27. Nicole
Chapter twenty-seven
Nicole
Molly:
Nicole! What happened after I left last night? We need the deets!
Olivia:
deets? wow mol are you 40?
Molly:
What should I say?
Olivia:
spill the tea
Olivia:
but wut happened
Nicole:
Nothing dramatic. But…
Molly:
…
Olivia:
…
Nicole:
We held hands
Olivia:
lame
Molly:
Is that all?
Nicole:
Yes. But I’m finally ready for more, if he still wants it
Molly:
Of course he does
Olivia:
of course he does
Nicole:
Oookay. Well we’re driving back to fl today so wish me luck
Molly:
Good luck!
I pack my suitcase the next morning, and shift around my books to condense them into fewer bags, if possible. It’s a really good thing we didn’t end up flying.
Adam texts to meet him in the hotel lobby at eight. He also texts a meme that says:
“Last night, I had a nightmare that disco music was making a comeback. At first, I was afraid. I was petrified!”
It’s funny, but I maybe expected something, I don’t know … flirtier after last night. A meme that acknowledges the shift between us, that signals that he wants to pursue a relationship with me and see where this goes. But maybe that’s asking too much of a meme.
I run down to the lobby to get a luggage cart—there’s no way I’m going to be able to carry everything on my own. I load up the cart and steer it precariously out my hotel room door, down the hall, and into the elevator. When I arrive in the lobby, Adam’s already waiting for me. He sees me pushing the cart, and leaving his suitcase, rushes over to take it from me.
“I forgot about your bags of books,” he says as he approaches. “I’m sorry. I would have met you at your room to help. ”
I wave a hand. “No need. I have it all under control.” Of course, the cart takes that moment to decide to zig when I’m clearly telling it to zag, and I crash it into a trashcan.
“I can see that.” He grins and moves to stand in front of me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he murmurs, “Good morning.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach, and for once, I let them stay. I smile up at Adam. “Good morning to you.”
“Full disclosure: I didn’t get very much sleep last night.”
“Oh,” I say, as my brain starts to spin with a thousand scenarios. “Did you go out again?” Maybe he ended up meeting with that redhead after all. Maybe he wanted to go explore Bourbon Street.
Adam looks surprised. “Of course not. I was just restless and then I started thinking about my dad, and I ended up playing a computer game until much too late.”
I relax my shoulders. “You couldn’t sleep?”
He shakes his head. “Do you mind driving? At least for the first little while?”
I shuffle back a step. “Really?” I gape, grabbing his arm. “You actually trust me to drive your car again after what happened?”
He shrugs. “Of course.” He drops his voice. “That flat tire could have happened to anyone, Nicole. It wasn’t your fault.”
I nod and blink back a few tears. The flat tire really feels like my fault. But Adam still trusts me. “I’ll still be extra careful,” I promise.
He hands me the keys. “If you go get the car and pull it around out front, I’ll get all the luggage loaded.”
“Deal.”
Adam falls asleep quickly after we start driving. True to my word, I focus on the road but steal a few glances at the passenger seat when I can. Adam’s head rests against the back of the seat, his face turned toward me. His glasses are off, grasped loosely in his right hand. Without them, his face looks younger, almost boyish, despite the stubble that shows he didn’t shave this morning. His eye lashes are long, laying delicately against his cheek. His mouth hangs open just a little. His positioning doesn’t suggest he would feel comfortable, but he hasn’t stirred, so the seat must be relaxing enough.
I pass the time while driving by listening to an audiobook. I have it on my phone, which I connect to Bluetooth in Adam’s car so it plays through the speakers. Rather than subject Adam to any ill-timed spicy scenes if he wakes up, and subject myself to the ensuing embarrassment, the book I turn on is more women’s fiction than romance. I think about the term “women’s fiction” and wonder why there isn’t a genre called “men’s fiction.” Is it because men are presumed to not read fiction? Or because books written about men are considered to apply to everyone, but books about women must only interest other women?
Unfortunately, my thought tangent causes me to miss hearing the details of how the main character’s boyfriend dies while … walking the dog or something? I skip back and let it play again. Ohhhh.
I’ve been driving, and Adam’s been sleeping, for about four hours when I see a Buc-ee’s sign. The gas gauge is getting low and I’m getting hungry, so I pull off. It’s a different Buc-ee’s than where we stopped on the way to New Orleans, a little further west. I park and, leaving Adam still asleep in the car, I head inside. Picking out my own lunch is easy: sliced brisket sandwich and white cheddar nuggees. But I browse around to find lunch for Adam, too. He liked the sliced brisket sandwich the other day, so that’s a safe bet. I pick up a bag of sour gummy worms, and finally a fresh fruit cup. Then, I grab two bottles of water and cash out.
When I return to the car, my plan is to move it around to the gas pumps and fill the tank, but I see the passenger side door open, with Adam sitting sideways with his feet on the ground. As I approach, he grins at me.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” I tease.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not very good company today. And it looks like I missed a Buc-ee’s run?”
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him, handing him the bag with his food. “I’ve got you.”
He peeks into the bag and then looks up at me in awe. “You got me lunch?”
I shrug. “Of course. I think you’ll like what I got, but if I missed anything, I guess you can go in yourself now that you’re awake.”
He opens the bag again. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.” He chuckles. “You even got me sour gummy worms.”
I nod. “And I was about to get gas since we’re running low.”
He stands, stretching his legs as he does. “I can take over driving again now. I’m feeling much better. ”
I laugh, handing him the keys. “Well, sure. After your four-hour nap.”
After eating my lunch, I end up falling asleep for a while, too. I thought I would feel too self-conscious to fall asleep in front of Adam, but as the car rolls along, the hum of the tires against the road has my eyelids turning heavy. I don’t try to fight it. I feel cozy and secure in the front seat of his car, so I let sleep take me.
Before I know it, the light outside has faded, and we’re exiting the highway toward St. Anastasia.
Adam pulls up outside my apartment just as the last few rays of the light from the sun are swallowed in the inky night sky.
He puts the car in park and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll help you carry everything in,” he offers.
I nod and wait outside the car while he opens the trunk and shuffles around inside for my bags. I take two of the bags of books, the straps hoisted up on my shoulders, and he manages my suitcase and the rest of the books. I dig through my bag for my house keys as we walk up the stairs. When we reach the top, I have them ready, unlocking the door.
With the memory of my embarrassment after Soapbox lifting to the top of my mind, I ask Adam to set the bags just inside the doorway and I don’t invite him any further inside. He doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Instead, he stands on the landing outside my front door, fiddling with his car keys and looking nervous .
I search for the right words to say and finally blurt, “Thank you for volunteering your car for this trip. And doing most of the driving. I’m sorry again about the tire.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “Don’t mention it,” he says.
We’re quiet for another awkward minute. He hasn’t brought up last night at all today. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I should forget it happened, go inside, and Adam and I can return to our work-type friends sort of relationship. To be fair, holding hands is decidedly not a big deal, really just the smallest step toward anything romantic. But it feels like a monumental risk to me, an action I hadn’t considered taking with anyone else since Steven. Even now, my hand twitches, wanting to touch him. He’s so close, right in front of me. I could just lift my hand and place it on his arm or his shoulder. What would he think? I feel my eyebrows pulling together—those worry lines down my forehead are going to be deep in a couple of decades.
Breaking the spiraling train of my thoughts, Adam slowly reaches toward me and runs his index finger across my forehead, nestling into that space between my eyebrows, smoothing it out.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a husky voice.
I swallow. “Yep. Yes. Of course,” I say too brightly.
His hand moves down my face until he’s cupping it, his thumb moving slowly across the skin at the top of my cheek. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation.
“Can I take you to dinner this week?” Adam asks softly.
“I’d like that,” I answer, covering his hand with my own .
He gazes into my eyes for a beat, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “Friday?”
I nod. My throat feels thick, and I’m not sure my voice will work if I try to answer in words.
“Good.” He hesitates. “I’m off the next few days, driving down to visit my mom. I’ll be back Thursday night, though. I can meet you here at six and then we’ll walk, if that’s okay?”
Oh. He’s going on another trip? We just got back from the conference. I try to hide my disappointment as I clear my throat and say, “Of course. I’ll see you then, I guess.”
“See you Friday. Good night, Nicole.”
With that, he turns and descends the stairs. Just before he rounds the front of the car on his way to the driver’s seat, he looks up at me. I can’t see the expression on his face in the dusky evening light, but I wave. He lifts his hand back at me before he disappears into the car.
The next morning, Adam texts me a meme that shows two characters from The Simpsons , Lisa and Ralph, walking together. At the top it says:
“When you’re socially awkward but you still give it a shot.”
And in the picture, Ralph is asking Lisa,
“...do you like stuff?”
Okay, so this meme doesn’t say everything, but at least it’s flirtier than the disco meme. He’s saying he’s giving this a shot, right? Us a shot? Maybe I’m reading too much into the memes, but my brain craves certainty, and all I’m feeling is unsure. When I add up all the signals, they seem to imply that Friday is a date, but he didn’t use the word date. I sigh to myself as I walk out the door to work. It’s going to be a long week.