27. Emily
Emily
Adam: Ready for some pancakes?
I ’ve been sitting on my balcony looking at his text for the last five minutes. When I left last night, I couldn’t stop feeling like something was wrong. Maybe it was the mention of baseball? I’ve done my best to avoid any and all mention of the sport since James died.
Can I attach myself, by way of Adam, to a sport James loved so much?
Me: What if I told you I already ate?
I think the other part I’m so hesitant about is that once I let him into my space, my life, I’ll never want him to leave.
Adam: Then you can watch me eat all that fluffy and sweet goodness.
Me: You’re cruel. Yeah, you can come over and wow me with your pancake skills.
I add my address in the next text with Adam responding that he’ll be over shortly. Turning back into my apartment I try to look at it from an outsider’s view. Walking over to the expansive kitchen, I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my ripped light-wash jeans and pull out my espresso beans to get to work on making an iced latte.
When my parents chose this place, they wanted me to have everything. I think they bought me this place as a way to make up for the abandonment. And while it’s not fully solvable, it does help. So I live here mortgage-free. Not because of privilege, but because of my parent’s guilt. Which, again, is not solvable but it does ease some financial burden as being a teacher doesn’t mean I’m rolling in the cash.
I’ve just finished pouring the milk when a knock sounds throughout my space.
My heart races knowing that it’s Adam on the other side.
I push up the sleeves of my camel-colored sweater and pad my sock-covered feet over to the door, but check the peephole just to be sure it’s Adam. Seeing it’s him, I take a deep breath and unlock the door, opening it to him.
“Hi,” I breathe out.
Opening the door wider, Adam steps through with his reusable bag-laden arms. Shutting the door, I lead him to my kitchen and the whistle he lets out doesn’t go unnoticed.
My parents had my apartment completely remodeled. Hardwood floors run throughout the living space, dining area, and kitchen. The kitchen, while not my area of expertise, holds a top-of-the-line range with gas burners. The refrigerator is a model down from the ones in restaurants. I have a shallow walk-in pantry where I keep the appliances needed to cook meals should I need them. My espresso machine is the only thing I keep on my counter.
The countertops are white marble with gold flecks that reflect the morning sunlight which pours through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen cabinets are painted a dark navy with gold handles and a soft pink backsplash to add more color to the space. While I’m not a cook, this spot is one of my favorites in the apartment.
When he sets the bags on the counters, he does another survey spin of the space and then puts his gaze on me. “Hi.”
Those dang butterflies take flight as the bright morning sun shines through the windows, highlighting the green in his eyes. I swear I get lost in them as I picture myself enjoying a summer picnic with him and Dylan.
Woah! Shaking myself out of the daydream, I step back and avoid Adam’s puzzled expression. “Do you want some coffee?” I ask as I pick up my drink and look at everything but him and his handsome face.
“Sure. I’ll have what you’re having.”
Placing my drink back on the counter, I make my way back over the espresso machine. I feel like a terrible host. But after last night and now, I’m still feeling thrown off and don’t quite know the best way to get back on track.
My back feels the burn of Adam’s stare. The espresso beans grinding becomes more and more interesting than making conversation. I get to work pouring ice in a cup and getting the milk frothed. When I’ve let the espresso breathe, I pour the espresso shots over the ice, followed by the frothed milk and a straw.
Finally turning around, I hold out the drink to Adam. “All done.”
I don’t watch him take a sip as I put the milk away and wipe down my machine. Only then do I finally face him.
“Is it good?”
“It’s good. Thank you.” He looks like he wants to say more but opts not to. “Do you have a griddle or something for the pancakes?”
“Right. Sorry.”
I find the flat-top in the panty and gather a mixing bowl, measuring cups, and a whisk.
“Do you need anything else?” I’m not sure what goes into his famous pancakes, but I’m sure I have it. I set the flat-top griddle on the counter and plug it in to warm up. When I can’t make myself busy, I sidle up next to Adam with the mixing bowl and measuring cups.
His hands get busy pulling his supplies out of his bag before I feel him pull me into his embrace. “Just you.”
My arms wrap around his waist and my body relaxes for the first time since he crossed the threshold into my home. As a matter of fact, my body relaxes for the first time since our kiss last night. His heartbeat thumps steadily in my ear and it’s enough to tether me to him. I nuzzle into his chest and inhale the scent that’s all Adam, cedarwood and patchouli.
All too soon our embrace ends and Adam pulls away from me. “I want you to sit your cute butt on the counter while I get to work and I wanna know what’s with the weirdness, Em.”
It’s a valid observation on his part. One I’ve been wondering about myself since last night.
I must be taking too long because Adam hefts me up on the counter like I weigh nothing and hands me my iced latte. “Thank you.”
“Mm-hmm. So what’s got you putting those bricks up again?”
“Baseball. I don’t want to keep bringing James up but he was such a massive part of my life.” I watch as Adam expertly measures out the pancake mix almost in a trance-like state. “When you said Dylan was at baseball camp it was like a bucket of cold water was dumped on me. Since James died I’ve avoided the sport as a whole.”
His hands stop mixing and I trail my eyes up to meet his. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know,” I put my drink off to the side. “Adam, I came to love baseball. And one day I won’t correlate the sport to pain or to him. If this thing between us continues the way we’re both predicting then I think Dylan’s games would be the perfect re-introduction.”
Am I getting ahead of myself? Putting the cart before the horse? Absolutely. But if the fire that burns in Adam’s eyes as I include his son is any indication that he feels the same, then I said the right thing.
“If you keep saying things like that then we’ll never eat.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I counter back.
He shakes his head with a smile and gets back to the pancake mix. I watch him work in silence. There is no need for small talk as being in the space with him fills up all of the quiet spaces.
I slide off the counter while Adam scoops out some pancake batter on the heated griddle. I walk over to my record player and flip through my vinyls until I find The National . Pulling it out of the case, I put it on the turnstile and turn the volume up until the music floats into the kitchen.
Adam looks so comfortable in my kitchen that it makes me envision Saturday mornings at his house. Hopping back up on the counter I see he’s already got a small stack of pancakes with butter smothered on top.
“Are you a fan of The National ?”
“You kidding? They’re one of the first concerts I ever went to.”
I cross my legs, holding my drink in my hand, then ask him, “Who are your top five artists or bands if that’s what you prefer.”
He flips the last of the pancakes onto the plate and then moves my way. “Hmm. The National , obviously. Tim McGraw , The Weeknd , Lana Del Rey , and Zedd . Yours?”
I point to the cabinet to the left of the stove and Adam gets two plates down for us. “ Lana Del Rey is my top artist. She’s who I was listening to the first night I texted you.”
“Thank you, Lana Del Rey .” Adam holds his hands in prayer pose as he looks up to the ceiling and I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes.
“You’re such a goof. Then it would be Kendrick Lamar , Hozier , Miley Cyrus , and Florence & the Machine . But I’m not too picky. As long as a song hooks me I’ll obsess over it for weeks until a new song comes along. And repeat the obsessive process all over again.”
“Solid choices, Ms. Bailey. Breakfast is done. Where should we sit?”
I have a couple of options: the balcony that has a small table or my dining table that can easily seat six.
“Let’s do the dining table.”
Adam makes his way to the table as I reach into my refrigerator to pull out the bottle of syrup and some napkins.
I join him at the table and sit caddy-corner to him for maximum closeness without sitting on top of him. Although I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
Taking a bite of my pancakes, I let out a moan that should only be heard in the bedroom. “Holy shit these are good.” I see Adam shift in his seat and I hide a smirk that my moan affected him. “Are you okay?”
He clears his throat. “Mm-hmm. So I see you like them?” Adams asks as he shovels food into his mouth.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond in the same way and shovel more pancakes into my mouth.
We eat in comfortable silence with only the sound of our forks on our plates and The National crooning in the background. When my plate is clear, I push it to the middle of the table and sit back on my chair. Adam mirrors my position.
“That was good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So you mentioned your birthday a while back. How old did you turn? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I turned twenty-seven,” I state proudly.
Adam lets out a whistle of surprise.
“What?” I ask with a small laugh.
“I knew you were young. But I didn’t think you were that young.”
“And you’re so old and wise?” I joke as I get up to take our plates to the sink. Turning the faucet on, I rinse off the sticky residue of syrup and pop the plates in the dishwasher. Adam joins me in the kitchen and places the syrup back in the fridge.
Wiping my hands off on a dish towel, I turn and mirror his stance.
“As a matter of fact, I am old and wise.” He stalks closer to me, causing my heart rate to amp up.
I steady my breath. “Just how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Our sock-covered toes are inches from touching as Adam stops in front of me. My chest heaves like I ran a marathon as he cages me in. His scent, mixing with the syrup from breakfast, is a heady sensation. His warmth cocoons me as I rest my hands on the waist of his jeans.
“You can let me know how forty is.”