Chapter 7
Adam stares at me for a long moment, one of his thick brown eyebrows raised. “A…friend.” He forms the word as though he’s never heard it before, as though it’s in an entirely different language even.
I nod. “Yes. Like, you could pretend to be my friend. And, you know, vice versa. ’Cause that’s the way these things go, right?
” I cross my legs in the chair, but my legs are so damn long that my knees jab into the edges of the tabletop, and so I uncross them and settle for resting my feet on the seat across from me.
Adam sits back in his chair during my adjustments. “Look, I’m not trying to be snarky or anything like that, but I don’t understand how us pretending to be friends would be payment for the exclusive story of where you were for, what was it? Nine years.”
“Eight years,” I correct, and then shrug.
“Look. Everyone in town is completely obsessed with you. You are universally beloved in Cranberry.” I expect him to gloat or even just smile, but instead a hint of a frown appears at the corner of his lips.
“Maybe if folks see us being friends, they won’t be so mean to me, you know? ”
Adam’s still frowning. “I think you’re overestimating my influence in this town.”
I roll my eyes. “Adam, you literally saw how Peter treated me at the bar tonight. Do you think that’s an isolated incident?
Spoiler: It’s not. Not at all. But for the first time ever, he apologized.
Someone finally fucking apologized for treating me like garbage, and it’s because of you.
Forgive me for saying it, but it sounds like you’re underestimating your influence in this town. ”
Adam runs his hands over his face again, chuckling like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation, his voice deep enough that I feel it in my ribs, my hips, and, as much as I hate to admit it, a bit more south than that.
I begin to tap at my knees under the table to distract myself from those unwanted sensations.
“People respect you. They like you. And if Cranberry saw you choosing to be my friend?” I gesture to the window, where nothing but the pitch black of night can be seen right now.
Not even the closest plants or patio furniture are visible, but this doesn’t stop me from sensing the raccoon cutting through the backyard, two bruised, sweet apple cores in her mouth.
“If people saw you making that choice, they wouldn’t bully me so bad. In theory, at least.”
Adam leans back in his chair. “Okay. So…why pretend, then? Couldn’t we become friends for real?”
“Maybe?” I shrug and stare at my hands. I’m still tapping my thighs with my fingertips, trying to keep my stress levels down with the repetitive motion. “You don’t really know me yet. I’m really weird.”
He stares at me for a moment, starting with my hair, and lowering down to my cheeks, my chin, my belly, down to my tapping fingers.
He seems to realize that it very much looks like he’s checking me out, when he and I both know that’s not the case, and so he clears this throat and firmly drops his gaze onto his now-empty tea mug.
“You’re not…Sky. You’re not off-putting, or repulsive, or whatever you seem to be thinking about yourself. At all. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes and stand instead, taking our mugs to the sink.
“You haven’t been called freak or liar or the devil for the last two years.
You didn’t have greasy French fries dumped on your head the last time you decided to try having a meal by yourself.
Frankly, you telling me that I seem to think these things about myself is incredibly invalidating. ”
I’m standing in the entryway to the kitchen, my hands on my hips. He’s swiveled around in the chair to face me, his blue eyes almost black in the dim lighting. “Someone dumped food on your head?” he finally asks, like he can’t wrap his mind around it.
I close my eyes and sigh. I won’t dignify that with a response.
“The friendship thing…that’s an experiment.
It’s possible that what happened to me…what I went through…
is too much for them to get over.” I realize that the mugs are still in my hands, and I turn to rinse them and place them carefully in the dishwasher.
William really needs to replace this piece of garbage.
Some of the prongs are broken, meaning they don’t hold up dinnerware like they should.
I learned this the hard way by shattering an old diner-style coffee mug months ago.
I turn to face Adam, who’s now stood up and is at the entrance to the kitchen.
I’m tall—five-eleven—but Adam is taller still.
I wonder briefly what it’d be like if he hugged me, his big frame feeling so warm and so safe.
I shake my head free of the thought. “So…I mean, like I was just saying. I don’t even know if fake friendship would even work.
But—” I swallow, horrified that I think I might cry in front of Adam Noemi again, and so I use every iota of willpower to stop any tears from forming.
“If it did, it would be worth it. One hundred percent. To give you the exclusive to my story. And let’s be honest. Given the emails and calls and randoms appearing on my doorstep the last two years, wanting to interview me?
There is a large potential readership. It could definitely be the big break you’re used to, even if the friendship part of it turns out to be a waste of my time. ”
“Being friends would be a waste of your time? Even if we became friends for real?” He sounds tough, but that toughness is covering a vague wound. The old gods know why. This man has countless friends.
“There’s no guarantee with regard to a real friendship.
” I know I sound a bit snide with the word real, but I can’t help it.
I do not believe Adam and I are compatible as friends.
The evidence for the argument that we could be simply doesn’t exist. “You could decide you want nothing to do with me after writing your piece on me. Just like everyone else.” I lift my hand to gesture around.
“I mean, I get that that makes me sound like I have trust issues, but they’re not there for no reason.
I can guarantee you a story, and you can only guarantee me the illusion of friendship.
Not a genuine friendship. So it’s the illusion that has to be the basis of our agreement.
” I sigh and walk around him—my shoulder sliding against his in such a way that I wonder if shoulders can be uncommon erogenous zones, a thought I immediately suppress for its stupidity—and grab my purse from the table.
“Thanks for what you did tonight. I guess this means that you can stay for the next dinner I bring William next week. If you want.”
I walk to the front door, but once again, so quickly that I get déjà vu, Adam beats me to the doorknob to open it for me. “Oh, th—”
“Okay,” he says. “Deal.”
“Deal?” My voice comes out unsure and squeaky. “To…public, illusory friendship in return for my story?”
“In exchange for your exclusive story about what happened that day, and in the eight years after,” Adam clarifies.
I nod. “Okay! Okay. This is good.” Another thought occurs to me, this one making my stomach sink a little bit. “And you’ll—I mean. I know you need to be objective in your writing.”
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
I close my eyes briefly before settling on his.
They’re sparkling and so blue, I think of a list of dumb things—Picasso’s blue period.
Untitled (Blue Divided by Blue) by Mark Rothko.
The blue whales I can sense when I’m in bed trying to fall asleep, gliding across the blue, blue water with their families, each one singing sacred whale songs.
I shake my head. “In the piece, I need you to extend me some grace, but you don’t have to act like you believe every word I say.
” Because the old gods know, there are going to be words he’s going to find difficult to take in.
“Just don’t make me sound crazy. Don’t make me sound like a liar.
Otherwise, it will ruin all the work of our potentially real friendship. ”
“I won’t.” He says it so calmly and confidently that I’m surprised that I really, really want to believe him. “Of course I won’t.”
He holds out his hand and I place mine in his. After a brief, super awkward shake, wherein I certainly do not notice how big his hand is, I pull mine back and point to the still half-open door. “Okay. Thanks. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Sky.” He gives me a half smile and steps outside.
I think he might walk me to Nadia’s, like this is the end of a date or something, but he stops at William’s ancient, threadbare welcome mat, arms crossed.
I walk across the street and when I make it inside, I press my eyes to the door screen, where I can see Adam, still watching, from the still-open door of William’s house, the front light all warm and ambery, making him appear a bit like an angel… or a ghost.
I spend my Sunday off in Nadia’s sunflower-yellow kitchen, melting honey and butter together, kneading sweet dough, and frying up the eggplant I brought home from the farmer’s market last week.
All this for Sage, and, indirectly, baby Oak.
Sage says breastfeeding hunger is unreal.
Which I can believe, based on the last time Teal and I have gotten her away for a meal since she’s had him.
We watched this woman inhale two burgers and three slices of pepperoni and roasted red pepper pizza, and ten minutes later ask about dessert.
She said Tenn can barely keep her fed even with frequent trips to get fast-food sandwiches and burritos and fries.
So I decided to surprise her today with a mountain of good, home-cooked deliciousness.