. “Friends,” I repeat. The word echoes in my head until it loses all meaning. Friends. Friends. A mixture of giddiness and disappointment curdles in my gut.

His jaw works as he starts and stops before saying his next sentence. “You’re kind of my favorite new person, if that’s not too weird a thing to say.”

My heart squeezes, and I beam, unable to remain cool and impassive. It’s the reaction he wants. His face hardly moves, but his eyes soften into an open, boyish expression. It curls my insides like scissors pulling against a ribbon. “It’s a very weird thing to say.” The air in the truck has thinned out, leaving nothing but our hot breath. “You’re my favorite new person too.”

His knee taps mine. I press his knee back, electricity zinging through my nervous system like it’s a conductor rail. His deep brown eyes sweep my face before locking on to mine. A blush crawls up my neck as warmth covers my skin like a wool blanket.

“You’re also one of the only new people I’ve met in months,” I say to poke him, because I’m not sure what happens next. I sigh out a nervous breath, waiting.

Without removing his eyes from mine, Adam tosses a glove at my face.

“Where did that even come from?” I shriek. His low laugh rumbles, and now I’m laughing too. Our legs tangle together, my free hand drifting up his broad chest with our faces inches apart. Before my brain can register what’s happening, he’s slipping his hand behind my neck, and I’m clutching his denim jacket to angle my mouth up to his.

It’s a soft, sweet breath of a kiss. Until it isn’t.

We crash into each other against the cloth upholstery of the bench seat. Adam’s mouth catches me, kissing me like we’re building something, like we’re creating something new and beautiful. His lips glide against mine, and a sigh escapes my throat. Phantom sparks explode over my breasts as my hand fists his hair like it’s the edge of a cliff and I’m in free fall. The way his stubble scratches against my face sets me on fire. It’s nothing like I imagined. It’s more . Almost too much. Everything about his touch, his kiss, the press of his body against me, is too much and not enough all at once.

“This is so…” His hungry words fall away as his mouth finds my jaw. His tongue burns into my skin. I can’t think. I can’t see. The buzzing energy of the universe collapses in on his soft lips and sweeping tongue.

He grapples for my hips desperately as rivulets of need flow through me. I can’t form any complete thoughts except I need to feel every part of him against me. I scramble up onto my knees as his arms guide me onto his lap, and he gasps into my mouth. His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me impossibly close, eating into space that never existed. My senses are filled with nothing but Adam Berg.

His hands wrestle with the bottom of my coat, and I pry my hands out of his hair to help as we furiously yank at the buttons. He pulls it down my shoulders, my arm knocking my open salad off the dash in the process. Oil-soaked lettuce slides down the console until it all lands on the floor with a wet plop.

“Shit.” I shift in his lap, but his hands cup my face and pull me back to him. His eyes drill into me, his pupils so large I hardly recognize him.

“I don’t care about my truck right now.” He presses our foreheads together as we both catch our breath. “I can’t care about anything but this.”

His hand strokes my hairline tenderly, tracing down my face over the soft line of my jaw.

“Neither can I,” I practically pant before pressing my mouth to his again.

Heat ripples through me as he sinks into me desperately and all trace of tenderness melts away. His mouth is heavy and hot. It’s a deep, mind-numbing, stomach-flipping kiss, and I don’t know the day, the time, or what postal code we’re in when I whimper into his throat at the feel of his fingers toying with the hem of my sweater. His hand travels up my bare back, thumbs grazing my spine, while his other grabs hold of my hair. He grasps at more of me, anchoring me to him as I nearly unravel in his lap.

Whatever is left of my rational brain goes fully offline. I’m all nerve endings and need when the horn from Uncle Ricky’s tow truck sends my head into the ceiling of the truck cab.

—

Uncle Ricky pulls my car out of the snow with an awful crunch as the metal lurches over the curb and my front bumper falls to the ground with a thud. I sign paperwork and hop back into Adam’s truck so he can drive me home, watching my car disappear in the direction of the autobody shop.

Adam squints out at the snow-covered streets. His face is stony. He doesn’t say anything right away, and panic swims in my stomach as we sit in heavy silence. I move to turn the radio on for a buffer, but he puts a hand up to stop me.

“I’m sorry about that,” he starts, his eyes flitting between mine and the road. “I got, uh—”

“It’s my fault,” I blurt, falling on the proverbial make-out sword for the both of us. “I shouldn’t have. I was—”

His laugh is forced. “We both know it wasn’t just you.”

He works the back of his neck with his one hand. I rub circles over my right temple like it will erase the last twenty minutes—a sexual expungement.

“It was a, uh…” He’s about to say the word mistake . I know it in the way he’s gripping and releasing the steering wheel. If the word falls from his lips, I’ll be sick.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I announce. “It was just a thing that happened. A lapse.”

“A lapse?” His eyebrows lift with curiosity.

“I read an article about a study on grief…” I’ve read no such article. “It said a, uh, physical connection can be necessary to move into the next stage.”

“Which stage?” His eyes dart back to me.

“The fourth one?”

“Depression?”

“No, the one after that.”

“Ahh.” He knows I’m full of shit. I watch his eyes decide whether he’ll play along. “Should we forget it ever happened?”

“I think that’s what they recommended. In the article.”

“Who produced this study?” he asks, his mouth quirking up to one side. I’ll take it.

“Science. All of it.” I suppress a laugh.

“I won’t deny science.” His voice is all faux solemnity as he pulls to a stop behind a van’s brake lights. Adam’s cheeks are tinted red by the stoplight. “Alison, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I…can’t.”

“It’s okay. We’re friends,” I remind him, but my voice goes up like it’s a question.

He turns to face me, looking at me a beat longer than my friends usually do. When his expression turns green, he stiffens and faces forward. “Friends,” he agrees, pressing on the gas.

We don’t talk for the rest of the ride. The tension between us remains thick. Despite our agreement to forget the kiss ever happened, I imagine his mouth on mine three more times in the warm comfort of his truck. My belly fizzes and pops like soda.

When he pulls in front of my apartment, his arm crosses my body to open my door, brushing my front. My skin ignites at the friction of his coat against mine and the weight of his arm, and I delude myself into thinking he might kiss me again, but he doesn’t. I replay his words like they’re a broken cassette tape.

You’re kind of my favorite new person.

Instead, without leaving his seat, he opens the passenger door to let me out. I turn to him, visibly blushing, and I know he sees it. Hands and lips flash in my mind as he faces forward before I have a chance to register how another charged moment has passed me by.

He waves but doesn’t drive away. He lets the car behind him honk to watch me get into my building safely. It’s so effortlessly tender, and I wonder if he would’ve done it for any friend, or if maybe I’m special.