Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I wake up alone, my head foggy from a night of drifting in and out of sleep. I wasn’t delusional enough to think Adam and I would wake up together and forget all our past animosities, pull the covers over our heads, and drown out everything but each other.
But a quick “Hey, that was miserable; let’s never do it again” would have been nice.
When I pad into the kitchen, still in my pajamas, Adam’s face is unreadable.
There is a smoothie waiting for me on the counter, though, no laxatives in sight.
“Hey,” he says, his voice gruff. “Lovie’s having a bad day, woke up with a headache. She went back to sleep. Can you stick around while I go take care of some things?”
His watch dings. What things does he have to take care of? The girl from the phone? And if so, what does that mean for what happened last night?
I brace my hands on the island, the only thing separating us a single yard of countertop. And one slow dance in the kitchen. And one shared bed. Let’s talk about this , I scream in my mind . Did you dream about it too, with hands that slide over stomachs and mouths that slide over skin? How did it feel, waking up like that, with me?
“Yeah,” I say instead. “Of course. Is everything okay?”
When he rounds the island on his way to the front door, his shoulder brushes mine.
Just before the front door closes, I swear I hear, “About as good as it ever is.”
Lovie stays in bed for the morning, so I make breakfast for myself, place hers in the fridge in case she’s hungry later, and scroll social media. Which turns into two hours on TikTok and nothing to show for it aside from a plethora of cat videos and a new way to fold my jeans.
After topping off my coffee, I grab my laptop and return to No-Man’s-Land, intent to work on Elle on the L . I wiggle my butt into the cushions. Lovie was right; it really is the best spot.
The “Where Are They Now” episode from last week is set to outperform every episode for the last six months. I worked forever on it—some of the people I’ve interviewed remained anonymous even to me, and I had to depend on random chance to run into them again. Pride puffs in my chest as I switch over to Instagram, the channel with the most engagement by far.
@thatguy3k00 is back on his bullshit. Today’s tactic is jumping down the throat of a nice person from Toronto, who commented that my vulnerability is a “shining light in a dark time.”
@thatguy3k00: Only because she thinks the sun shines out of her ass.
I roll my eyes, preparing to brush it off like I have the dozen others, when a reply to his comment catches my eye.
@AdamWheeler082790ElkInd: Elle could tell your life story better than you.
Surely that can’t be who I think it is. I search for the username and find more comments.
@AdamWheeler082790ElkInd: Elle’s great at what she does, and her 1.3 million followers clearly show that. How many do you have? Twelve?
@AdamWheeler082790ElkInd: That’s a pretty big word for no good reason. Compensating for something?
@AdamWheeler082790ElkInd: That insult was cool twenty years ago. Now it’s just lame.
Adam, Adam, Adam. We’ll have to talk about proper screen names and oversharing, but the sentiment is there, right there on the page, for the world to see.
When did he do this? During some downtime at his other job? One night before bed? This morning, maybe, after he woke up beside my angelic, sleeping face? My stomach ties itself in a knot. What would Petite Blonde think about this?
And did he stumble upon these comments while scrolling his normal feed, or did he seek them out? I hadn’t even realized he follows me.
I scroll back up to the original comment, an idea catching like kindling in my mind.
Elle could tell your life story better than you.
This is what Adam finds me doing when he comes back from his mysterious errands: telling a life story. Lovie’s lying on the couch. It was completely dry this morning, like the storm never happened.
When he clears his throat from the doorway, I jump five feet off my kitchen chair, knocking my knee into the edge of the table. My empty water glass tips over.
“Stop doing that! Heart attacks are real, Adam!” I clutch my chest, my heart thunderous beneath my ribs.
It’s because he scared me. Definitely not because of the burgundy scrubs under his jacket or how he spins his keys around his index finger.
Adam pockets the keys and slides his jacket off. “I thought you would have heard the door open.” His head tilts. “I guess I should’ve known better after last time.”
Ignoring that completely, I drop my eyes to the screen, trying to recover the thought I had. Once again, he has completely derailed me.
“What are you working on?” he asks. “Podcast stuff?”
Closing my laptop, I clasp my hands on top of it. “Speaking of podcast stuff, we need to talk about your vigilante efforts all over my Instagram.”
He takes in air through his teeth. “You saw that?” A hint of color peeks out from his collar.
My words come out as hot air. “Adam, it’s the internet. Everyone saw that. You need to change your username.”
His brows dip together. “Why?”
Throwing open my laptop again, I tab to the browser window. He rests a hand on the back of my chair, leaning over my shoulder. His breath is minty as it coasts over my neck. His other hand rests beside mine on the table, effectively caging me in.
I have enough typos in the next ten seconds that I’d be embarrassed if I could think about anything besides how close we are.
“Adam Wheeler of Elkhart, Indiana,” I finally say. “Born August twenty-seventh, 1990.” I calculate. “Virgo.”
He winces. “It was one of the recommended username options.”
Of course it was. Because all social media wants is information, and for others to have as much of it as you’re willing to overlook. But that’s not a hill I want to die on. Today, at least.
I click on his inciting comment and angle it at him. “This got me thinking.”
After a quick check on Lovie, he slides into the chair next to me. “About what?”
I navigate back to my brainstorming document. “This.”
His face is stoic as he reads my jumble of thoughts, scrolling when he needs to, drumming his thumb on the edge of the trackpad otherwise.
I search his expressions for any indication he thinks this is brilliant—or completely insane. Some things he reads makes him smile. Others make his mouth flatten.
He turns his stare my way, licking his top lip. “You want to start another podcast.”
“About Lovie,” I confirm, ripping my attention away from his pink mouth before I lose the plot. “Caring for her and her Alzheimer’s, through my own eyes. I’ll tell stories from when I was younger, how I witnessed her go from the badass woman who raised me to …” I search for a word to convey everything Lovie is without being offensive, but I can’t find one.
“It will help me sort through my emotions,” I try instead, raspy. His face tightens. “Provide an outlet for other people in this situation, whether it be in a caregiving capacity or just as a support system. This disease changes everyone it touches, not just the ones with the diagnosis, and if I have the platform to bring awareness to it, I think it’s my duty to do that.”
His eyes flick to the screen again. I don’t need his support for this, but I would like it.
“And I mean,” I continue, “it’s not like I don’t have the time. She goes to bed at eight , after all.” I try to mimic the teasing dips of his tone when he said that.
Adam planted this seed in the first place by telling off the trolls. The more I talk through it out loud, the more the roots take hold. I snatch the computer back and return my fingers to the well-worn keys, saying the words as I type.
“All the sponsorship money and revenue will go to a charity that benefits Alzheimer’s research. Or one that supports caregivers. Listeners can vote. And I’ll personally match the donation. You can be a guest! You can talk through the medical stuff and explain it like you explained it to me. I’m no doctor, that’s for sure. And we can talk about the health care system and how stuff like this falls through the cracks until it’s too late and—”
“Elle,” Adam says, laying his hand on mine. “Slow down for a second.”
Ever stubborn, I keep typing, but I end up with a string of fjdkaslfaeils that, honestly, makes more sense than some of the ideas around it. I surrender, letting my fingers fall flat.
He gives me a small smile. I immediately don’t like it. “This is a little … personal, don’t you think?”
“What is? The podcast, or—” I drop my eyes to where he’s still touching me, and he pulls back like I’ve shocked him.
He takes a second to gather his thoughts. When he meets my eyes again, some of his coloring has faded. Some, but not all. “Are you sure this is the best idea?”
“It’s a great idea,” I say without considering it. “I can make this something big, Adam. Something important.”
“I don’t doubt that. I’m just worried you think …” His head tips sideways, like he’s not looking forward to whatever comes next. “That this might change the outcome somehow.”
His words aren’t intended to land a blow, but they do, right on my sternum. I lose all my air. “I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t think you are,” he says, steady and sure. “But Lovie is not good, Elle, you know that. And this journey will be hard. For her and for you. Hard enough on its own without those guys having a front-row seat . ”
Even if Adam doesn’t realize it, he’s trying to protect me. Sort of ironic, considering the man is four digits away from being the victim of identity fraud.
“I appreciate your concern, really.” I pat his log of a forearm. It tenses. “But haven’t you ever just … haven’t you ever just seen something so clearly in your head, wanted it so badly, that when you close your eyes, it’s real?”
“Yes.” It’s one single word, but it comes out so thick and heavy, it forces my eyes to his.
Adam’s eyes, however, are trained on my hand on his arm.
Then he looks up, and the lock of our gazes is just that, a lock. It’s unmoving and unyielding and strong and forceful and unbreakable. His scrubs today make his irises almost purple, set deep into his face with the rest of his chiseled features. He’s more distinguished in this color. More take-charge.
I can only imagine the things he’d take charge of in the bedroom. The quiet yet commanding tone he’d use. Clothes off. Flip over. Let me see you. The way the forearm I’m clutching would tense and twist with his hand’s movements, hold me down so I couldn’t squirm away when, inevitably, it became too much. How his jaw would lock right before he came.
I inhale sharply at the thought, and his pupils dilate as they drop to my mouth. Yes , I think. This. My pulse is in my throat before it drops lower, and lower still.
It’s neither Adam nor I who makes the decision to pull apart. Lovie sounds off in pain from the living room, that universal old-person groan they make when they’re getting to her feet, and Adam is on his faster than I’ve ever seen him move.
I start to stand. “Wait, I can—”
“I’ve got her,” he says, glancing at the screen once more before flashing me a devastating smile. “Anyway, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of work to do.”