Chapter 20 The Morning After
20
The Morning After
I wake up facing the wrong side of my room. I blink open my eyes as the sun assaults me through the gauzy cream-colored curtains. Adam’s arm is draped over my stomach. He stirs and pulls me into him, cocooning me under his larger frame. When he nuzzles himself into my hair, I can’t help but let out a giggle, luxuriating in the feeling of being safe and warm and held against him like this.
“Morning.” It’s the same voice, but in my hair—in my bed—it’s low, gruff, and tinged with affection.
“Morning.” I try to flip over, so we’re eye to eye, but he playfully keeps me nestled against him.
“No. Too comfy. Don’t ruin it,” Adam faux whines with an audible smile in his voice.
“I want to look at you. I need to see your bedhead for blackmail material.”
“Then I’ll see your bedhead for counter-blackmail material.”
“On second thought…” I move to make a break toward the bathroom, but he pulls me back and flips me around. “Just know that I have curly hair and can’t wake up with it looking cute. It’s impossible.” I take in his sleepy face. It’s sweet and guileless with the tiniest bit of awe, like he wasn’t sure I was real until now.
“I love your hair. And your eyes. What color are they? Sometimes they’re green, sometimes they’re brown.” He gently wraps a strand around his finger and tucks it behind my ear. The lightness of the touch makes me shiver.
I furrow my brow in a show of mock seriousness. “They’re this rare, coveted shade called ‘hazel.’?”
He tugs at a sex-flattened curl. I pinch my lips together to conceal how stupidly happy I am.
Brushing my hand through his soft hair, I settle my fingers on the back of his neck. “I love your hair too. And your chest. I’ve always wondered what it felt like. That sounded a little creepy. I don’t want to make a sweater out of you or something.”
He smiles. “I’ve wondered what you feel like too.”
I shrug. “Now you know everything.”
“I don’t know. I think I have more questions.” He pulls me into him, kissing my neck, and I let out a high laugh.
When he comes up for air, he just stares at me. “So I’m the only one who’s ever called you Ali?”
“Yep.”
“That’s crazy to me. You’re such an Ali.”
“It’s my last name.”
The moment he hears it, he rolls his head away from me dramatically. “Ali Mullally! You let me call you that?” His face is the portrait of mortification, and he holds me even closer.
I wriggle in his arms. “No, it’s nice. Mara and Chelsea are the only people who have given me a nickname before. Never from a…”
I’ve fallen headfirst into the issue at hand. Is this a one-time-to-get-it-out-of-our-systems-and-say-goodbye-for-forever thing? Is this a to-be-repeated-many-more-times thing? Is this the beginning of a relationship?
Now that it’s morning, the rest of the world threatens to burst our happy bubble. With a rush, fear is creeping up my body like vines, threatening to strangle me.
Could this possibly work? He’s Sam’s best friend, I’m Sam’s ex, and we live hours apart.
“Hey. Where’d you go?” He places a thumb on my chin and pulls my face toward his. He analyzes my eyes, slowly leaning in for a kiss. It’s not like the passionate, starving kisses of last night. It’s soft and unwavering. It’s a hug—a caress—but it’s also vitalizing. If I woke up to Adam every morning, I might be able to give up coffee. Though Adam is clearly a caffeine addict, so I can’t imagine there would be a shortage of coffee in a life with him.
The realization that a future like that is unlikely makes me stop the kiss.
“We need coffee,” I say.
Adam stares at me for a beat, deciding whether to let whatever is brewing in my brain be. He nods but doesn’t release me. “I can make it. You stay in bed.” He kisses my nose and hops off the mattress, throwing on his boxer briefs. I take the opportunity to admire his broad, shirtless body in the daylight.
I watch him hunt through my cabinets before putting him out of his misery. “The K-Cups are on the tree next to the Keurig.”
“Keurig? No, Mullally! Unacceptable.”
“Your coffee snobbery is unacceptable.”
He pops in a K-Cup and presses the button on the machine. “There are so few good things about the morning. The smell of fresh ground beans is the only thing that makes waking up bearable.”
“The only thing?” I prop myself up in a casual pinup-girl pose, and I very nearly pull it off.
“I guess there are a few other things.” He lets a true smile escape before turning back to the coffee mugs.
I take advantage of his time in my kitchen to sneak into the bathroom, still naked. My hair’s worse than I feared, so I pull it into a loose topknot. When Adam approaches from behind, mug in hand, I realize he has a full-frontal view of my mastectomy scars in the mirror.
They’ve faded over the last year, but the horizontal lines remain a visible pink. As the first man who’s seen them since that ill-fated Bumble hookup, I brace myself for the moment they catch his eye.
I see the quick eye flit of a double take, but nothing resembling disgust. His expression hesitates, like you might pause over a tattoo or a beauty mark or some other feature that, though unexpected, is not unwelcome.
His lips meet my neck while his eyes capture mine in the mirror. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that when you put your hair up in front of me?” he asks with a sexy grin. “I put your coffee on the table next to your book stack.”
With a quick peck on my jaw, he exits the bathroom. I grab my robe from the hook and sneak on a swipe of mascara and berry-colored lip balm.
I find coffee and a single freezer Thin Mint on top of my bedside book tower. I scooch myself under my bedspread beside him and sip from my mug cautiously, swiping any residual crumbs off of Glennon Doyle.
“You need a bookshelf for those.” Adam gestures from beside me.
“If only I knew a hot carpenter.”
“Are they going on the shelf I’m building?”
“No. That’ll go by the door for all my hiking, climbing, and backpacking stuff. My bookcase is over there—mocking me.” I point at the tall Wayfair box propped in the corner.
“We’ll put that together today.” Adam looks pleased to have a building task on the agenda. “You seem to enjoy the self-help section.” He points to the pile of books next to me.
“My brCA books.” He looks puzzled. “They’re the books I bought after I got my mastectomy.”
His eyes scan the spines: Braving the Wilderness ; Wild ; Eat, Pray, Love ; The Year of Yes ; Walden ; The Wilderness of Grief ; Untamed ; and If Your Dream Doesn’t Scare You, It Isn’t Big Enough .
He eyes Glennon. “I’m sensing a theme, and it’s not boobs.”
“There aren’t a lot of brCA-specific books—though I do have a couple of those too—so after my mastectomy, I bought a bunch of general female-empowerment memoirs and grief books.”
“Why is the wilderness such a large part of female empowerment? Do you know how many first-time hikers die each year?”
“ More people die in cars.”
“More people are in cars,” he retorts.
“Are you seriously taking a stance against the natural world?”
“I reject the idea that a person is automatically self-actualized by hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.”
“I’ve read at least three memoirs that would refute that.” We’re rattling the rock of messy brCA-related feelings growing moss inside my chest, and since I’d rather wrestle a coked-up grizzly than uncover what lies beneath my buried neuroses, I drink from my mug and stare down at my bedspread for conversational inspiration. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do today. Usually, on a Sunday, I’d be getting ready to see you.”
He lifts his brow. “We can meet downtown in an empty apartment.”
“Kinky.”
“You’re hopeless.” He gets up and pulls on his jeans, jumping a little to fasten himself into them. “I need some breakfast before I can do your talking thing with you.”
“I’m supposed to feed you? It’s been so long since I’ve had an overnight sex guest.”
Adam’s face trips a bit. I reach out and grab his hand, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Since the mastectomy—”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I squeeze his palm and the small gesture loosens the tight rope of muscles in his shoulders. “You’re the first person I’ve trusted to see me. All of me.”
My words, however clumsy, have the intended effect and his thumb swipes over my knuckles. “You’re so beautiful, Alison. Every part of you is beautiful.”
My heart explodes in my chest. I do the only reasonable thing and pull him toward me for a kiss, spilling a drop of coffee on my bedspread in the process, but I can’t bring myself to care.
We get dressed and walk the few blocks to my favorite breakfast spot. One part bakery, one part restaurant, and all parts country cottage aesthetic, the Coffee Cake caters to the weekday lunch crowd and Sunday brunchers. We sit at the counter facing a large window peering into the kitchen, and I order cinnamon French toast while teasing Adam mercilessly for ordering oatmeal.
So much is just like always, but everything’s changed. For one thing, we never stop touching.
My knee presses against his.
His thumb draws circles in my palm.
I nudge his shoulder with mine, and he presses a quick kiss to my lips.
I feel drunk with hormones and giddiness. Anxious to get back to my apartment, I curse myself for choosing a breakfast order with such a long cooking time. I see Adam’s knee jiggling and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.
When his phone rings on the counter, the name flashing on the screen is a pinprick to our happy little bubble.
Dr.Lewis’s name glows up at me like a stoplight. “You should take that.”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah. I’ll just…” He trails off, pointing to the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
I watch him answer through the window, his face tight. I feel like a snoop staring at him like this. I feel like the other woman, tucked inside while he sorts out his business just out of earshot. The stool squeaks as I force my legs to swivel away from my view of the sidewalk and peek into the kitchen.
The chef is preparing a mini pot pie. It isn’t until he calls for a coworker that I recognize him as Glasses from Risky Quizness. I pull my phone from my coat pocket to message Mara, so she can add another red string to the serial killer board she undoubtedly keeps on their team—but I stop myself.
She wanted to talk things through after our argument, but I haven’t made the time. I’ve been consumed with Adam and the shift in our relationship. Would Mara welcome a casual text from me right now?
Adam’s tap on my arm releases me from my thoughts. “What are you staring at?” He rubs my shoulder, and I cover his hand with mine to keep it in place.
“Glasses from the enemy trivia team works here.” I tilt my head discreetly in the chef’s direction.
“Better alert Mara.” His breath kisses my ear.
“What was Sam’s dad calling about? Is there something more he needs us to do?” My voice is remarkably nonchalant.
“Reminding me of their party.” He sniffs, and I know better than to press. “But mostly, he was telling me about his friend who wanted to hire me for a carpentry project. They’re envisioning a shed that doubles as a playhouse or something.”
“That’s great!” I cheer with too much enthusiasm. I’m making it weird. “Do you need to go measure a baseboard or a stud or…how long are you going to let me say words I don’t know before you rescue me from myself?” I ask in the face of his rapidly growing smirk.
“No, please go on. I’m loving this.” He spears a piece of my French toast. “I’m not taking the job, so it’s fine.”
“You don’t have to give up work on my account. I could help. I recently went through a home improvement crash course. I got very high marks, but full disclosure, I am sleeping with my instructor.” He ends my bit by planting a kiss below my ear.
“I can’t take a job like that anyway,” he says, pulling himself away and leaning against the counter at an angle that emphasizes that fairly devastating jawline. “I’d have to take too much time off work. It’s not possible.”
“Why? You’re moving down here to start your carpentry business anyway. Isn’t this exactly the type of job you’d want?”
He rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Eventually. But not now. And I’ve dealt with Paul before. When I’m halfway through the shed, he’ll decide it’s too impractical and want me to repurpose the material for a basement bar or some shit. I’m not committing to something with someone who doesn’t know what they want. Plus, I don’t want to tangle myself up with the Lewises if we’re—”
He’s saved by our server, who asks a flurry of questions (More coffee? Do you need butter for that? What about sugar for the oatmeal? Jam? It’s lingonberry!). It veers us off course from the conversational landmine we were sprinting toward.
We bicker about oatmeal—perfection or gruel?—and settle back into our routine of quick pecks and addictive touches, as if the phone call—and the unanswerable questions it prompted—never happened at all.
—
The first thing Adam does is search my apartment for additional home improvement projects. Once he’s zeroed in on something that needs fixing, he grabs his tools from his truck, and, to avoid more tow trucks, I text my landlady Adam’s license plate number. When he sent me the photo of his front bumper, it felt like the first real indication that this might happen again.
Adam strolls through the door, wielding a drill like a handyman fantasy. “Put me to work.”
“I want to do it myself. Make more coffee. You’re already off pace for the day.”
“Really?” His expression’s dubious.
“I hate to tell you this since it’s your chosen vocation and all, but using a drill is not that hard.”
He yanks off his backpack and removes a pouch holding different drill bits. “Putting together prefab furniture is not my job. Is riding the light rail your job?”
“I’ve ridden the Green Line while on the clock, so I can’t say it’s not part of my job.” I position the tool in both hands like it’s a Super Soaker. “Enjoy your coffee and pick out a Christmas movie for us.”
I walk to the corner, where that bookcase box has been splayed for the better part of autumn. With the appropriate tool, I make quick work of building it while Adam searches Netflix from my bed. I pick up the narrow bookcase unsteadily for the final reveal.
“Can I…” When he speaks into my hair, his voice is so close to me, I startle. “Oh, don’t drop the…” The bookcase tilts forward, but Adam acts quickly, catching the top above my reach. He helps me right it, and I hold it steady while he silently picks up the drill from the end table and anchors the piece to the wall. “Being tall helps with this part.”
“Sorry. That was a bit dramatic.”
“It all worked out. And now you have a bookcase.”
“It’s a miracle,” I say flatly, blowing an escaped curl out of my eyes.
“Look at it. You built this!” He congratulates me, rubbing my shoulders.
“I assembled it.”
“Don’t do that. This is my favorite part of making something, seeing what was just pieces of wood become beautiful and useful. You have a space in your home for books and photos and memories, and you made it.”
He’s the most animated I’ve ever seen him as he talks about building something “beautiful.” It must have been hard for him to do the opposite each day in Sam’s apartment—hollowing out that space.
He pushes my hair back and kisses my nose, oblivious to my melancholy thoughts. “I think I’ve found the perfect Christmas movie.”
“That’s the spirit. Remember how hostile you once were to Christmas in November?” I grapple with the bedside book stack while Adam queues up a movie on my TV.
“I’ve only known you four weeks, and you’ve completely corrupted me.”
“I reverse grinched you.” I grunt, turning my tower of books sideways and pressing them into the shelf like a broken accordion. “There.”
I plop myself on the tiny couch, and Adam pulls my legs over his lap, grasping my thigh like we do this every Sunday morning. I’m looking at this Polly Pocket apartment in a whole new light today. “What do you think?” he asks.
I don’t answer at first. I sink into his deep brown eyes and admire the way the light from the TV dances on the hard lines of his face. Finally, I look at what he chose. “Dear Lord! What’s this?”
“ Krampus. It’s the only Christmas horror film on Netflix. The ultimate compromise.”
“A great man once said, ‘A good compromise is when both parties are dissatisfied.’?”
He tightens his grip on my thigh and curves his brow upward. “Henry Clay?”
“Larry David.”
“Fine. You pick.” He tosses the remote in my lap.
“What was your favorite Christmas movie as a kid?” I ask.
He considers the question for a moment before answering, “ Babes in Toyland .”
“Which one?” I ask cautiously.
“Keanu Reeves, Drew Barrymore, trolls…”
I gasp dramatically. “Oh, that’s very dark, Adam. I’m so worried about your childhood now.”
“It’s about toys,” he says, like it makes that waking nightmare of a movie reasonable.
“We’re watching Elf . End of discussion.”
And we do, but Adam is up and wandering around my bed before Will Ferrell has taught anyone to embrace Christmas cheer.
“Buddy is about to ruin spaghetti and maple syrup for you, and you’re missing it!” I holler over my shoulder from the couch.
“I need my other sock. My left foot is cold.” His voice is muffled under my bed.
“Is it at the bottom of the sheets?”
“I already checked.”
“Then it’s lost forever. Maybe your right foot will share with the left every so often.”
“What’s this?” he asks mischievously.
I jump off the couch to intercept whatever humiliation he’s set in motion. When I spot my plastic bin of model train cars, I’m equal parts relieved and mortified. “Oh. Those.”
His long fingers remove the clear lid almost reverently. “Is this your famous model train? Your locomotive superhero origin story?” He carefully pulls a forest-green steam locomotive out of its bubble wrap. “Why are they in a box under your bed?”
“One, they’re incredibly dorky, and, two, have you seen the size of my apartment? If we hold hands in the center, we can each touch a wall.”
“You built these with your dad?”
“We just fixed them up. We used to find cars with missing wheels and broken engines at rummage sales and discount bins and paint them in festive Christmas colors. My dad used to give them to me as Christmas presents until he realized how embarrassed I was by them.”
I remember bouncing into the garage, shoving a reference photo of a new tunnel system or car we needed to be on the lookout for under my dad’s nose. New railcars could go for over $200. Luckily for my family’s finances, my dad and I agreed that the joy was in the hunt—finding the discarded treasure and breathing new life into it.
Adam holds a train car in his hand like it’s a precious artifact. “These should be prominently displayed.”
“No.” I laugh self-consciously, rewrapping the car. I snap the clear lid back on the bin and tuck it away again. “Your home is the vision board you live in. The hobby I share exclusively with elderly men and nine-year-old boys is not the version of myself I’m building toward.”
“So the self-improvement books get prime real estate and this special thing you love gets shoved under the bed?” The edge of frustration in his voice catches me off guard.
“Those books are aspirational and empowering.”
“What about the hiking junk? Forget that shelf you wanted. I could build a display case for your trains instead. It’d be perfect.”
“It’d be mortifying. I want to see the things I should be prioritizing every day, not my embarrassing secrets.”
Adam shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’d prioritize something you have to remind yourself to tolerate over something you actually love.”
I cross my arms. “I love hiking.”
“Now say that with a straight face.”
“I respect hiking,” I clarify. “And I’m challenging myself to love it. That’s what healthy people do. I’m healthy.”
Adam growls out a soft sigh. “Fine. Yeah. I’m sorry I said anything.”
I want to pull us out of the weird energy field we’ve fallen into. Whatever we are feels too vulnerable to withstand even the smallest of conflicts. I shove him playfully, hoping to jolt us out of the negative charge. He catches my wrists to keep me close, feeling it too. Giddy warmth radiates from our point of contact.
“Okay,” Adam says with a forehead kiss. “I hear you.”
I pull myself into his chest. “Good. The shelf for my hiking gear makes more sense anyway. You’d probably have to take off work to build a big display case here.”
“There are other things in your apartment that I might be interested in skipping work for.” He kisses the top of my head before pulling me onto the bed. We cuddle in positions that prevent attentive viewing of Will Ferrell and Zooey Deschanel. When Adam rises to drive home, he kisses me so casually, like there will be a thousand more kisses just like it. I tamp down the longing that rises in my belly and close the door behind him.
Two hours later, my phone beeps.
5:03 PM
Adam:
I already miss you.
My heart swells and swoops at the message from my new favorite person, and I’m starting to wonder if Adam and I were ever only friends .