Chapter 34
Adam
Ruth is going to be the death of me. I gather a stack of plates and forks, hurrying to put food in my sister’s mouth before she digs my hole deeper.
I love Stevie, but it doesn’t mean she loves me. When I remember our conversation in the hammock, my stomach sours. I want to give myself to her fully, but is she ready for that? I want her to be with me because she loves me, not because I validate her.
I don’t care that she holds the men around her to standards that she ignores herself. I don’t even care that she believes Bigfoot is out there. Like Ruth has said, a little crazy is fun. I’m here for Stevie’s version of crazy fun, one hundred percent.
But she’s tying herself in knots worrying about what everyone else thinks—her dad, her brothers, people online, and now me. This relationship won’t work with this ridiculous bet wedged between us.
Crispin comes inside, and we fumble through breakfast. Stevie likes my accidentally deconstructed omelettes. Sammie isn’t a fan. She takes a few mandatory bites and wanders off to pull everything down from my bookshelves.
“If you want, I can show you how to fold an omelette without . . . this.” Crispin circles his fork in the air over his plate.
Stevie’s mouth hangs open.
“Adam’s deconstructed omelettes are my new favorite breakfast, actually.” Ruth takes a huge bite. “Perfection is boring. Overrated.” She eyes Crispin’s perfectly coiffed mannequin hair. My sister simply cannot take a break from meddling to enjoy a plate of mangled eggs, bacon, and spinach.
Stevie’s freckled cheeks are pink. “I like things messy.” Her big brown eyes peer into mine, and my stomach tightens. “And a little crazy.” She sounds defensive now.
Crispin scoffs.
My heart aches. I want Stevie so much, but I want her fully. I need her to be ready for this, though—for us. I’m worried she’s not. There’s a lot going on there. Speaking of messy omelettes . . .
A shuffling sound in the hall draws our attention, then a clatter on the floor has Ruth on her feet. Sammie appears from the hallway, dragging what looks like a carcass behind her.
Oh, no.
My niece pulls my ghillie suit into the kitchen like it’s any other Sunday morning. She’s proud of herself, looking like a golden retriever with a dead opossum in its mouth.
Ruth’s wide eyes dart to Stevie, then back to her daughter. She lunges for the ghillie suit, but Sammie is fast.
“Uh mine!” she screeches, darting away and dragging my Bigfoot costume behind her.
This is so bad. I’m paralyzed as my sister chases her daughter into the living area.
“No, Sammie. Stop!” Ruth can’t quite catch her daughter, even with the cumbersome weight of evidence Sammie is pulling.
She finally snags her, swinging Sammie into her arms and leaving the ghillie suit on the floor in an incriminating pile.
“I’ve told you so many times”—she’s fighting for air—“you have to stay out of Uncle Adam’s stuff.
” She kicks the ghillie suit out of sight, like that will help. Everyone saw it.
Sammie bellows, reaching for the hairy suit like this is the tragic end of a love story. “Mine!”
Ruth removes her screeching daughter from the room, and Stevie smothers a laugh. “What is that thing?”
Crispin drops his fork, understanding lighting his eyes. “That was you,” he accuses.
Stevie’s eyes tighten. “What was Adam?”
I thought I’d tell Stevie about this alone.
I’ve never owned up to being Stevie’s Bigfoot, and it’s been quietly eating at me—every time I spot one of her T-shirts around town I’m reminded that this reality isn’t going to fade into oblivion.
I knew I’d have to deal with it eventually.
This conversation is long overdue. I just don’t want to have this talk with Crispin sitting right there.
I’m looking forward to calling him out, though.
I turn my attention to the man. “Yeah.” I grin. “That was me.”
“What was Adam?” Stevie frowns, growing impatient. She hates being left out or not knowing things.
I pivot toward her, ignoring Crispin’s red face.
Ready or not, I’m doing this. “That’s called a ghillie suit.
I wear it sometimes when I want to blend in .
. . in the preserve.” Stevie’s smart. I want her to piece this together herself.
“Last week, Crispin was out there doing . . . What were you doing, anyway?” I narrow my eyes.
I’d love to hear him explain this. The man who’s apparently trying to date my girlfriend can be honest about his other intentions.
Am I being petty? Maybe. I’m human, and I don’t care for the guy.
His polished exterior doesn’t crack. “I was filming a vlog.”
I guess he isn’t going to explain himself. I’ll help him along. “He was out there trying to prove that your sighting was fake—”
Stevie’s eyes spark, and she turns her whole body toward him. She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
He shakes his head. “Listen, it isn’t like that—”
“Bear Grylls here”—I nod to Crispin—“didn’t see me sitting a dozen feet away. I heard everything, man.” I fold my arms over my chest, giving him an opening to explain himself.
Stevie’s head jerks back. “What did you hear?”
Crispin manages to keep a smooth expression.
“The truth. You didn’t see anything out there.
” His condescending tone is also smooth.
It’s like butter, and it makes me want to spread him on the concrete.
“We all know it. You can admit it to yourself by now, right? I mean, for a minute there—after this guy chased me out of the woods in costume like some kind of Scooby Doo villain—I was almost convinced, too.”
Stevie’s confused laugh has an angry edge. Her tight gaze moves from Crispin to me.
Crispin pushes his chair away from the table.
“You’ve got a cute little hustle going, but that’s all it is, Stevie.
” He’s fighting to maintain the cool L.L.
Bean facade, but it’s slipping. When he’s made his way to the front door, he shoots over his shoulder, “I’m calling a rideshare. Thanks for breakfast.”
Stevie blinks in shock at my front door, her face pulled into a grimace. “Someone’s about to find out that the one Uber driver in Cape Georgeana likes to sleep in.”
We listen to the hum of the vent fan for a few seconds while I gather my thoughts. It’s time for me to explain myself. It’s past time, actually.
“Stevie—”
“Put it on.” She stabs her finger at the pile of ghillie suit in my living room.
“Put it on?” I parrot her demand, praying I’ve misunderstood her.
“You heard me.” She doesn’t sound fully angry. In fact, the corner of her mouth is curled into an almost-smile.
“You want me to put on my . . .” I tip my head toward the suit.
“Uh-huh.” Now she’s folding her arms over her chest.
“Uh . . .” I’d rather sing Britney Spears's full catalog at a town meeting. While tap dancing.
“Stop stalling.” She’s fully grinning now. “You know you aren’t getting out of this.”
With a heavy exhale, I scrape my chair away from the table and make my way to the ghillie suit. I pull the thing over my clothes, taking my time before I turn to face her. “Well?”
Is she angry? I can’t tell. She’s not smiling anymore.
She tilts her head, taking me in. “Walk across the room.”
This is insane, but I do as she instructs and pace across the room like an obedient sasquatch. I know she’s pieced it together. I suppose reenacting her Bigfoot sighting is the price I’ll pay for not coming clean weeks ago.
I lumber across my cabin, coming to a stop and propping my fists on my hips.
She squints, and her eyes run over me from head to hairy foot. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Uh—”
“Never mind.” Her face reddens. “I don’t blame you. I just—” She runs both hands down her face. Then she tilts her face to the ceiling, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Are you angry?” I might as well ask.
“No.” She looks at me, twisting her lips to the side as she considers her answer. “I feel stupid.” Her face falls. “I feel so completely, utterly, ridiculously stupid. Publicly stupid. Stupid on a national scale, even.”
I’m glad Sammie isn’t here to witness her new friend Stevie swearing like a sailor. And I'm starting to wonder whether Stevie's stubbornness, all of her bullheaded assertions, might stem from a fear of looking stupid. And sharp, quick-thinking, bright-minded Stevie is anything but stupid.
But before I can remind her of that, she starts laughing. She buries her face in her hands again, smothering her breathless guffaws with her palms.
I chuckle nervously, waiting.
“Well . . .” Her laughter fades, and she swipes the wetness from the corners of her eyes. “I guess I am crazy.” She catches her breath, shaking her head at me. “But the good news is, you’re just as crazy as I am.”
This isn’t the reaction I expected. I figured she’d be angry, or at least annoyed, that I didn’t tell her the truth sooner. “You’re sure you’re not mad that I didn’t tell you?”
“Not even a little.” She shakes her head. “I get it—it’s embarrassing.” She cringes at my suit, like she feels bad for me. “And I mean, technically, I dragged you into this. I’m mad at myself. I feel stu—”
“Don’t say that word again.” I frown. “I won’t have that. Everyone makes mistakes.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “But Adam. You went sorta viral wearing that. I did that.” She stops to laugh again and barely gets out the words, “This can’t be real.”
“Stevie—”
She holds up a finger, asking me to wait, her eyes bright with laughter.
“My boyfriend is the Bigfoot I saw. The thing I’ve been tracking for weeks—the thing I bet on—is you.
” She could use a dry-erase board and a few Harvard kids to map out this tangled web.
She gasps. “The bet. My listeners.” Her eyes go wide. “This is so baaaaad.”
I agree. There are many reasons I didn’t admit the truth sooner.
Her big brown eyes peer up at me. “How are we supposed to tell everyone?”
One word catches my attention, filling me with relief: we. I like that Stevie’s still thinking in terms of “we” and not running away screaming, which would be completely valid. I might not deserve that “we,” but I’m accepting it gratefully. I haven’t told her everything, though.
“I may have accidentally told Ike about us.” I confess with a wince.
“You told Ike?” she screeches. “Why? What exactly did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything intentionally.” I sit in the chair beside Stevie. “Last night Sammie was playing with my phone, and—”
She shakes her head, fighting laughter. “Can you take off the Bigfoot costume while we talk? I can’t take you seriously in that thing.”
My face flushes. “Oh, yeah. Sure.” I scramble out of the ghillie suit, which is always a bit of a process. I clear my throat. “It’s meant for hunting and observing wildlife, by the way—”
“It forever is, and always will be, a Bigfoot costume.” She softens her words with an amused smile. Maybe she likes my crazy side? She would.
Tossing the ghillie suit down the hall and out of sight, I take my seat. Stevie is seeing the real me now—the guy who wears a shrubbery suit in his spare time and gets mistaken for Bigfoot. And she’s still here. That’s something.
“So?” Stevie flutters her hand, prodding me along. “Sammie was playing with your phone, and . . .”
I nod. “She either called Ike, or she answered a call. Whatever happened, Ike might’ve overheard a conversation between Ruth and me . . .” He didn’t hang up right away. I know he was listening, but I’m easing Stevie into the fact that Ike knows I’m her boyfriend.
Stevie leans in, her eyes full of alarm. “What were you guys talking about?”
Ruth waltzes in. “He told me you were trying to find evidence of Bigfoot before you fess up about having a boyfriend.” She makes herself at home in my fridge.
She emerges with a can of Coke, cracking it open and gulping it down.
She stops to catch her breath. “My brother said he loves you. It was incriminating stuff.”