Chapter 30
Chapter
In the eleven years I’ve known Adam Harper, I have prepared dinner for him approximately once.
At some point, before I ever landed The Mousetrap and he got a decent-paying job, I was craving a box of Kraft mac and cheese.
Adam offered to make some elaborate four-cheese concoction from scratch, and I insisted whatever came from the box would be better.
We ate in silence and once we were done, all he said was that cooking it with milk instead of water would make it creamier and to maybe use the stove instead of a microwave.
I never attempted to impress him with dinner again.
Luckily, I’m proud to share that I’ve learned a thing or two since then, like how to read a recipe. Today, I plan on spending the afternoon preparing him a meal he won’t forget. I’ve found the perfect ravioli recipe online that I feel somewhat confident about executing.
I make a quick trip to the grocery store, though it looks like we have the majority of the ingredients already at the house.
This should be easy, except for a small detail.
I pull out my phone while studying the laptop screen in front of me.
I skip over the story about the woman whose ex-husband ran away with her sister, which sparked the recipe for Rebecca’s runaway ravioli.
After four rings, Adam answers.
“Hey, what’s up?” I hear the clinking sound of plates and glasses and people talking behind him.
“Question: Do you have a pasta maker?”
“Like, personally?” he says.
“Yes.” I scroll down the recipe, making sure there’s nothing else I need.
“Why?” he asks skeptically.
“Because I need one—do you have one or not?”
“Of course I have one. Are you making dinner?” He sounds more surprised than I anticipated, which is only more motivation for me to do this.
“Well, I’m not using it to wring out my stockings,” I say.
“Ew,” he says. “Is that a thing?”
“I hope not.” I close my laptop. “Okay, where is it?”
“It’s at my place,” he says.
“Oh.” Right. His place. He has a place. I don’t know why I haven’t put much thought into it until now. Almost like outside of our bubble, he doesn’t exist.
“I can get it on my way back—”
“No, I can’t wait until then.” I look at the clock. There’s probably another four hours until he comes home, and that would defeat my surprise of having dinner on the table once he walks in. “Can I get it? Where do you live again?”
“If you don’t mind going to the Upper West Side,” he says. “Off 85th. Come over here and I’ll give you the keys.”
“Okay, see you soon.” I smile like an idiot and hang up the phone.
Even though it’s freezing, Adam meets me outside Alden wearing only a dress shirt with the sleeves rolledup.
“Hi,” he says, leaning in to give me a kiss. I forget we’re in public, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer tome.
“Hi,” I mumble against his lips.
He slips his hands underneath my coat and squeezes my waist, a gesture fairly innocent on his end, but which nonetheless arousesme.
“Here you go.” He hands me a single gold key. “I let the front desk know you’re coming.”
“Fancy.” I take the key and put it in my pocket. “Is there anything else you need while I’m there?”
“I’m okay.” He nods. “Take whatever you want.”
“I’ll see you tonight.” I stand on my toes and give him another kiss.
He keeps a hand on my elbow. “Is it safe to say we’re eating pasta?”
“Can you at least pretend you’re surprised tonight?” I say.
“You’re cooking dinner,” he says. “Trust me, I’m surprised.”
“Wooow,” I say, and he pulls me back in for a kiss, laughing against my lips.
Adam’s not one to give away laughs so freely, but when he does, knowing you’re the reason is one of the best feelings in the world. As I take a final look at him, he gives a wink, then heads back inside. For what feels like the first time in a long time, everything is how it shouldbe.
I get off the C train and walk to a gorgeous luxury condo just on the edge of Central Park West. It has the charm of an old New York apartment with the brown brick and a vintage exterior trim, but the details feel sleek and modern.
It’s a little weird seeing where Adam’s spent his time in between then and now and the kind of life he’s built for himself, a part of him that has nothing to do withme.
An older man wearing a dark suit greets me from behind the desk. “Good afternoon, can I help you with anything?” He smiles.
“Hi, I’m here for Adam Harper, apartment 1606,” I say, pulling out the gold key in my pocket.
“Oh yes.” He looks down at his pad of paper. “Ms. Wood. Right this way.” He guides me to an elevator and then scans his key card.
I smile. “Thank you.”
When I reach the sixteenth floor, I’m a little disoriented to discover this is a private elevator to Adam’s suite. I use the key on the door directly in front of me and open it to his apartment.
“Damn,” I say to myself.
Stepping out, I’m in a little entryway that tells me this place is bigger than I’d thought.
I place the key on a table to my side and turn the corner.
On my left are those floor-to-ceiling windows, opposite a view of the Manhattan skyline with Central Park below it.
There’s a kitchen that’s so legit I know it’s probably the sole reason Adam wanted this place, and to my right is one of those white Cloud couches in front of a mounted television.
Even though I’m the only person in the apartment, I say “ Hello? ” to nobody and walk down the hallway.
The entire unit has a minimalist style, and in his room a king-size bed sits against the wall with a navy blue linen duvet.
His bathroom is impressively clean, with matching navy hand towels folded over the rack.
Adam clearly has his shit together, but considering he had no idea I’d be coming over, the apartment is in pristine condition. I walk back into the kitchen and go through a few cupboards, scanning the collection of cookbooks he has along the backsplash before I see the pasta maker.
“There you are.” I grab it and carry it back to the entryway. It’s a lot heavier than I’d thought and I debate whether I should take the subway or grab a cab.
As I make my way to the front door, I catch an open box containing some random items in the corner of the living room. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I adjust the pasta maker over my hip as if it was a baby and walk toward the box.
From where I’m standing, I see a framed newspaper clipping from The New York Times with a review of Alden.
Placing the pasta maker on the ground, I kneel, pulling out another framed photo.
My fingers gently run along bronzed wood and I smile at an image of an Adam no older than eighteen, with Sarah and Audrey in front of the Brooklyn Bridge.
My eyes begin to well up, because it feels almost like one of my own memories.
I wipe a tear at the corner of my eye, knowing that Audrey would be more than ecstatic seeing Adam and me finally together, the way we should always have been.
When I place the frame back in the box, I catch a glimpse of another photo, one that makes it feel like the floor has fallen beneath me. My hands tremble as I pick up a silver frame with a Polaroid picture init.
Smiling back at me through the glass is Riley in front of the Eiffel Tower, her hair blowing in the wind and Adam behind her, arms wrapped around her waist as he kisses her cheek. One of her hands grips his, while the left one is held up to the camera…with a diamond ring.
My lips go numb, and my heart starts to race. I don’t know what part of me is processing this faster, my mind or my body. The minute a question forms in my mind, another one takes over until the whos, whats, wheres, whens, and whys have run through my head like a slot machine.
I didn’t expect Adam to tell me every detail about his relationship with Riley.
That’s between the two of them and whatever happened is over and has nothing to do with me.
But this… this is something big, something that I can’t ignore.
While there’s no reason that this should change anything, I can’t unsee it, nor can I control the churning in my stomach.
Suddenly I’m transported back to that day at the roller rink watching Adam and Riley being effortlessly happy.
The part of me that wanted to leave was right.
The part of me that thought I should stay was wrong.
It feels as if the last few weeks have been a lie.
I really believed the entire time we were apart that Adam and I were living similar lives, threaded through the same needle.
Swindlers is nowhere near comparable to Adam’s success with Alden, but on paper, we checked the box on our dreams. On the surface, we got what we wanted, but something was missing for both of us.
Each other. Now, knowing that once I left, Adam’s happily ever after was just beginning tells me we are actually much more different than I’d thought.
Their faces are beaming back at me, and I take deep breaths to keep my nausea at bay.
I picture Adam asking Robby for help in buying the perfect ring for Riley, planning the quintessential Paris trip, getting down on one knee in front of the Eiffel Tower to profess his love, and the two of them coming back home to celebrate with Ford and Sarah.
Them being happy that Adam finally found someone he can spend the rest of his life with instead of playing house with June.
June, who was never good enough to maintain a career on Broadway, never good enough to be in a long-term relationship, never good enough for her own parents, never good enough to land a role on a show that isn’t canceled after one season. June, who was never good enough for Adam.