Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Where to?” Adam asks. We’re both eager, so after the windshield is defrosted to a manageable level, he reverses onto the street. He’s wearing a thick winter coat with the collar popped against the cold. All the air vents are pointed in my direction.
“May I direct you to the interstate, Nurse Adam? You said we were field tripping, after all.”
He grins, the morning light reflecting off his teeth. “Want to listen to music?”
When I nod, Adam turns on the radio and connects his phone via an aux cord. “Sparks” by Coldplay starts filtering through the speakers.
“This song is depressing,” I grumble, skipping to the next.
Which turns out to be “Wisconsin” by Bon Iver.
It’s such a rare song, so unexpected from him, yet somehow not at all, that a laugh flies from my lips before I can choke it down.
His brow furrows as he fumbles for the knob.
“No, don’t.” I reach for his hand. “I love this song.” My fingers twine with his.
The moment, like so many others between us, stretches taut. He’s warm, despite the frigid cold outside and in the rest of the cab. I stare at him in profile, trying to collect as many details as I can, making note of the ones I can’t. What he was like when he was younger; whether he has any scars of his own, like the one I have on my knee.
His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as he glances at me. When he looks at the road again, he has to jerk the wheel in correction.
He doesn’t release me, though. Just rests our joined hands on my leg. “I like the heavy stuff.”
“I can tell,” I say as Justin Vernon’s haunting voice fills the car. “How’d you get this song digitally? You can’t stream it.”
Adam is sheepish, a blush creeping up his jaw. “I ripped it. It’s their best song. It deserves to be heard, often and by anyone with ears. My tattoo is one of these lyrics.”
I fall in love with him a little bit then. Just a stumble, like when you’re almost asleep and suddenly feel like you missed a stair. Enough to jolt your heart but not enough to make you question everything. No lasting damage.
“What’s it say?”
“This.” He nods his head toward the dash, and quiet descends as we listen to the music. He sings softly along with the line, off-key and scratchy. Adam has a Bon Iver tattoo about love over his heart and mine hurts just thinking about it.
Something is stealing my breath. The cold, probably. “That’s beautiful. What does it mean to you?”
As we come to a stop sign, he studies our hands. I didn’t have time to search for gloves, so my fingers are cold and raw. He moves deliberately, tucking them against my palm and wrapping them with his own.
“That for as messy as love can make life, love in itself is enough. All kinds of love—friendly, familial, romantic. Love can leave a lot of wounds, but it can also heal them.” He stares over the center console at me. My lips. “If we let it.”
I miss another step on the staircase. “Do you let it?”
As we resume our drive through the slow, quiet streets of my hometown, his thumb traces the crease of my wrist, my red knuckles. “I’d like to let it more often. I think you, more than most people, know what it means to get wrapped up in obligation to others and forget about the obligations we have to ourselves.”
He’s talking about Lovie. All the details I revealed to him last night. The growing resentment I have for a situation I can’t change but desperately want out of.
But he said we .
“Who are you obligated to?” I ask softly. The music has faded to background noise. I focus instead on Adam’s breathing, his fingers creating friction with mine as he warms me in the frigid November air. The road rumbles beneath us, and I hate it, but I get lighter the closer we come to the highway.
“Sometimes … sometimes I wish my sister was more self-sufficient.” He scoffs, rolling his reddening eyes. “God, I feel guilty for even saying that. I love my sister.”
“Of course you do, Adam, but love and obligation aren’t mutually exclusive. You can feel both together, at any time. I love Lovie, but I still want to throttle her six days a week.”
Adam chuckles absently, flexing the hand on the wheel. My face flushes when I remember how that hand dipped between my legs outside the bathroom. Gripped my thighs while his mouth explored my most intimate place. “I guess sometimes I fear that Ruth is growing dependent on my help,” he says. “That if I continue to offer it, she’ll continue to take it, and she won’t ever see a need to do anything different.”
“Do you want things to be different?”
His smile is almost sad. “I don’t think it’s sustainable in the long term—I’ll put it that way.”
“And in the short term?” I ask. “Maybe you could take steps to draw healthier boundaries, one thing at a time.”
“It’s just—” Adam’s chest collapses with a deep sigh. “I could do that, I guess. I don’t know what about the situation bothers me.”
I switch hands, holding his with my right and resting my left against the back of his neck. “Can I give you my opinion even though you didn’t ask for it?”
He throws me a wink. Nestles into my hand. “I was waiting for that.”
I consider everything he’s told me, and some things he hasn’t. “I think you’re an introvert, and you spend so much time being on that you never get to turn off . All of your free time is spent working—which, gross, by the way—or taking care of your family. What do you have for you? Adam time.”
He looks over. “I’ve got things just for me.”
I use the hand on his neck to turn his head back toward the road. “Good. So protect the time for them. You could tell Ruth your work hours, for starters. Maybe make a shared calendar so she doesn’t have to keep asking if you’re free? And block out days when you’re burnt out.”
“That seems …” He shifts in the driver’s seat. “Sensible.”
I beam. “I am the queen of sensibility. And she could add the girls’ events to it too. That way you know in advance what days will be taken up by them. I know things pop up, that Claire gets sick often, but you’ll just have to set the expectation that you might not always make it. I think talking to her would be a great place to start.”
The corners of his face sharpen, still somewhat hazy beneath his morning stubble. I imagine if he’d had that last night, I’d be more raw this morning. “Have you talked to Lovie about how you feel?” He’s redirecting, but I’ll allow it.
“That’s different,” I say. “There’s no point.”
“Angie, then. I’m sure she’d find a different solution if you wanted one. A temporary care facility until something permanent opens up. One of the LTAC hospitals might have an opening. I could ask around.”
My chest cracks open and honesty spills out. “I don’t know what I want anymore.” I throw my head back to the seat.
“I do.” He tightens his grip. “Or do you doubt me again after I proved how perceptive I am last night?”
A warm flush creeps up my neck. Images flash behind my eyes: Adam’s head between my thighs. His mouth on my skin, name on my lips, body in my sheets. If I let him, he’d be under my skin too.
In my heart.
I reach for his phone in the cupholder, coming back to reality. I need caffeine and bacon before I can make any big choices like that. This is a slight alteration of Lovie’s Hard Love Rule Number Six, commonly referred to as HHALT: Never make any important life decisions when you’re Hungry, Horny, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. I think she added the horny part. I asked once if horny and lonely were all that different. She said they were.
It’s time to steer this ship back to calmer waters. “Can I play something I think you’d like?”
After he tells me his passcode, I navigate to Spotify. Elle on the L is in the queue. I find the song I’m searching for.
He listens to the piano notes for a few seconds, a little groove appearing between his eyebrows. “Who is this?”
“Taylor Swift and Bon Iver.”
The groove turns to a chasm. “This … does not sound like Taylor Swift.”
“That would be because your musical tastes are stuck in 2009.” I make a sympathetic hum. “I bet you still think she’s country, don’t you?”
His brows gather. “She’s not?”
I pat his thigh, just above his knee. “Oh, honey.” I’m mostly teasing. I miss one more step on the staircase.
And when he grins, a few more.
After a drive-through breakfast without so much as a vegetable in sight (Adam said potatoes don’t count normally, but especially not when fried with butter and lard), we continue toward the city, my excitement amping up with every mile.
I end up swapping out his music for mine and take him through the choices behind my Queens playlist. The two-hour drive may as well be twenty minutes, and I’m not even upset when we hit morning rush hour traffic, because it means our conversation will last longer. Our fingers tangle and untangle in a dozen different patterns; our thumbs battle lazy wars and our laughs are just for each other.
When we reach the city, I direct him toward Liss’s shoebox-sized bakery.
“Do you come to Chicago often?” I ask as Adam parallel parks on the first try. My question sort of answers itself.
“Sometimes, for work. AngelCare is based out of a hospital here, so I come for that, if there’s ever an issue with payroll, for performance reviews, things like that. The girls really love the pizza.”
I smile. “Maybe we can take them some on the way back.”
“I think we’ll have to survive Liss first, won’t we?”
“ You’ll have to survive her,” I correct, unbuckling my seatbelt. “ I’ll be too busy eating chocolate cake to do anything else.”
On the sidewalk, bitterly cold wind whips at our coats, bites our skin. I duck my chin as Adam absorbs Liss’s shop, the dilapidated front sidewalk and dirty concrete siding. I call this color Corporate America Gray. Perfectly neutral and inoffensive, and yet, someone somewhere is always offended.
I point to the Sweetie’s Cakes logo in the window. “I hung that.”
“I’m impressed,” Adam says, holding the door open for me. His knuckles are bright red. Maybe I’ll get him gloves for Christmas. “Was that before or after you sanded the floors and installed the electrical?”
“After.” Aromas of sugar, warm spice, and fresh whipped cream fill the humid air. “And you forgot rerouting the plumbing and leveling the foundation.”
The door that leads to the kitchen bursts open, and Liss appears. Her hair is frizzed from the ovens, and there’s a spot of flour on her cheekbone. “Oh my God, hi!” She practically vaults around the counter to hug me. Her smile is wide. Even wider when she notices Adam. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“We were in the area,” Adam offers at the same time I say, “Angie kicked us out of our house.”
Our house? Dreaming of Christmas gifts? The sugar’s already going straight to my brain.
“Gave us the morning off,” he amends to appease me. We’re still holding hands.
Liss begins loading my favorite treat into a bakery box—two pieces of her should-be-world-famous chocolate cake. “How’s Lovie?”
Ever the medical professional, Adam gives Liss updates on Lovie’s care and treatment. I curse the American health care system for taking so long to approve dependents.
But my words stick in my throat, coated with guilt. Despite being called colorful names and hit with shoehorns and made inferior, I have enjoyed my time with my grandmother. Doing the podcast has allowed me to revisit old memories I otherwise would have forgotten, and I’m not sure who I should thank for that.
For some reason, part of me thinks it’s Adam.
Speaking of, I hadn’t realized until now I forgot to update Liss and Dakota on last night’s base running.
I send her a telepathic message, but all she does in response is add a plastic container of fresh raspberry puree to the box. Not my intention, but I’ll take it.
Liss wipes her hands on her apron, already dusted with a plethora of colors. “See anything you want, Adam?”
“The little red one.” He pauses for a beat too long, and only when Liss’s eyes grow wide and my cheeks flush does he point at the case. “Red velvet, right?”
As Liss reaches for the cupcake, her eyes dart to me, still wide. They say Did something happen?
I return a look that says You have no idea.
Pink splotches blossom on her face, and she clears her throat. “While you’re here, Adam, can I get your help moving some flour? I don’t know why I continue to order the fifty-pound bags when I can barely lift twenty.”
“Of course. Just show me where you want it.” As a parting gift, his hand brushes my lower back.
When Liss and Adam disappear into the kitchen, I sneak around the counter and grab another piece of cake for my box. I don’t know what the secret ingredient is, but I’m pretty sure it’s crack.
The doors swing open, and Liss starts talking immediately, mostly with her hands. “Did you have sex?” she whisper-hisses. “Did you share the bed ? What’s the score?”
Used to Liss’s ramblings, I keep track easily. “No, third base. Yes, to snuggle and sleep. Nine—I subtracted a point because of the no for the first question.”
“Details,” she whispers, excitement making her eyes sparkle.
In as hushed a tone as I can manage, I tell her, “I may have sat on Adam’s face in the laundry room last night.”
The end of my sentence is drowned out by the kitchen doors swinging open, Adam emerging.
One thing to note about Liss: she has no poker face. None. We never had a chance to do any sort of debauchery in high school, because as soon as an adult with a semifunctioning brain saw her, they’d know she was lying through her teeth.
So when she pastes on a mechanic, saccharine smile, her eyes a touch too crazy, I think I’m had. Done for.
Adam only says, “You have a beautiful kitchen,” which, to Liss, is equivalent to here’s one million dollars or you have a rare genetic condition where you have to eat cake to stay alive or I got you box seats for the Chicago Cubs .
My best friend turns into a pile of mush. She braces against the counter, and her irises morph into hearts before my eyes. I’d be jealous if Adam’s pinkie didn’t brush mine in the same instance.
“What, um …” Liss blinks, dazed. I cough, and her eyes clear. “What else are you two doing today?”
“We’re going to pick up some pizza for Adam’s nieces. Otherwise, I’m not sure—”
“We’re stopping by Elle’s apartment,” he interrupts in a tone gentle enough that I don’t take offense. “She needs to grab some more clothes.”
I stare at him. Did I tell him that? And if so, when ? Sure, I’ve been doing more laundry than usual, but that’s just because I packed for fall. Not for the house to feel like summer and outside to feel like a snowstorm could appear out of nowhere.
(And okay, fine , if I had known Nurse Adam was going to see—and subsequently take off—my undergarments, I would’ve packed nicer options than the Pick Five ones from Target.)
“That’s fun,” Liss says. A large boom sounds from the kitchen, where I can only imagine Dakota is up to his elbows in fondant filigree. She winces. “I should get back. It was good to see you both.” She blows me a kiss and turns it into a wave for Adam. “Stay warm.”
I may have left out the revelation of step-stumbling into love, but based on the way Liss beams at me as we turn to go, I’d imagine her eyes aren’t the only ones that look like hearts.