19. Nicole
Chapter nineteen
Nicole
R oad trip time!
Adam meets me at my apartment early on Thursday morning. It’s supposed to take about nine hours to drive to New Orleans from here and I’m hoping to get checked into my hotel room and freshen up before the conference welcome reception tonight. Adam texts that he’s outside, and I peek out my window to see his white sedan. I navigate my roller suitcase and computer bag out the door onto the landing at the top of the stairs. As I fumble for my keys, Adam jogs up the stairs behind me and takes my suitcase.
“Thanks.” I smile at him as I finish locking up.
His gaze travels from my face down to my body and then back up again, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m dressed comfortably for the long car ride: yoga pants swirled with black, purple, and white color splotches, and a purple T-shirt .
I trail down the stairs behind Adam, and as he loads my suitcase in the trunk of the car, I take the opportunity to assess him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in work clothes, I realize. Even though we’ve hung out after work a couple of times, he wore the same clothes he’d had on all day at the library. Honestly, I figured Adam’s casual outfits would be pretty similar to his work attire—solid-colored chinos and polo shirts. But Adam stands in front of me this morning in cargo shorts and a graphic T-shirt, cheap flip-flops on his feet. I’ve only ever seen him in pants, and I look away quickly when I notice his calf muscles flexing as he moves the bags around in the trunk.
Huh. Impressive definition. Didn’t expect that.
The black graphic T-shirt he’s wearing is a reference to something, but I don’t understand it. There are honeycomb type shapes all connected to each other, a dotted line connecting circles within two of the hexagons. Underneath, it says “...Just one more turn.”
Slamming the trunk, Adam smiles at me and says, “Do you have everything?”
“Oh! I think so,” I answer.
Instead of standing here ogling Adam, I should be getting in the car. I open the passenger side door and settle into my seat, setting my bag at my feet and moving my water bottle from my bag to one of the cup holders in the center console. The driver side door opens, and Adam climbs in. Resting his hands against the steering wheel, he turns his head to meet my eyes.
“Road trip rules,” he says. “Passenger is in charge of music. ”
I match his grin and say, “Perfect, because it just so happens that I created a couple of playlists especially for this trip. Do you mind if I connect to your Bluetooth?”
“Go for it,” he answers as he starts the car.
I pull out my phone and connect it to the car’s stereo system. I scroll until I find the first playlist: eighties pop classics. Adam groans as Madonna’s “Material Girl” starts blasting through the speakers.
“Maybe you can take a turn driving later and I’ll take over the music,” he offers. “Is this the kind of music you typically listen to?”
“No,” I laugh. “But it seems appropriate for a road trip. Peppy. Nostalgic. Easy to sing along.”
“Nostalgic?” he asks. “How old were you in 1984?”
“Um, negative fifteen…”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But that’s beside the point. It can still be nostalgic. I listened to songs like these on the oldies station in my dad’s car as a kid.”
“Fair point.” He laughs.
We’re quiet for a while, listening to the playlist. I need a few more miles and a bunch more sugar in me to start singing.
Finally, Adam looks at me and says, “I’ve gotta ask. What’s the story with the shirt?”
“My shirt?” I look down at it and laugh.
“Yeah. Fran?”
I laugh again. The purple T-shirt I’m wearing is a fitted crew neck with a set of two white buttons coming down the center chest area from the collar. On the right breast is embroidered the acronym “ SAB” in white thread in block letters. Underneath that, also embroidered in white, but in a fancy script, it says “Fran”.
“It’s a thrift store find,” I explain. “From back in Austin. I’m pretty sure SAB is some kids’ baseball league or something, and I’m guessing this was a coach or parent assistant’s shirt.”
“But your name isn’t Fran,” he says unnecessarily. “Why did you buy it?”
I shrug. “I thought it was funny. Fran’s not a name you see every day, and I thought, I could be Fran. Plus, I like the color and fit of the shirt.”
He shifts his eyes away from the road briefly to give me a curious look. “So, did Fran become your alter ego or something?”
I roll my eyes. “Or something. Nah, it’s just a joke. No one really understands it, and I think that’s why I like it. Gotta leave the people wondering.”
“You like defying expectations.” It’s not a question, but it still feels like he’s asking.
I consider a minute. “I like doing what feels right to me regardless of whether that fits into other people’s expectations or not. Like, I’m not going to do something I don’t actually want to do just because nobody expects it, or just because everyone expects it.”
“Hmmm,” Adam murmurs, encouraging me to continue.
“Like you know there are so many librarian stereotypes out there. And yeah, some of them are not me at all, but some are definitely me. I do like to read. I do like to drink tea. I do wear cardigans. And I’m not about to give those things up just to buck convention. But I dye my hair in all sorts of colors. I have tattoos. I don’t–”
“You have tattoos?”
“Yes. The point is I’m just me. I’m not a mousy librarian. I’m not a sexy librarian.”
Adam makes a choking noise, and he’s conspicuously focusing on the road in front of us. His face turns red up to his hairline.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just … I tend to disagree about that last part.” Now I’m blushing, but before I can even think of how to respond, he quickly continues. “But I see what you’re saying. The fact that I’m a male librarian throws people for a loop. Plus, I’m a dog person, not a cat person. I do wear glasses though. And I'm pretty awkward.” He smiles.
“Hmm,” I say. “I tend to disagree with that last one.”
He looks over at me quickly, and I grin. Before he turns his head forward again, I see his small, pleased smile.
“Let’s circle back to those tattoos,” he teases.
I laugh. “I have a small one on the top of my foot. And a slightly larger one over my rib cage. How about you? Any ink?”
To my surprise, he nods. “I have one. It’s a fishing rod that goes around my bicep. I got it in memory of my dad. Deep sea fishing was our favorite thing to do together.”
“That’s really sweet,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know you fished.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I haven’t been since he died,” he admits. “But I really loved it when I was younger.” After a pause, he asks, “What are yours? If you don’t mind sharing.”
I shrug. “Nothing too exciting. My sisters and I got the foot one together. We each got the letters MNO in script. Our first initials. My older sister is Molly, and my younger sister is Olivia. The one over my ribs is kind of embarrassing.”
“Now I have to know,” he says with a grin.
I hesitate. “It’s just some song lyrics.”
“Embarrassing song lyrics? Let me guess. Justin Bieber or something?” Adam teases.
I make a face. “Ugh, no. Never.” I pause again. The real answer is not so much embarrassing as it is revealing, and I’m not sure I want to reveal that much yet.
Adam notices my hesitation. “What if I tell you something embarrassing about me?” he asks. “Tit for tat?” As he says it, his eyes light up. “Or should I say, tit for tattoo?”
I groan and roll my eyes. “That was bad, Adam.”
He shrugs. “I liked it. So, what do you say? Want me to go first?”
I consider his offer. On the one hand, I’m dying to know Adam’s embarrassing story. On the other hand, if I hear it, I’ll be honor bound to share my own cringe-worthy past. Or at least a piece of it.
“Okay,” I finally relent. “You first.”
He takes a breath, and his ears are already turning red, so I know this will be good.
“When I was in graduate school,” he begins, “the school of library and information science, also known as SLIS, had a yearly tradition of printing a ‘Men of SLIS’ pin-up calendar.”
“Oh my gosh,” I choke.
“It was funny on two levels, both related to the tradition of firefighter pin-up calendars to raise money for charity. First, it poked fun at the relatively low number of men in library science programs. Second, because male librarians are maybe not as … physically fit, let’s say, as firefighters tend to be, positioning them in stereotypically sexy poses has a more comedic effect.” The twitch at the corners of Adam’s lips belies the smile he’s holding back.
“I get why it’s funny, but don’t tell me…” I’m practically holding my breath now in anticipation.
“Yes,” Adam nods solemnly. “I was Mr. July. On the beach.”
“Nooooo!” I can’t hold back my laughter. “That’s too funny! Were you shirtless?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I abruptly stop laughing and whip my head around at the uncharacteristically flirty comment. Judging by the deep red of his face and neck, Adam is just as surprised by his words as I am. An awkward silence fills the car, but by the power of suggestion, my brain is now inventing a picture of what a shirtless Adam might look like. No six-pack abs certainly, but the muscle definition I’ve seen in his arms and calves suggest a lithe runner’s body. I mean, we know the man takes care of himself with his healthy eating and daily walks with Joan. I imagine a firm chest, with defined collar bones and strong shoulder muscles. My eyes glaze over as I stare out the front windshield.
Adam clears his throat. “To answer your question, no. I wore a tasteful sweater vest.”
I bark out a laugh. “At the beach!”
He glances at me and grins.
“I have to see this,” I tease. “Where can I find a copy? ”
“I do have a copy,” he admits. “But I’ve hidden it so well that hopefully no one will ever see it again.”
“Boo! Such a killjoy.” I laugh.
When the car is quiet again, Adam nudges me with his elbow. “Your turn.”
“My story is not nearly as interesting,” I say. “Do you know Chelsea Jordan?”
“No,” Adam responds, a question in his voice.
“She’s a musician whose songs are kind of dark and emotional. I was really into her music in high school. When I was in graduate school, I got a tattoo of lyrics from one of her songs.” I’ve doled out just crumbs, but they may be an easy trail to track; I brace for his follow-up questions. I got the tattoo during my breakup with Steven.
“What’s the lyric?” he asks.
I take a deep breath, using my finger to trace the letters underneath my shirt. “Love in force / Gunning for you.”
Adam is quiet for a beat. “That’s haunting,” he finally says. “But not embarrassing.”
Now it’s my turn to sit wordlessly. I slowly shake my head. “Maybe not,” I say in a low voice.
To my surprise, he doesn’t ask anything else.