12
“Pass.”
“Ugh!” I half yell, half laugh. “I should’ve put a limit on how many questions you can pass!”
“Wouldn’t matter.”
“Right. Forgot you’re a rule breaker.”
He scoffs. “One of us has to be.”
“False, we can both follow the rules to a t.”
“Lame.”
I am about to argue but I realize, for what feels like the millionth time, he’s right. Plus, I’m having fun. And you can learn a ton about a person based on the questions they don’t want to answer. Interestingly, most of Adam’s hesitation is around his family, his future, his work. He’s happy to talk about food, tv and movies, friends, and his hobbies (also known as all sports that exist.)
“C’mon, you can’t pull out one happy childhood memory? You’re telling me the Bell boys didn’t have a magical All American upbringing? Playing board games…country club pool…cookouts…throwing a football with your dad?”
He visibly recoils.
“Wow. Not a Leeland fan.”
“Not a big Bell fan.” He mumbles, then seems shocked that the thought escaped through his lips.
“Okayyyy,” I draw out the word, unsure how to move forward. I look for the safest Bell I can think of. “Even wee little Thomas?”
He almost smiles. “He's a punk.”
“All fifteen year olds are punks.”
He cocks his head to the side in concession.
I continue, “I guess I can understand some tension with Josh now that I know…more about him. Was he always—” Welp. That got awkward really fast. What was I about to say? An addict? Into orgies? Adam says nothing and I try to think of a way out of this conversation sink hole I’ve landed us in. He said Bells. So his mom is safe…maybe. I try, “Your mom seems lovely?”
He sighs. “Girl, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
I nod. “That is, unfortunately for you, very true.”
He exhales again but he leans back, opening his posture to me slightly. “My Uncle Lance up in Montana. He’s awesome. The happy childhood memories, most of them are with him.”
He pauses, like he thinks I’m going to let him stop at that. “Your mom’s brother, I’m guessing?”
“No, so I guess there’s one Bell that’s all right.”
I nod. “And is he on the oil side of the business? Or construction?”
He shakes his head. “He has a ranch. Horses.”
“I didn’t know the Bells had a ranch. I thought the old cattle business was—”
“It’s not a Bell ranch, it's just his ranch.” I make a surprised “O” shape with my mouth and nod slowly, absorbing the information. He snorts, one of his angry ones. “I guess you probably can’t imagine a Canton leaving the business but I’m sure you’ve heard, not all families work well together.”
I resist the urge to say that mine does and always has and always will. All my sisters will be in the business somewhere, alongside me and dad and grandpa. Personally, I can’t wait.
“So, what did you do there?”
“Everything. Ride, train, board. Freeze my ass off over spring break and sweat like a dog in the summers. I cleaned stalls, which was pretty disgusting. He has a pond there, the swimming was way better than the country club pool. And,” he laughs a small sad laugh, “Now that I think about it, I’ve thrown the football with him more than anyone else. He played college ball too.”
For a second I sit stunned by the sheer amount of consecutive words that just came out of his mouth. Then, because I just have to know, I mumble, “And did he do the whole, um, you know, arranged marriage thing too?”
“That’s only for firstborns…usually. He’s not married.” I pout a bit, sad that his favorite uncle is alone in the northern wilderness. Adam must see my sadness because he says, “Oh, he’s not sad, trust me.” Ah. The forever bachelor type.
Unsure of what to say, and getting the feeling he’s already done sharing about his favorite person, unfortunately, I move on.
“See? Was that so hard?” He rolls his eyes but there’s no anger in the movement. If I stick to safe questions, I would even dare to say he looks like he’s having fun. So I go on, “You said sweet over salty, which I agree, I’m not a psychopath, but what kind of sweet?” He glances my way in confusion. “Like chocolate or jolly ranchers?”
He jerks his face back like I’ve offended him. “Chocolate.”
“I know, right? Me too. My favorite is chocolate for breakfast. Chocolate donuts, chocolate chip waffles or pancakes. Might just be a positive association because it was a special treat at my grandma’s house on holidays growing up but still. It’s the best.” He makes a face that looks like he’s considering all the wonders of chocolate as a breakfast item and I want to ask what breakfasts were like for him, what his special holiday memories were, so much more. But he’ll just clam up. It’s heartbreaking and nearly unimaginable to me, but I think he might hate his own family.
“Okay, let’s see…Oh! Name something no one would ever guess about you.” He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. Too late, buddy. “I saw it! You were about to say something!”
“No—”
“Yes! Uh huh! Remember, dog, bone? I’ll just pester you the rest of the drive. You were about to blurt something without thinking. Tell me!”
He groans.
I wait.
And wait.
“Do you think your silence will deter me? We have five. More. Hours. Adam. Spill it.”
“Ugh,” He glances over at me before saying, “If I tell you this, we never talk about it again.”
I laugh, hard. “Absolutely do not agree. C’mon. It can’t be that bad. Remember we’re all secret dorks. Show me your inner dork.”
“Gah, fine. I…draw.” He quickly corrects himself, “Used to draw.”
I stare, slack jawed until my brain finally spits out, “Uhhhh, I’ll take something I never would’ve guessed in a million years for 400, Alex. ” Which earns me another confused glance. “Jeopardy? Along with movies, it’s my mom’s favorite thing.”
He lifts his chin a bit. “Bet she gets every answer.”
“Pretty much.” I get back on topic. “So, when do I get to see your—”
“No.”
“Oh c’mon you have to have a sketchbook or”
“I said used to. I don’t have time anymore with work and football.”
I narrow my eyes. “I think you’re lying.” He shrugs, unmoved. He’s not going to tell me more. “Well,” I continue, smiling. “the joke’s on you, we’ve answered so many questions now we’re totally friends. I’m like your best friend. I know that you draw!”
“And I know you’re nuts.”
“Nuts, intense, uptight, annoying, anal retentive… dorky. I’ve heard it all before, ” I shrug. “You can’t worry about what people think if you want to change the world.”
“D’you read that in one of your books?” He eyes my bag at my feet. My bag that currently has two self-help books in it.
I chuckle, “I read that in basically all my books.”
“So that’s what you really want to do? Change the world?”
It’s my turn to frown. “Doesn’t everyone?” He doesn’t reply, just sits looking pensive. His thoughtful scowl is my favorite scowl. It’s hot. He’s hot. I keep trying to ignore it, his chiseled features, sparkling dark eyes and his massive arms and chest. It’s gone beyond staring at job sites to even gaping now as he changes lanes and then adjusts the air temperature.
I never knew so many big muscles were involved in turning a tiny little knob.
“D-do you read much?” I say, sounding stupidly breathy.
“Nope. Told you. I’m not gonna match up to your list.” He leans forward, then back, stretching out his shoulders as much as he can while driving. And I stare. I think I just licked my lips. He shoots me a heated look, just for a second before smirking quietly, “Although maybe there’s one more box I check.”
I’ve been caught. I turn redder than the brake lights all around us, looking out the window like the vast fields of green upon green upon green are the most interesting things I’ve ever seen. “I don’t know what you mean.” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond but minutes later, eons later, a whole eternity later, when I glance at him, he’s smirking the smuggest smirk that’s ever been smirked.
Stupid caveman.
Stupid sexy ripped jean caveman!
The offensive smirk is gone when he speaks again a few moments later. He’s back to the angry grump I’ve come to know so well.
“Listen,” he clears his throat and grimaces. “I, uh, I’m going to get us out of this.”
Something in my stomach twists as I ask, “What?”
“I guess, I guess we are friends. And that’s why I’m not going to let this go on. I mean,” his words go from clumsy and halted to downright enraged. “I mean really, what year is it? This whole damn thing is archaic. And stupid. And I’m not doing it. I’m not.” He ends his rant and instead of silence I hear the blaring whoosh sound of blood rushing through my head.
“So…you mean Thomas and—”
“No, I mean no one. Uncle Lance has lawyers, connections. I’m going to talk to him.”
The whooshing speeds up. “Maybe you don’t know but I, I mean, my family, we owe your family and—” I stop because he looks over and nods.
“I know you owe us. But business is one thing. Marriage? I mean it’s insane. I don’t care if we’ve always done it or if other legacy families do it. It’s. Insane. We still gotta fake it for our dads for a little while, but we’re not doing it, Susan.”
His tone is so direct. So final.
I believe him.
We’re not getting married.
I should feel relieved. He’s completely right about my checklist. He’s totally wrong for me and my future. He’s bitter and closed off. I want the dream team, best friends, business colleagues, and eventually, lovers, parents, our own legacy. He clearly wants something else.
Or maybe someone else.
“Do you, er, did you have a girlfriend?”
“Huh?” He quickly looks between me and the road as we merge from one busy highway onto another. “No, I, it’s, shit.” He stiffens his arms against the wheel and then relaxes. “It’s not about you. Sorry if you thought…I, no. I didn’t.”
His brow furrows and his throat works, having to choke down the sheer discomfort I’ve created yet again. I gulp too. Thank God his truck is loud or we’d be able to hear each other’s gross swallow noises.
I think of how I can diffuse the situation while keeping communication going.
I smile.
“You know what I just heard?”
“What?” He asks, wary.
“We’re friends. My list of questions was amazing, you can admit it. I win. I’m the King of the World! ”
“Good Lord. Just read your stupid book.” He says, almost smiling. He turns on the music and I obey, picking up my latest John C. Maxwell book.
But I can’t seem to focus on the words.
Because I can feel it.
I’m disappointed.
And it’s not just that two Bells have basically rejected me. That doesn’t feel great, for sure, but as I sneak a look at Adam over the top of my paperback, the sting worsens.
Because I thought we were making progress.
I thought we were becoming something.
I think of him often. Throughout my workday, before I fall asleep. I think about his different grunts and his unkempt eyebrows and reluctant smirks. I think about how he leads people, how he doesn’t crank the air conditioning down low anymore, for me, even though he’s always about to start sweating.
My thoughts of him have gotten warmer and warmer to match. The thoughts I try to avoid—usually revolving around his bossy voice and his biceps and, okay, yes his butt in those old jeans—they’re steaming. Sweltering.
I realize now I had some hope the feeling was mutual.
Every road trip has had more smiles, less groans. More talking, less silence. I was positive he was coming around. I’ve definitely come around. In fact, with how excited I get every time I climb up into the truck…I think I might have a little crush forming.
But, just like last time, I thought I knew the Bell I was dating—to use the term really freaking loosely—and I was wrong. So much for reading people well. Ugh.
My eyes start to burn now that I’ve admitted the whole crush thing to myself, so I close the book and assume my fake-sleep position.
I stay that way for the rest of the long morning drive to our destination.
But I know all of the tasks waiting for Adam and me there, together as a unit, and unfortunately I can’t fake sleep through that.