Page 107 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Perfect. He’s at that age where he still wants to believe in Santa but is questioning the logic. We had to work a bit harder to sell it. After he fell asleep last night, I walked on the garage roof so we could show him Santa’s boot prints in the morning.”

“Adam! That’s stupid dangerous.”

“No way. It was smart.” His voice sparkles with the beginning of a laugh.

“You thought it was smart to reenact the dad’s death in Gremlins?”

“I’m impressed you’ve seen Gremlins. That’s nearly a scary movie.”

“First, how dare you? Second, Gremlins is terrifying. I can’t watch Snow White without picturing those little goblin thingies singing along.”

“They’re gremlins, Mullally. It’s in the name.” His voice widens the way it always does when he’s pretending he’s not amused by me. “How was your Christmas?”

“Good. Really good, actually. The best one in a while.”

“I’m glad.”

The silence grows until I can’t help but squash it. “Did you call just to say Merry Christmas?”

“No. I wanted to talk. I just needed to get some privacy.”

I hear a car door shut on his side of the line. I imagine him in his truck in his sister’s driveway and the way he looked at me from the bench seat the last time I was there with him—like he was drinking me in.

“Okay.” I reshuffle the pillows to lie down. I’ve talked to a few boys while staring up at this popcorn ceiling, but I’ve never felt as on edge as I do right now talking to Adam.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“My childhood bedroom. It’s weird being back here. The whole house is a 2000s time warp. This morning, I stepped on a butterfly clip that’s been caught in my rug since elementary school.”

“I hate butterflies,” he says easily, like he hates Mondays or anchovies and not a majestic creature of the natural world.

Pleasure creeps into my voice. “How can you hate butterflies?”

“Okay, I don’t hate butterflies. But I don’t understand why people treat them differently than other bugs because they’re colorful.”

I snort.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just love that. It’s such a you opinion.”

“Delightfully misanthropic?”

“Grumpy,” I answer. “And something I might agree with but would never say out loud.” I can hear him thinking, smiling maybe.

“I’m seeing a therapist.” The confession bursts out of him. “Maybe I should start there.” He laughs nervously. It’s deep and rumbly, just like I remember.

“Me too. I’ve seen her on and off for years, but I’m on again.”

“I’m newer to it than you are. Things kind of fell apart for me after Sam’s birthday. June begged me to see someone.”

“I’m so sorry, Adam.” I count his breaths as the silence stretches. “I got your text.” The word No flashes above my head.

“That’s why I called.” He exhales. “I didn’t know how to say it over text. When you reached out, you said I was right, but I wasn’t right about anything. I volunteered to help with the condo because it was something to do. A way to put off processing everything I was feeling after Sam’s death. We weren’t growing apart. I pushed him away.

“Sam was the one who I made all these life goals with—go up north for the apprenticeship, make it back to the Cities, and strike out on my own. He made it sound simple. It was simple at first. When I finished the apprenticeship, he talked me up to his parents’ friends, looking for investors. Paul, that guy at Thanksgiving with the She Shed, he went back and forth with me for almost a year on investing. He had me redesign the same dining set countless times, wanting something more ‘marketable.’ By the end of it, I had a garage full of furniture I hated, and he had a vegan juice company that was a better fit for his Shark Tank fantasies.” He chuckles bitterly.

“I never got over that, what felt like the dismissal of everything I worked for. I lost who I was to create something someone else might deem worthy of their investment. For years, I’ve been sort of…hiding, I guess? So stuck in my life and so afraid to try again and fail. Sam was always pushing me to take another chance, and I pushed him away rather than risk taking a single step forward.”

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