Chapter 21 The Only Explanation, Aside from a Lobotomy
21
The Only Explanation, Aside from a Lobotomy
It’s impossible to concentrate at work now that I know Adam biblically.
This weekend has upended my life, and yet, I’m still expected to return emails and follow up on ongoing projects. Monday, I catch Daniella on her way to lunch cardio and volunteer to go to Duluth more often if necessary. She doesn’t bite, instead asking whether I’ve decided to accept the new position. I respond with a noncommittal combination of a nod and head shake, until I’m saved by the arrival of the elevator that she marches into. Tuesday, I hum along to lobby music like a lovesick lunatic.
By Wednesday, I’m fantasy shopping for RVs after reading an article about the life-changing experience a cancer survivor had while traveling America. Once I find her blog post about a fecal plumbing mishap, though, I quit browsing Winnebagos and stare at my silent phone in anticipation.
“Why’s your face like that? Are you sick?” Patty asks me from her neighboring desk. I’ve spent the last three days staring down at my hidden cell phone screen, alternating between grinning at my messages and grimacing at the lack of his instantaneous response, deciding Adam must hate me because I’ve used the wrong Schitt’s Creek GIF. To her credit, my face must read a bit like food poisoning.
“It’s her boyfriend,” Josh says for me.
“No, Joshua. Her boyfriend’s…” The hard line of her lips might as well be a strip of duct tape with the word dead scrawled in Sharpie.
“No. The new one,” Josh says past me—like my desk isn’t the middle piece in our U-shaped configuration. “She’s checking her phone obsessively. She gave Kyle the last sparkling water at the team meeting. She even changed her email sign-off to ‘Cheers’ with an exclamation point. There’s only one explanation—aside from a lobotomy.”
“Oh! That’s wonderful. How long?” Patty asks Josh. I may as well not be here.
“Sometime this weekend. Definitely before the Monday stand-up meeting. But it’s been ramping up for a while.”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” I say in protest, because Adam and I never defined anything.
Patty, using gossip as an excuse for a break, pops open a bag of vending-machine mixed nuts. “Is that why you haven’t decided about the job? You’re worried how it would affect your new relationship?”
“What? That’s not—” Poorly timed, my phone buzzes violently.
Patty beams. “Oh, it’s him!”
Josh flashes a self-satisfied smirk.
“It’s my mom,” I say truthfully, flashing her “Happy Thanksgiving” message out to the room.
“It’s Wednesday. Thanksgiving’s tomorrow.” Josh’s tone is soaked in suspicion, as though even calendars support his hypothesis.
I shoot her back a smiley face, and then spot a missed text from Adam.
Josh ceases typing to point at my pink-cheeked grin. “See. That’s the look.”
“I’ve earned a free cookie from Panera, Josh. That’s all.”
Josh grimaces. “Whenever you get excited about your Panera rewards, I feel so sad for you.”
Patty tsks. “Let her have her cookie, Joshua.”
3:47 PM
Adam:
Where are you right now?
3:52 PM
Alison:
Work.
3:54 PM
Adam:
In front of your place.
3:55 PM
Adam:
Cut out early.
3:56 PM
Adam:
I need to see you. Can’t wait.
After making my transparent excuses to Josh and Patty, I sprint home through the skyway and find Adam’s truck next to my fixed-up Subaru in my apartment’s parking lot.
“Can you get the door?” He steps out of his truck holding two paper grocery bags. “When did Uncle Ricky finish your car?”
“He dropped it off Monday,” I answer, dismissing a notification on my phone that would plummet me to the truck floor if I weren’t mostly numb to them by now. I swallow the lump in my throat.
He smirks. “Is that work? Are you in trouble?”
“Patagonia reminder. From Sam. One of his ‘Messages from the Future.’ I really should delete those,” I explain, as casually as I can, but Adam’s face is frozen in place.
I shake the moment off my body and pull open the security door, peering into Adam’s shopping bags. “You know, your caveman texting style is much less frustrating when this is the result.” I spot a baguette, a bottle of wine, a bundle of green parsley, and a clear bakery box of Thin Mints before my eyes are drawn to a clay pot of delicate pink flowers. “Is this an orchid? Did you bring groceries and flowers?” My eyes take in Adam’s appearance behind the paper bags. His signature reversible jacket—khaki-side out—is covering a charcoal crewneck sweater and navy slacks. “Are you wearing fancy pants?” I paw at his clothes to get a better look.
He groans, seemingly embarrassed by my attention. “I changed out of my work clothes. It’s not a big deal. Can you let me up so I don’t drop these?”
I gingerly remove the orchid and lead Adam up the stairs.
“What are the groceries for?” I ask as we walk into my apartment, immediately turning into the kitchenette.
He unloads the contents of his grocery bags into the fridge. “Pies are for Thanksgiving. The rest is for dinner. I noticed you didn’t have any food that wasn’t cookies.”
“How long can you stay?” I ask, sidestepping the accusation.
“As long as you’ll have me. Or work on Monday. Whichever comes first.”
“Don’t you have Thanksgiving plans?”
“Yeah, but you’re coming with me,” he says into my lower cabinet.
“To your family’s Thanksgiving?”
He places my largest pot under the faucet. “When I asked you if you were busy and you sent me a GIF of a girl eating on a toilet in a bathroom stall, I didn’t realize that was like a firm plan.”
I consider explaining the scene from the cinematic classic Mean Girls but opt to stay on message. “Are you inviting me to the Berg Family Thanksgiving?”
“It’s just my sister’s family. My parents are on a cruise.”
I struggle to picture any human sharing DNA with Adam on a cruise, but I push past it. “Do they know who I am?” The moment the question falls out of my mouth, I want to suck the words back in like a rogue spaghetti noodle. My shoulders tense, anticipating Adam’s retreat at the suggestion of Sam, the Lewis family, and this scheme I’m trapped in.
Instead, he pulls me into him, and his chest shakes with a suppressed laugh. My body relaxes. “You’re Alison.” He tips my face up to his, splintering me with his mahogany eyes. His voice is sweet and reassuring. “I really want you to meet them.”
“Then I can’t wait.” I press my lips to his chin. “What’re you cooking for me?”
He moves the full pot to the largest of the three burners on my undersized range. “Carbonara. It’s not fancy.”
It looks fancy. He didn’t skimp on anything. The guanciale is from the butcher counter, and he bought two kinds of expensive Italian cheese. I recognize the pinot grigio as one that sits two whole shelves above what I deem a reasonable wine splurge.
When he bends into the fridge, I notice neatly trimmed hairs on the back of his neck. His beard is just as impeccably groomed when he turns to face me.
I narrow my eyes, and his cheeks turn the loveliest shade of pink. “What?”
My face splits in two. I can’t contain my amusement. “Did you get a haircut today?”
He rubs the back of his neck, but the gesture doesn’t erase the evidence.
I pull his arm back down and slide my hand into his. “No, wait. I don’t mean to tease you. It’s just…this is very romantic.”
“Why do you sound so shocked? I can be romantic.” He threads his fingers through mine.
“I’m not shocked you’re romantic. I’m shocked that I’m someone who inspires romance.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m serious! I don’t know what to do with myself.” I swing our clasped hands to demonstrate this.
“You inspire me.” Adam squeezes my hand and pulls me toward him, his back against the kitchen counter.
I’ve never felt such reciprocated attraction with another person, but it’s so much more than lust. When I overhear someone complaining about Christmas creep or make it on the train just in time or have some minor work success, I want to tell Adam. I want to earn one of his rumbly laughs. He makes me feel desired and wanted for every odd and boring part of me.
“What do the subjects of your romance normally do?” My voice is lighter than air.
He leans his head down, placing a firm hand possessively on the small of my back. “You could start by kissing me.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
I tip my mouth up to his, and he responds with a slow, deliberate kiss. Quickly, the fire between us builds. It was four weekends of forced proximity before the heat was too much. Now we can only kiss for a minute before we’re flicking off burners and backing out of the kitchen to frantically pull each other’s clothes off.
It’s too good, my brain worries.
But with Adam, nothing feels too anything. It feels exactly right.