Chapter 12
Chapter
I’m sitting in front of the bay window with my coffee when my phone buzzes. There’s an unread email from Theo with the subject: NBC Pilot.
Submitted you for a new NBC pilot. It’s a book adaptation of this YA fantasy series—I attached the notes.
Are you still in New York? Should hear next steps about Les Mis next week!
Theo
When I open the attachment, I can safely say I’ve never heard of this book. It’s about a young group of witches who time-travel to solve their teacher’s murder. I’m not sure how I feel about my career leading me to roles like “murdered teacher” in a young adult witch series.
When I was doing theater, I used to be somebody.
I had a career trajectory everyone in my drama class could only dream about.
Something I quickly learned when pursuing film and TV is that my past life on Broadway doesn’t matter.
Hollywood made sure to remind me that I was in a different playing field and that I didn’t even know the rules of the game.
The theater used to be who I was, and since leaving it, I’m not sure I know who Iam.
I set my phone down and decide to not think about work for the rest of the day. Adam is at Alden until this afternoon, so I’m free as a bird until we go to Chloe’s for dinner.
I prepare a cup of warm lemon water and instinctively make my way to a corner of the living room.
Can you still call it a habit if you haven’t done it in five years?
After taking a sip, I start my vocal warm-ups.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve done them, but my voice comes out clearer and stronger than I expected.
Perhaps it’s a testament to the environment; the oak wood in this home has always lent itself to excellent acoustics.
As I sing the beginning of “On My Own” from Les Misérables, my voice quavers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the entryway.
I wonder why we never had a mirror in that spot before—it’s fitting.
My gaze focuses on my reflection, and I push down the lump in my throat.
It’s not from sadness, but from an overwhelming feeling of joy for the girl who used to stand in this spot, who fought and prayed so hard for all the things that are now within reach.
I’m not one to be overly sentimental, but I swipe the back of my hand along my cheeks and look out to the space in front of me.
I do love it here. The coziness of the home, the familiar balmy scent that somehow never went away.
All of the details I refused to let myself take in, at least not while Adam was here, I’m now welcoming like a warm hug.
It’s like I had blinders on until this very moment.
My fingertips gently graze the fireplace mantel beside me.
A slight breath of laughter comes out when I notice a chip on the underside of the wood.
Adam, Chloe, Ethan, and I were playing charades one evening and Adam was in the middle of acting out Titanic and saw a spider out of the corner of his eye.
He grabbed the fire poker and in one swift motion hit the mantel instead of the spider.
I inhale deeply, parting myself from the memory, and start singing.
For lunch, I walk to Chelsea Market and eat at a new—well, new to me —place that serves Japanese-inspired Mexican food.
I won’t argue with anyone who says no place does tacos like LA, but this is a very close second.
Before picking up a pie to bring for dinner tonight, I take a final stroll along the High Line, embracing the autumn view of the Hudson.
On my way back to the house, I purchase a wool camel-colored coat—which is a need, not a want in this East Coast weather.
The past week, I managed to get away with wearing sweaters, but now the air is much too crisp.
Three pumpkins, a large orange and two smaller white ones, greet me at the front of the brownstone. The orange one has a standard carving of a jack-o’-lantern. It’s not the best, but the sentiment makes me smile.
When I open the door, I hear a mellow jazz mix playing and get a whiff of something delicious.
I imagine this is what a home feels like, with people waiting for you inside, wondering how your day went.
A place that feels permanent. A place you can’t wait to come back to.
My heart feels full, but I tell myself it’s just the excitement of seeing Chloe later.
“Hey.” I enter the kitchen and see Adam folding together phyllo dough, which I’m proud of myself for recognizing.
Meanwhile, there are two pots on the stove and something in the oven. He’s wearing a burnt orange Henley with the sleeves rolled up and a dish towel over his shoulder. I don’t know why I expected anything less than Adam preparing a feast for tonight.
“Hey,” he says, still focusing on his dough with precision. Once he folds over a final piece, he gives me a second glance. “Is this new?” He points his chin toward my outfit.
“It was getting chilly.” I look down at my new coat and take off my hat.
“I like it” is all he says, and then he turns around to stir whatever is in his pot. I like it is something someone’s grandparent would say to them, but somehow, it sounds sexually explicit coming from him.
After putting my stuff in the closet, I place the pie on the kitchen island and nudge it toward him. “Caramel apple.”
“Oh my God,” he says as he looks at the box. “I haven’t been to Amy’s in years .”
“When I moved, I was always craving it. I considered flying back and buying a dozen and just freezing them.”
He gives me a half smile and goes back to concentrating on his dough.
While I haven’t necessarily been the friendliest this past week, it doesn’t feel great to get a taste of my own medicine.
But after my conversation with Chloe the other night, I’m feeling better about our arrangement.
Like maybe this doesn’t have to be as hard as we’re makingit.
You can do this, June.
“Do you…need help?” It comes off a little disingenuous, but I’m trying here.
He looks up, surprised. “You want to help?” I simply nod. “You still remember how to julienne?” he asks.
“Pfft.” I wave my hand. “Does one simply forget how to julienne?”
“We’ll see,” he says, passing me a cutting board and a few parsnips.
After washing my hands, I begin to peel and trim a parsnip, then cut it into flat planks.
I feel Adam watching me from behind and continue to the next step.
Stacking the pieces on top of one another, I then begin cutting long, thin strips.
“Well?” I look back, awaiting the final verdict.
Adam takes a step toward me and leans his head over my shoulder. It’s the closest we’ve been all week and I get that whiff of cedar again. My heart begins to beat faster as he reaches and pulls out one slice from the bunch and analyzesit.
“Not bad, Wood,” he says, his voice low enough I can feel it. When he moves back to the stove my body feels cold. Like a blanket I needed that’s now disappeared.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“ We, ” he corrects, and it comes out more intimate than I’m sure he intends, “are making butternut squash congee with chili oil, harissa roasted sweet potatoes, and a mushroom kale bread pudding.”
Jesus.
“What, no macaroni and cheese?” I squint at him. He gives me an unimpressed look and then reaches over the island, grabbing a deep mustard-colored dish that I didn’t notice was there. He removes the lid and reveals macaroni and cheese with some sort of crust on top.
“What do you think this is, amateur hour?” He puts the lid backon.
“I stand corrected.” I mindlessly arrange the parsnips and watch him go back to folding the dough. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?” I look at him. “I’m sure Chloe would have been okay with takeout.”
“I want to,” he says while opening and closing the kitchen cupboards. “Shit,” he says under his breath.
“What?”
“I need another pot,” he says, and reaches for the top shelf, which is too high, even for him. “I can’t reach it. Can you help, June?”
“If you can’t reach it, there’s no way I can,” I scoff.
“I’ll lift you,” he says like that’s obviously our only choice here, and a fire rushes to my core.
Yeah, I don’t thinkso.
“Let me get a chair—”
“It’ll take two seconds—just come here,” he says impatiently.
I hesitate for a moment, but he’s staring at me like I’m wasting time. “Fine,” I sigh.
When I stand next to him, he takes a step behind me and places both of his hands on my hips.
It takes all of .02 seconds for the smell of cedar or santal to penetrate my senses and his body warmth to transfer onto me.
There is not enough space in this kitchen.
His hands feel like they’re covering my entire body, and that’s all it takes for me to remember what it’s like to be touched by Adam Harper.
It feels like a lifetime ago but right now, I remember it like it was yesterday.
“You ready?” he asks.
No.
“Yeah.” I nod. In one swift motion his fingers grip my waist and I’m lifted into the air as if I weigh nothing, and then he wraps an arm around my thighs, hoisting me higher.
I try desperately to not focus on how my ass is practically being held up by his chest, or how much my heart rate has increased. “Um, which one do you want?”
“The smallest one,” he says. I choose a pot I think will work and he slowly slides me down his body until my feet are back on the floor. “Thanks,” he says, and then turns to the stove as if we just did the most simple act.
I try to shake what just happened and turn up the volume on the Bluetooth speaker.
When I situate myself back on the barstool, the smell of home cooking and the sound of music fill the house.
That feeling of being home is back, but I don’t allow myself to forget that this is all temporary.
In three weeks, I’m never seeing Adam or this house again.
The drive up to Connecticut will take over an hour. Approximately one hour and twenty-six minutes, according to Google, and that’s quite a long time for two people to be in the same car. Especially when they haven’t really spoken more than sixty words to each other over the span of the past week.
I don’t know a lot about cars except the basics, but I know that when Adam pulls up in front of the house in a black SUV, it’s not a necessity, it’s a luxury.
“Where have you been hiding this?” I walk toward him holding the dish of mac and cheese.
“There’s a lot on Bleecker.” He takes the dish out of my hands and places it on the backseat.
I open the door and get in on the passenger side. “I can’t believe you’re that guy now.”
“What guy?”
“The guy who owns a BMW in Manhattan.”
“It has an eco-mode,” he says defensively.
While he puts the rest of the food in the trunk, I take in the tanned leather interior and the cleanliness of the vehicle.
This is nicer than what most people I know in LA drive.
When he opens the driver’s door, I brace myself.
We’re going to be sitting together for almost an hour and a half and there’s no escape.
Adam’s close enough that I can smell him again.
It’s definitely fresh sage or cedarwood. He needs to take fewer showers.
“Okay,” he sighs, and puts his seat belt on. I hold my breath as he moves his hand toward me, only for it to land on the gearshift. “You ready?”
I nod, and before I know it, we’re off. The first five minutes or so are completely quiet.
There’s no radio, music, or anything. Just the sound of the tires against the road, the smell of the food behind us, and the traffic of Eleventh Street ahead.
Even though we spent the afternoon passing each other in the kitchen, this feels different.
There’s nothing to distract us, or to use as a crutch for conversation.
Once we hit the FDR, I get lost in the view of the city. As the sun begins its descent over the East River, vibrant hues paint the horizon an autumnal crimson and gold. To our left, the streets of Manhattan pulse with life.
Adam’s voice cuts through the silence. “When’s the last time you’ve been back?”
“I haven’t…” I shake my head. “Been back.”
He keeps his eyes ahead of him, and nods. Almost like I just confirmed something he already knew the answer to. “Do you miss it?”
I look out the window again, watching the city pass by. “I don’t know. I miss parts of it. The energy, the seasons…Amy’s.” I look at him and catch a smile. “But there’s a lot of things I love about LA too. I think you’d like it.”
“Yeah, I’ve been,” he says, and I don’t know why that feels like a punch in my gut. When? I want to ask, but don’t.
“What did you think?”
“Weather’s nice, obviously, and I did like seeing things like palm trees, or the ocean. But I don’t know, everything felt a little too spread out.”
“I will say, you get used to being in your car a lot,” I note. “It’s my audiobook time.”
“I do like a good audiobook,” he agrees.
“Well, then you’re halfway there,” I say.
“Are you excited to go back home?” He looks at me, and for a split second I think he means back to the house.
“I think so,” I answer truthfully. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t bother to look at him to see his reaction. “So…” I take a deep breath in, feeling the hardened exterior I’ve built around myself start to crack. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…I’m happy for you.”
Adam briefly turns his gaze to me, long enough that I can see the genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, June,” he says, then looks ahead as the corner of his mouth curlsup.
There’s always been a deep connection between the two of us, the ability to have a conversation with a mere look across the room.
Sometimes the most intimate things we’ve said were in silence.
For the rest of the drive, things feel a lot easier.
Like a weight has been lifted from both of our shoulders.
In the comfort of our silence, Adam carefully taps his phone a few times.
“For old times’ sake.” He smiles, and the beginning notes of Les Misérables fill the car.