Chapter 15 Ricky’s Towing Isn’t Bound by HIPAA
15
Ricky’s Towing Isn’t Bound by HIPAA
I don’t remember what I dreamed last night, but it must have been about Adam, because my cheeks burn at the sight of his name on my phone screen Monday morning.
His message is simply a picture of his familiar hand holding a carrier of two oversized white to-go cups.
7:14 AM
Alison:
Double fisting? Rough start.
7:16 AM
Adam:
Someone shouldn’t have driven into a snow pile. I might’ve made it home before my bedtime.
I light up alone in my kitchen in front of my Keurig, grateful not to be on FaceTime. The fluttering in my stomach is getting difficult to contain.
I type and delete two messages, one too revealing ( It’s good to hear from you ) and one too inconsequential to elicit a further response from him ( Ha ha! ) until I realize Adam is witnessing my overthinking in the form of a dancing ellipsis. Finally, I type out a reply.
7:18 AM
Alison:
Bedtime, Grandpa?
On Tuesday, Adam “Confirmed Friend Nothing More” Berg texts again.
3:34 PM
Adam:
What’s your favorite color?
3:36 PM
Alison:
Pass. Only children have favorite colors.
3:38 PM
Adam:
I’m getting paint for the living room.
3:39 PM
Adam:
Not true. My favorite color is brown.
3:41 PM
Alison:
Favorite colors are irrelevant when it comes to painting.
3:42 PM
Alison:
Get a greige with a warm undertone because the windows are north facing.
I’m at my desk Wednesday morning when my phone vibrates.
8:51 AM
Adam:
I went with light gray. Greige isn’t a color, and the windows are west facing.
8:53 AM
Alison:
I don’t know cardinal directions. I’m not a scout leader.
8:55 AM
Adam:
Couldn’t rule it out. I’ve watched you consume a lot of Girl Scout cookies.
8:58 AM
Alison:
We completely skipped over that your favorite color is brown!?!
8:59 AM
Alison:
Who hurt you?
“Alison.”
Josh is examining me from his desk, fingers still in motion on his keyboard.
I tuck my phone behind a stack of folders. “Are you actually typing something when you do that or is it an intimidation tactic?”
“Both. I ran your vacation days by Daniella. She said it’s fine, but we have to switch around onboarding dates for you and the new hire.”
“I’m not sure yet if I’m going on the trip. Or taking the job.”
Patty pulls off her silencing headphones to interject. “She’s panicking about leveling up in her career.”
I turn to face her. “You can hear us with those on?”
“They only drown out the typing. I listen until I lose interest.”
I rub circles into my temples. “I’m not panicking, I’m trying to figure out what I want.” Ever since I told Adam about the job, I can’t get his words out of my head. Are all of my attempts to “level up” a waste if I’m not sure it’s what I want?
Once they’ve returned to their work, I pick up my phone. A text from a new number interrupts my conversation with Adam.
9:08 AM
Unknown Number:
Alison—Adam says you’re wrapping up early. Will you drop off the keys this weekend with the last of the boxes? I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done. It means the world to us. Judy Lewis.
My heart sinks an inch.
So that’s it, then. He can’t even make it to December 1. Weeks of texts and escalating tension—culminating in a kiss that I’m definitely not obsessing over—are coming to an abrupt end, and I’m finding out from Sam’s mom.
What was he planning to do? Give me one last flirty home improvement montage before disappearing from my life forever, doomed to be a name in my contact list that wishes me a happy birthday every couple years? The thought stings like a papercut. My weekends won’t be filled with the two of us. Soon, I’ll be back to normal. An ache lurks under my ribs.
Why can’t I go with Sam’s friends to Patagonia? It’s exactly something Sam would do. What if two weeks of camping and trekking with experienced hikers is exactly the exposure therapy I need to finally embrace adventure? Even if it isn’t, it’ll be a perfect distraction from whatever isn’t happening with Adam. I’ll be able to talk about this trip for the rest of my life. I could authentically claim that identity as my own, like people who ran a marathon six years ago and bring it up in every conversation like it’s eternally who they are.
“Tell Kyle he’s covering me the last two weeks in January,” I blurt.
Josh blows his nose and nods, oblivious to the monumental moment he’s witnessed. I look down at my phone. For the first time in weeks, I wish I could talk to Sam, to bask in his relentless positivity and enthusiasm. All I have is a text from Adam—another man in my life doomed to be a memory.
9:09 AM
Adam:
Brown like wood, weirdo. From trees.
9:10 AM
Adam:
I like green too. Similar origins.
This is exactly what I wanted from the beginning. Clean the apartment, help Sam’s family, and move on to a bigger, more adventurous life. Get in and get out. Those plans never included an impulsive—incredible, mind-blowing—kiss with Sam’s friend.
My phone thuds to the bottom of my bag when I throw it in without responding.
—
Thursday night sports trivia is shaping up to be a particularly brutal defeat. Patrick’s a no-show, and any questions we manage to answer are through a Slumdog Millionaire– esque series of coincidences. Chelsea and Mara know a few of the baseball facts by virtue of being alive in Minnesota, and in the image round, I recognize Kris Humphries from his marriage to Kim Kardashian—not his time as a Minnesota Gopher.
The Wisconsin-themed bar, adorned in green and yellow twinkle lights, subjects us to an entire section on the Green Bay Packers. Chelsea alternates between “Brett Favre” and “Aaron Rodgers” every time we have to guess.
Humphries, Favre, and Rodgers come through for us, and we wind up in a distant, but respectable, third place. It’s enough to put Mara in a relatively good mood. We win a complimentary basket of cheese curds that we split three ways, and all check our neglected phones in unison as the jock rock kicks back up.
I have a few unread messages, but only one makes my heart leap pathetically.
9:03 PM
Adam:
This is all your fault.
Below his message is a photo of a single string of twinkle lights draped along his workshop wall. I want to be mad at him, but I can’t help but soften in the face of my grump’s reluctant Christmas cheer.
Chelsea coos, and I look up from my phone, still smiling like a fool.
“I knew it! Look at your face! When did this happen? In the car? Uncle Ricky said a dude was there when he towed you from the ditch. Did you get busy in the car? Did you swipe your hand on the foggy window like Kate Winslet?” Chelsea’s voice climbs higher with each question.
“Oh my god, Chels. It was the middle of the day,” I deflect, because who knows whether we would’ve pulled a Jack and Rose if the tow truck hadn’t shown up when it did.
“That’s not a denial.” Mara’s nose is still in her work phone, and she’s giving this conversation approximately 40 percent of her focus.
I wrap my arms across myself to intercept the involuntary shiver rolling up my body when I remember how Adam’s beard felt against my neck and how desperate I was for more. “Adam happened to be nearby and gave me a ride. And it wasn’t a ditch. It was a snow pile on the other side of a curb. If you’re going to gossip about me with your uncle, I want you to have every humiliating detail correct.”
Mara clicks off her screen and gives me her full attention. “He happened to be near the breast cancer center?”
“Jesus, Chelsea. Hasn’t your uncle heard of medical privacy laws?”
“Ricky’s Towing isn’t bound by HIPAA,” Chelsea answers, shaking her head at my attempted diversion. “So how long has this been going on?”
“She’s at least made out with him,” Mara tells Chelsea. “Her mouth’s doing that twitchy thing. That’s her tell.”
“I don’t have a tell!” I slap my hand over my face. “Fine. We did kiss…a bit, but we both agreed it didn’t happen. Or that it shouldn’t have happened. I can’t remember the specifics of our not remembering.” I’m too busy remembering everything before that very specifically .
“But you like him?” Chelsea asks, propping her head in her hands, her eyes soft and wide like a cartoon deer’s.
A smile breaks free across my face. “He told me I’m his ‘favorite new person.’?”
“Cute,” she gushes, drawing five syllables out of the word. “Wait, did he say ‘new favorite person’ or ‘favorite new person’?”
“The second one.”
Her pony bobs encouragingly. “Okay. So what does that mean ?”
“It means he likes her, but she’s still his best friend’s girlfriend,” Mara explains.
Disappointment sags in my stomach. “It’s not like that.”
“ He thinks it is.” Mara’s usually assessing eyes fill with compassion for the mess I’ve made, which makes me feel all the more hopeless.
My body stiffens the moment a male hand unexpectedly clasps my shoulder. Scents of the beach and expensive hair products waft into my nostrils.
“Hey, babe!” a familiar voice says.
I inwardly curse, and Chelsea’s mouth falls open at the figure behind me.
“Russell!” I turn, greeting him cheerily with an awkward one-armed hug that he turns into a long, full-body embrace.
“Why’re you giving me the runaround, girl? I’ve left you like three messages.” He clutches his heart, stepping back like I’ve shot him, but his wink and big toothy grin in Chelsea’s direction confirm my suspicion that he hardly thinks about me when I’m not directly in front of him.
“Sorry. I’ve had a lot going on.” I turn to Mara and Chelsea. “This is Russell. He saved us when Adam and I got a car impounded.”
Chelsea flits her eyelashes over her ravenous blue eyes. “Russell, I’m Chelsea.”
She extends her hand toward him, but with lightning-fast reflexes, he rejects it and pulls her into a hug. She mouths, Oh my god! to Mara and me over his shoulder.
Russell settles into a seat at our table. “Any friend of Sam’s girl is a friend of mine.”
All three of us recoil physically at the words Sam’s girl, but Russell doesn’t notice. He’s waiting for Mara to introduce herself.
She wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. “Mara. We met at the funeral. You hugged me.” From her, the word hugged sounds more like sneezed on .
Russell flashes a Cheshire cat smile, oblivious to Mara’s tone. She makes an excuse and heads toward the bathroom.
Chelsea presses Russell’s forearm flirtatiously, and suddenly, they’re enjoying a lively exchange of Hot People Pleasantries. I pull out my phone and tune them out. Minutes go by while I labor over how to respond to Adam’s text. Do I mention Judy’s message? How do I casually remind him of our forgotten kiss and find out if our friendship expires this weekend? Should I ask him his preferred flavor of “Goodbye Forever” cake? I feel like it’s marble. There’s no flavor more ambivalent than marble.
“You’re going too, Al?”
Chelsea’s wobbly voice pulls me out of my phone trance.
“Huh?”
Worry and frustration pinwheel across her face. “Russell says you’re going to Chile. The country. To climb a mountain.”
Russell and Chelsea stare at me expectantly. “Sam invited me…and—”
“Oh, babe, you have to come too,” Russell tells Chelsea, throwing his arm around the back of her chair before she subtly shimmies out of his embrace. He’s impervious to the nonverbal conversation playing out on our faces.
Mara reclaims her chair, surveying our varying expressions. “Sorry, there was a line. What’d I miss?”
“Alison’s going camping in the mountains of South America.” Chelsea downs her beer.
Mara straightens. “What?”
My eyes glue themselves to the table, unable to confront my friends’ angry faces. Or, not angry—worse—worried. “It’ll be good for me.”
“For sure,” Russell responds, bouncing in his seat. He really can’t read a room. “When can I grab that stuff from Sam’s place?”
I turn toward Russell, avoiding my friends’ stares. “Can you come by this weekend?”
“Perfect. We’ll hash out the details for Chile then. Chelsea, it was a pleasure meeting you. Can I DM you?”
She tips her head side to side in disappointed resignation. “Better not,” she says. Whatever fun she imagined with Russell, I’ve shot it in the ass with a tranq dart.
Russell shakes the rejection off. Once he’s sauntered away, Mara’s eyes tighten at the corners. “I thought Sam’s sister gave your ticket away. Why does Bachelor in Paradise think you’re going mountaineering with him?” she asks.
“I’m capable of buying my own ticket,” I snap, frustrated that I’m being forced to articulate actions I may not entirely understand.
Mara throws up her hands. “What’re you trying to prove?”
I fidget in my chair.
“When we all had collective heart attacks during Free Solo, did you see it as aspirational viewing? You’re a woman who loves lazy days on the couch with her friends. That’s who you are, and you’re the best.” Mara’s voice rises with each sentence, her volume swallowed up by the noisy bar. “But after your surgery, you woke up and decided that you weren’t good enough. You signed us up for an ultra marathon. I didn’t know they made races longer than a marathon, and now I’ll have to sell my firstborn child to get off that email list.”
“What’s wrong with wanting to be the best version of myself?”
“Nothing! But this isn’t you . When you’re not off pretending to like the great outdoors, you’re playing house with Adam—who still thinks you’re Sam’s girlfriend, by the way. So it doesn’t matter how much you like him or he likes you, you’ll never get what you want if you’re pretending to be someone else.”
Mara and I never fight, but I can’t help but bite back. “You only recognize me when I’m going along with whatever you want. You have to control every part of my life! I knock on doors for your candidates. I study a hundred years of sports trivia so you can win in a one-sided vendetta against a team that doesn’t care about us.” My words are an erupting volcano, flowing out in a hot rush. “And Chelsea and I don’t even like sports. This isn’t how either of us want to spend a Thursday night—”
“Please don’t involve me in—” Chelsea tries in vain to stop my tirade, gesturing to the waiter for our bill.
“But you steamroll over us.” I don’t pause. “And now we’re sitting under a neon cheese head—yelling at each other—because I’m not doing exactly what you want me to do!”
For a moment, we’re all still. I imagine we could hear a pin drop if not for the basketball game and jock rock. Chelsea’s empty expression settles on the glass in front of her, and Mara doesn’t say anything. I feel the tension pressing down on us like dense ash. My lungs fight for oxygen with each breath.
Mara’s throat bobs as she places a twenty on the table. “I have some work to finish up. Chels, can you drive Al home?”
“Mar,” I say weakly, so much regret woven through that one syllable.
Mara hardens her jaw. “I’m not arguing with you in a fucking Packers bar, Al. That’s a friendship low.” She slips on her black coat, flinging it around herself like protective armor. “We can talk it out this weekend.”
“I’m painting with Adam, and I have to be around for Russell…” I trail off.
“Of course.” Mara snorts. “Don’t worry about it.” She shakes her hair out of her collar, and the clack of her heels breaks through the noise as she makes her exit.
“I’m not wrong, am I?” I look to Chelsea for encouragement, but she’s avoiding my eyes.
“No, but you’re not right either.” She turns toward me with her signature teacher face, both tender and resolute. “She loves you. It was hard for me to watch you go through your mom getting sick and your diagnosis and your surgery, but Mara, she’s a fixer. She hates to feel helpless. There are a million examples of how gracefully you’ve handled everything thrown at you, but we can see you’re still hurting in small ways.”
“Chels, I’m not hurting anymore. I’m healed now, and I’m trying to live my life.”
Her jaw ticks in frustration. “Great. Whose life, though? Because backpacking through mountains with strangers isn’t yours.”
It’s the most combative Chelsea is capable of, and I don’t know how to respond.
She doesn’t make me, asking instead, “Was the kiss good at least?” because I know she’s been waiting to ask about kissing Adam since before Russell showed up and knocked us off course.
A laugh falls out of my throat. “Yeah, it was really, really good.”
“I knew it,” she says, and pops the last cheese curd in her mouth.
···
When I trudge into my apartment that night, I collapse onto my bed without even removing my coat. Mara’s words whir through my brain on spin cycle.
You’ll never get what you want if you’re pretending to be someone else.
All I wanted was to do my part, move on, and hopefully loosen the knot of guilt braided into my sternum. Why, then, am I so disappointed that this situation is finally coming to an end?
I go still as one thought overtakes all others.
Because when it comes to Adam, I know what I want.
There’s no future for Sam’s Girlfriend and Sam’s Best Friend—sure—but I’m not Sam’s girlfriend, and for the first time I want Adam to know that.
I pull out my phone again and look at the photo of his illuminated workshop. My laugh echoes in my empty apartment the second I spot a full mug of coffee lit under the twinkle lights. How does that boy sleep? Next to the coffee mug is a knotty wood board. Is it my shelf?
10:09 PM
Alison:
Are you asleep?
10:12 PM
Adam:
Rarely.
10:13 PM
Alison:
You drink too much coffee. You have a problem. You need help.
10:14 PM
Adam:
You’re 30 percent expired cookies. YOU need help.
10:14 PM
Alison:
My addiction is helping young women develop entrepreneurial skills. Yours makes you a jittery grouch.
10:15 PM
Adam:
I’m not that jittery.
10:16 PM
Alison:
I’m not bringing you an americano on Saturday. You’re detoxing.
10:17 PM
Adam:
Noooooo.
10:17 PM
Alison:
I thought Starbucks was evil.
10:18 PM
Adam:
We’ve reached an understanding.
10:19 PM
Alison:
Fine. But it’ll be half-caff.
He types on and off for a few minutes before his next text appears.
10:23 PM
Adam:
Just so you know, I told Sam’s parents we’ll be done this weekend after we paint. They want the keys back when we’re done.
10:25 PM
Alison:
I know. His mom texted me.
10:26 PM
Adam:
Oh.
10:27 PM
Alison:
Can I ask you a personal question?
10:28 PM
Adam:
Do I have a choice?
10:29 PM
Alison:
Before…the “lapse”…
10:29 PM
Adam:
Okay…
10:30 PM
Alison:
You said I was your friend.
Seconds later, Adam’s name glows on my screen. Vibrations buzz against my palm, and I anxiously accept the call.
“What are you fishing for over there, Ali?”
My insides turn to goo at the sound of a nickname in Adam’s gravelly voice.
“I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask.”
Glassware clinks on his end of the line. “So are you keeping me awake to not ask me personal questions?”
“It’s barely after ten! There’s no way you’re falling asleep any time soon. You’re probably drinking coffee right now.”
“Did you just snort-laugh?” He chuckles, low and rumbly.
“Yes.”
“It’s cute.”
Sparks erupt in my belly.
He swallows into the receiver. “I’m drinking water right now. You’re a good influence on me. But you didn’t send a cryptic text message to talk about that.”
“I get it,” I say, a giggle bubbling up in my throat. “I should’ve texted a more complete summary of my thoughts. I’m guessing you consider phone calls an ‘act of aggression.’?”
“Not at all. I hate texting. I always come off wrong. So you were saying that we’re friends…,” he nudges.
“Friends. Of course.” Though I’d suppose making out in his truck like teenagers has stretched the bounds of friendship. “I keep thinking about how this all started at the funeral. Mrs.Lewis told you who I was, and maybe I should have said something then, but we weren’t friends yet. You didn’t even like me. But it’s different now. We’re—”
His sharp inhale sputters against the phone. “I promise that’s not what I felt about you.”
The word promise in Adam’s low voice folds into me like a secret note. Suddenly, the radio frequency between us feels intensely private. I pull myself up over my pillow and prop my head on my hand. “What were you thinking when we first met? I swear you gave me a look like you hated me or something.”
Adam pauses. Anticipation trickles through my veins. “That day was kind of a blur,” he finally says.
“Of course.” I’ve broken an unspoken agreement by bringing up the funeral. We never talk about it. “It’s weird to think Sam’s apartment is almost ready. I’d started to think we’d never finish.” Or maybe I’d started looking forward to each small mishap that extended our time together. “I’m going to miss you…when it’s done. I wanted you to know that. This was important to me. You’re important to me, in a nonfriend way.” I don’t know what he’ll make of my well-intentioned fib, but I need him to know everything about Sam and his family and my role in trying to make everything a little easier. I need him to know that I’m completely available and have been as long as I’ve known him. “You should know—”
“Ali.” He says it like it hurts. “I think you know how I feel about you. You’re…” I hear his breath as he searches for the words.
I’m what? I wonder.
“…you,” he says with a breath. I can almost feel it hot on my cheek. “But it’s better this ends now. As friends. I don’t want it to get any more confusing.”
I blush at his allusion to our forgotten kiss and his admission that he might share my desire for more—and suddenly admitting that Sam thought I wasn’t good enough for him feels all the more vulnerable.
How can I tell the man I want that his friend found me lacking? I settle on an in-between truth. “Sam and I broke up before he died. I don’t know why he didn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t bring myself to break it to his family at the funeral, and then Rachel begged me to go along with it for his parents, and then I met you and—”
“Really?” His voice cracks open, sounding almost…hopeful, but maybe I’m only hearing what I want to hear. I wish I could see his eyes and puzzle together everything he’s not saying. “You broke up with him? Before?”
Relief rushes through my insides, and I can’t bring myself to quibble with the details of who dumped who.
“Yeah,” I respond, sounding hopeful too. Even if this is too confusing for him, he knows now that it’s not confusing for me. That this could be real if only he wanted it.
“It’s still weird to think about you and him. And the more I get to know you, the less I can picture it.” His voice feels different now—weighed down.
“I was surprised by it at first too, with his whole Instagram-model look. We were always mismatched.”
Fabric rustles against the receiver with his groan into his pillow. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me tell you how beautiful you are.” His voice is a hungry rasp, and the raw sound fills my abdomen with heat.
There’s something too intimate about late-night phone calls. I can close my eyes, and Adam is lying on the pillow next to me. I can open them, and we’re staring at the same ceiling tiles. I wonder what his ceiling looks like and whether he imagines me looking up at it too.
My body’s heavy, like I’m under the weighted comforter Instagram keeps pushing on me. I need to hang up. “You sound tired,” I whisper.
“I could talk a little longer.”
So we do.