Chapter 22 A Pikachu Balloon
22
A Pikachu Balloon
“June? Where do you want the pies?” Adam hollers through the doorway. The rosemary wreath bounces against the door knocker, sending the scent of herbs into the late November chill.
We step into the sunny yellow entry of his sister’s 1920s bungalow. He removes his boots on the hallway runner while balancing a pair of pie boxes overhead, and I follow suit.
“You brought the pies?” A honeyed female voice greets us.
His sister’s house is irrepressibly joyful. We walk through the minty-green living room—packed with pops of oranges, corals, and blues—into the cheery peach kitchen.
A tall brunette in a pink knit sweater smiles from behind her dishwasher.
“I told you I was bringing them, didn’t I?” He greets her with a kiss on the cheek and sets the boxes in the only open spot on the counter, which is otherwise occupied by three bowls of chips, a cutting board of vegetables, and six CrockPots of varying sizes, putting the Minneapolis power grid to the test.
“But there was that one year—”
“Am I ever going to live down that power outage? It was the ice storm’s fault. It took down all of Two Harbors.”
“It’s a shoddy carpenter who blames his tools.”
He removes the pies from their boxes and breaks them down to recycle. “Just for that, you’re not getting any of the caramel apple pecan. Did you hear that, Dev?” she shouts across the house. “More for us.”
“No! Fine, fine. You’re perfect and nothing is ever your fault.”
“That’s what I thought. Happy Thanksgiving, by the way.” Adam snatches a carrot from the wood board and crunches. “Where’s Otis? I want to introduce him to Alison.”
I smile at his mention of me but continue to stand in the kitchen doorway like a vampire waiting to be invited in.
“Jesus, Adam. Were you raised in a barn? Use a plate.” His sister empties enough clean plates for five before shutting the dishwasher. Adam bumps her hip so he can unload the rest of the clean dishes for her, like they’ve done this millions of times before.
She wipes her hands on a lemon-patterned towel and crosses the checkered floor to wrap me in a hug. I take a step forward to meet her, feeling a bit of my anxiety release. “The famous Alison. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m June, Adam’s sister.”
“Nice to meet you.” I punctuate her affectionate hug with an awkward back pat. I want June to like me more than I care to admit, so obviously, I’m at my most socially inept.
“I don’t like turkey anymore,” a tiny voice shouts. A waist-height human barrels into the kitchen like a tornado. Arms full of ceramic plates, the Berg siblings dance around him without missing a beat.
“You eat turkey all the time,” his mom coaxes.
“Not anymore. It’s yucky.”
“Not this turkey. This is the good stuff. You like it.” Adam gives the seven-year-old no room to disagree.
“Who’s she?” Otis asks, pointing straight at my nose in that shameless way in which all elementary-school-aged children move through the world.
June lowers her son’s finger and shuffles him in the direction of the sink. “Is that how we meet new friends? Wash your hands for snack.”
“Hi, I’m Otis,” he says, stepping up to the stool in front of the faucet. He has the same round, nut-brown eyes as June and Adam, with darker brown hair and tan skin. His expression is so sweet and open like his mom’s.
“Hi, Otis. I’m Alison.”
He looks between his uncle and me. “Are you Uncle Adam’s girlfriend?”
I think my eyes pop out of my skull.
“What do you know about girlfriends?” Adam asks his nephew with a surprised cough. He’s putting glasses away in the cabinet behind me. I resist the urge to flip him around with each thud of heavy ceramic and analyze his expression.
“I know what girlfriends are. I have two girlfriends,” Otis says proudly.
“Otis, can you tell Dad that Adam and Alison are here?” June steers the subject away from girlfriends, real or imagined, and Otis hops off the stool and skips out of the kitchen.
June looks at me. “So are you two…”
His hand finds the small of my back. I lean into him, like an innate call and response.
“Of course we are.” His voice is so sure and uncomplicated. The sound of it lights me up from the inside. “But I didn’t want to reward his precociousness with a straight answer.”
June reaches over her head for a pair of hand-thrown ceramic mugs. She ladles something warm and spicy into the peacock-blue one and hands it to me. “He’s not half as bad as some of the kids in his class. Arabella caught me vaping in front of a Sky Zone and told me my insides were going to turn to Jiffy Pop.”
Adam takes the yellow mug from June with his right hand. His left hand is otherwise engaged drawing small, achingly slow circles on my lower back.
I blow into my steaming cup, and the appley scent wafts into my nose. “What did you do?” I ask, a smile in my voice. I like June. I like how loose and comfortable Adam is here.
I like Adam. Full stop.
June spoons a bit of the liquid into her mouth straight from the Crock-Pot. “I said, ‘Thank you for that fearless feedback. I’m trying to quit.’ And that her mommy puts wine in her Starbucks cup during playdates, so Arabella should place her eagle-eyed focus on what’s happening on the home front.”
I choke on my hot toddy.
June shakes a bit of cinnamon in the mixture before stopping to look at me. “I’m joking, I promise. I would never say that to a child. And Hallie doesn’t drink that much. I swear.”
Adam rolls his eyes, and I catch a glimpse of him as a little brother. “She knows you’re joking. And she’s not going to narc on you to Hallie.”
“Sorry. Adam hasn’t brought anyone home before. I’m all in my head.”
Adam groans. “June—”
“Hallie sounds like a blast,” I interrupt. “And now I know to keep an eye out for the moms carrying opaque venti Starbucks cups if I’m looking for a good time.”
June’s mouth turns up in the corners, and she sends Adam a secret sibling look I can’t decode.
“But the Sky Zone Jiffy Pop part was true, though. Arabella is super judgmental for a six-year-old.”
“You have to stop vaping, June,” Adam scolds. It’s as though they have this back-and-forth every time he comes by. Just another sister-brother dance they do. It makes me a little homesick.
She tosses her head. “I know, Dad.” She turns toward me, a potential sympathizer. “It’s a holdover from art school. Smoking behind the ceramic studio became vaping on the back porch. I managed to quit for a while, but then—”
“Pikachu!” Otis screams.
“Inside voice!” June, Adam, and a man’s voice I can’t place yet parry in unison.
“It’s a Pikachu balloon!” he cries out again, undeterred.
“Looks like the parade started.” June’s eyes go wide. “I need to wrangle my animal. Alison, make yourself at home. Adam, can you set the table?” She marches out of the kitchen, sipping from her mug.
I head for the cupboard, but Adam grabs me by the belt loop and tugs my back into his chest. The thrill of his semipublic manhandling zips up my spine.
His mouth tangles in my hair. “I heard my sister order you to make yourself at home.”
“At home, I set the table.”
He twists me to face him. “Not in the Berg house. You’re a guest. Pretend you’re relaxing at your apartment right now.”
I tilt my head to get a better look at that chin dimple. I can’t get enough of it. “There’s entirely too much space here for me to pretend I’m at home.”
“What about home home? What are the Mullallys doing on Thanksgiving?” he asks, lacing our fingers together.
“Emma’s probably with her wife’s family. My mom gave us all food poisoning from an undercooked turkey twenty years ago, so she usually makes a Stouffer’s lasagna while my dad holes up in the den and murmurs at the Lions in distress.”
“Can’t help with the lasagna, but I’m pretty sure Dev is watching football on his phone in the other room. Might even catch a frustrated murmur or two.”
I play with his fingers, relishing the feeling of being the first woman Adam Berg has brought home to his family.
“Don’t send me away.” I push out my bottom lip. “I’d rather see what trouble you get up to in here.”
The look in his eyes is searing.
We’re interrupted by a South Asian man with brown hair, clear plastic glasses, and a strong resemblance to Adam’s nephew. He strides into the kitchen with a giggling Otis over his shoulder. “Don’t mind us. Just checking on my bird.” He plops his son on the floor next to him and squats in front of the lit oven window. “Should only be another hour. Maybe two. I’m Dev, by the way. You must be Alison.”
Adam tilts his head toward his brother-in-law. “Dev’s in charge of the turkey, and you should probably add three hours to his meal ETA.”
He squints at the glistening bird resting primly in the roast pan. “Not this year. I’ve been watching Barefoot Contessa all week. I’ve got this down to an exact science.”
“I’m starved,” Otis whines.
Adam grabs a carrot off the platter behind him. “Here.”
He winces. “I’m not starved for that.”
“Then you’re not starving, are you?”
Otis pokes his uncle when a new thought occurs to him. “I added blankets this morning. Can you go look at it?”
Adam tilts his head toward the dining room. “Your mom put me to work, but you can show Alison your improvements. I’ll find you guys when I’m done.”
“We’re making Uncle Adam an apartment in my room.”
I smile at Otis. “Sounds cozy.”
“It’s a bunk bed fort, but I connected it to the rocking chair with a quilt, so there’s more space for reading.”
His dad peers over his glasses at him. “Make sure I still have a path around the room.”
“I’m really, really good at forts,” Otis declares. “But Uncle Adam’s still better than me.”
“Not for long, bud.” Adam touches the top of his nephew’s head affectionately.
I melt just a little.
Otis reaches for my hand and tugs me up the stairs to his room. “It’s not as tall as the last one, but Mom won’t let me use the couch cushions anymore.”
“That’s good. Rules spark creativity.”
Otis throws me a look that says he’s not convinced by my design philosophy. Like his mom, he’s a mini maximalist in the making.
I peek into Otis’s room through the open doorway. He hasn’t followed his dad’s instructions, and there’s no space to move about the room. Still, there’s an architectural method to the madness of stacked pillows and blankets tied to the metal posts of the twin bunk beds. The blankets create a lean-to tent off the bed frame with the ends secured under a bookcase and a wooden rocking chair.
Unable to stop myself, I get closer to admire it. “Did your uncle make that?”
“Uh-huh. He made it before I was born. I want him to make a bed loft now, like my friend Phoenix has in his room, but my mom says he doesn’t make stuff anymore.”
I run my hand along the chair’s smooth arm. The piece is so functional, but it’s more than that—it’s art. Organic curves and clean lines emphasize the warm golden wood. It looks both sturdy and airy—masculine yet delicate. There’s a sky-blue crescent pillow tied to the spindles where Otis’s back can rest while reading a story. There’s so much life in this chair. I can’t picture something so confidently itself coming from the messy and confused workspace Adam showed me in Duluth.
“Did you add another side already?” Adam appears in the doorway, his shoulder pressed against the emerald-green accent wall behind Otis’s bunks.
Otis’s eyes sparkle at the sight of his uncle. “I wanted to make two sides around your bunk, but Dad said we won’t be able to see if we do.”
“We can take away the blue blanket to make a skylight and hold the other ones together with zip ties. They’re in the glove box of my truck.”
Otis’s eyes go wide. “You brought them? Mom! Uncle Adam brought the zip ties!” he yells to his mom on the way down the stairs toward the driveway.
Adam chuckles at his nephew, high-stepping over blankets to cross toward me. “Otis is easy to impress.”
“This chair is amazing. Seriously, Adam.”
“I’m happy with the quality. The teak’s held up well to abuse.” He snorts, likely imagining an Otis-designed stress test.
“It’s beautiful.”
Adam’s cheeks pink. “Do you mind if I help Otis with this?” He points to the mass of blankets and pillows behind us. “June’s emptying pop into the cooler on the back porch.”
“Perfect. I have so many questions for her.”
Adam’s head shake produces a barely detectable breeze. “I regret bringing you already.”
I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Too late.”
While Adam is helping Otis install a fort skylight with zip ties and a rainbow knitted throw, and Dev is moaning “Come on” at something the Detroit Lions did or failed to do, I’m sitting on my heels in a crouch on the back porch with June. She passes me a twelve-pack of Coke while she pours a bag of ice over bottles of Spotted Cow, a cult favorite beer sold only in Wisconsin she snagged from a border gas station for this occasion.
“He’s been different these last couple weeks. He must really like you.” June’s tone is as cheery as ever, but her eyes size me up.
“It’s been nice having this time to get to know each other—despite the circumstances.”
“So you’re Sam’s, were Sam’s…,” she stumbles.
The bitter-cold air finds every hole in my orange sweater. I bob on the balls of my feet to generate heat. “We dated for a little while. Before.”
June’s big brown eyes are brimming with sympathy. “I’m sorry. Sam was a good guy, and I know Adam’s been taking it hard.”
My eyes fall onto the Coke box I’m breaking down.
I’m ashamed to admit that for the past week, we’ve existed in a mostly grief-free bubble. Since we delivered Sam’s keys, I’ve been too preoccupied with my growing feelings for Adam to notice much else.
Not sure what to say, I change topics. “I can’t get over how Adam’s been sleeping in that tiny bunk bed this whole time.”
June cracks open a Coke and laughs into the can. “That ridiculous bunk bed!” she says before taking a sip. “I want to buy something nicer, but every time I bring it up, Adam swears he’s going to build whatever Otis wants. At this point, I’d take anything that doesn’t sway when I sit on it.”
I smile at the image of Adam swinging into the bunk each night.
June leans her back against her house. I do the same, so we’re shoulder to shoulder drinking pop and looking out over her small, snow-covered lawn. The chicken coop stands in the back corner like a dollhouse on stilts, surrounded by an out-of-season soccer net, orange Adirondack chairs, and abandoned tiki torches. The whole scene looks vaguely postapocalyptic in the way it all peeks out from under the white blanket as nature reclaims the city.
“I bet it’s a challenge to get a big piece down from Duluth. When he starts his shop down here, it’ll be easier to build something for Otis.”
Her laugh is sharp and thin. “Yeah. I’ll be counting down the days.” June’s face falls when she registers the confusion on mine. “I didn’t mean…Adam’s always supposed to move back here, but it’s not something we’re counting on anymore.”
I guess seven years of stasis will do that.
“Might be different now. Like I said, he’s different with you.” She takes a gulp of her Coke, and the silence drifts from comfortable to stilted to tense, hitting every possible step on the way down.
Adam appears in the open sliding door. “Did she give up all of the blackmail material?”
I shoot upright like he’s busted us in the middle of a drug deal, even though we were only quietly drinking pop.
“I didn’t tell her about your childhood obsession with The New Yankee Workshop, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His sister hands him a beer, and he does that fratty thing where you pop off a bottle cap by slapping it on the ledge of a patio railing. I know I must be far gone because I find every bit of the maneuver—the easy confidence with which he does it, the tiny flex in his arm muscles it produces, the way he catches the cap in midair—unbelievably sexy.
“But the girl deserves to know that you used to cry out for Norm Abram when our parents turned off the TV.”
I delightedly mouth, Norm? at Adam. Color creeps up his neck.
June shuffles us back inside with a cheeky big-sister smile. “His first words were drop leaf table .”
I squeal in delight, but Adam’s face reddens by the second. “That’s an exaggeration.”
“Is he telling you about the radial arm saw he asked for every Christmas, even after the mall Santa lectured him on age-appropriate gifts and blade safety?” Dev hollers from the living room.
“I was like six years old!”
His protesting only makes me laugh harder. “That doesn’t make you sound more normal!”
Otis appears out of thin air. “Cleo’s sister said that mall Santas aren’t Santa and he won’t make any of the gifts you ask for.”
Dev and June trade telepathic parent looks.
“I wouldn’t listen to her, bud.” Adam swings his nephew onto his back. “Cleo’s sister doesn’t understand the complicated bureaucracy of the North Pole. Now, let’s show Alison the new skylight before dinner in…?”
Dev stands and studies his smartwatch. “Two hours. Definitely no more than three.”
“See, Adam? You make fun of Crock-Pot Thanksgiving, but these are the conditions I’m working under,” June argues before instructing us to not fill up on chips like last year.
With that, she shoos us kids upstairs until dinner is served.
Three and a half hours later, there’s a turkey carcass on the counter, a platter of meat, and six simmering slow cookers filled with every classic Midwestern Thanksgiving side. Since I followed instructions and did not fill up on chips, I load up my plate with mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows, and, finally, a bit of turkey.
Despite Dev’s variable cooking time, the turkey is perfection, and I see the wisdom in Crock-Pot Thanksgiving when every bite hits my tongue at the optimal temperature.
“This food is absolutely delicious. I can’t thank you enough for letting me crash your Thanksgiving.”
“It’s not crashing if you’re invited.” Adam nudges me with his shoulder.
I try my best to stop the goofy smile curving up my lips. “All the same, I’m grateful to be here. It’s been a while since I had a family Thanksgiving like this.”
A warm, maternal smile spreads across June’s face. “You’re always welcome, Alison.” She sucks in air through her nostrils like she’s harnessing the extra oxygen to suppress whatever emotion is bubbling up under her lungs. “It looks like we’ve moved into the gratitude portion of the evening.”
Otis sits up straighter, apparently too young to be embarrassed by expressions of familial love. “I wanna go first.”
“Try again,” Dev corrects him rotely.
“Can I go first, please?” Otis asks, and we all nod back at him. “I’m thankful for my fort. For Mommy, Daddy, Nana, Dada”—he counts off each name on his fingers—“Grandma Nance and Grandpa Tom, Uncle Adam, Al…” He looks at me, now apparently just listing people he sees.
“Alison,” Adam finishes for him.
“And Pikachu balloon…” His voice trails off like he might continue counting gratitudes indefinitely, but when he starts in on his green beans again, we collectively realize he’s satisfied with his list.
“Okay then,” June picks up. “I’m grateful to have my happy healthy family here today. I know it wasn’t under the best circumstances and this hasn’t been the easiest few weeks, but I’ve loved seeing a little more of my brother lately.” She wipes her eye with her pink sleeve. “And that you won’t look like Bigfoot in the pictures I send Mom from today. Which means I’m most grateful for Alison, since that was clearly for your benefit.”
“Oh, yeah. You look good, man.” Dev combs his fingers through his own beard. “Refreshed. And did you get a haircut?”
“He’s trying to impress Alison,” June says by way of explanation. “So now we’re all treated to his cute widdle face.”
“It’s just a beard trim, guys.” Adam’s cheeks are crimson.
“Well, I’m thankful for the family and our health and…” Dev trails off, mentally rifling. “You took all the good ones, hon.”
June gives him a satisfied nod.
“I guess I’ll go next,” Adam starts. “I’m grateful that we could all be together today. Family, health…” He waves his hand like yada yada . “I’m grateful for friendship, even when it…” His eyes cloud with emotion, and he tries to clear it away with a cough. “But I’m grateful I got to spend this time with you, Alison. When I first saw you last month, a part of me knew we’d be here right now.”
I make a sound I’ve never heard come out of my mouth before. I think I guffaw.
“What?” he asks, tripping over the laugh in his throat.
“That is some serious revisionist history.”
He shakes his head and reveals a new smile to me, his nervous but excited smile. “No, it’s not. I knew. I knew from the moment I saw you.”
“How did you know?” My voice is incredulous but my face is all dumb, happy grin.
“Because I was asleep—in this walking, talking, waking coma. And now I’m awake. You woke me up.”
Something warm and wonderful curls beneath my ribs, and I want to kiss him, hold him, and cry into his neck all at once. But we’re still sitting at the Thanksgiving table with his family, so I settle for rubbing his shoulder blade as the happy tears build behind my eyes.
Once we’ve finished eating and cleared the table, Dev gets swallowed up by the floral-printed pillows on the couch, watching whatever football content is still playing. Adam reads a story to Otis while June has me blind taste-testing wines from the Wine of the Month Club Arabella’s mom gifted her. I learn I have no idea what expensive tastes like, but I’m slightly buzzed by the end of it, which is a perk of the game.
After Otis is tucked in bed, June sends us home with more food than will fit in my fridge and pretends not to hear Adam when he objects to the second container of turkey. They wave us off, and Adam guides me by the hand down the front steps.
The glow from the multicolored twinkle lights dances across his features, and I’m overwhelmed with a sense of rightness. This is what it will be like, I think, this is what being in love with him will be like .