Page 15 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

Mara grimaces. “Yikes.”

“Onward and upward! I’m either going on a total man hiatus or applying for The Bachelor.”

“Bachelor,” I vote.

“Neither,” Mara argues.

“I’m too old for The Bachelor anyway. Once you hit thirty, you get the ‘crazy and desperate’ edit.” Chelsea fights a losing battle with her loose hair strand before finally retreating to the bathroom with a huff.

Mara raises her brows. “That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Speaking of disasters,” I say. “Sam’s best friend might hate me. Probably.”

Her eyes crinkle to slits. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I’m perfect!”

“Does he know Sam dumped you?”

I shoo her negativity away with my free hand. “Okay—it was very nearly amicable—but no, he never mentioned anything, and I wasn’t about to tell him. He spoke like seven words the whole day. Is that enough of a reason to flake on Sam’s family and avoid them for eternity?”

“For me? Yes. But you’re the one who has to live with telling a grieving family you can’t be bothered to box up some dishes.”

I slope my head into my palm.

“Are you still into ‘the friend’? Adam, is it?” Mara asks.

“I was never into ‘the friend’!”

Chelsea slides back into her side of the booth with her refreshed, perfectly imperfect hairstyle. “Oh, thank god! I was worried you were talking about me. So Al’s in love with Sam’s friend. Go.”

I pale at the accusation and turn to find Patrick, who’s placing the scored answer sheet into Mara’s greedy hands. “That’s so messed up. That would be like if Demi Moore left Patrick Swayze for Whoopi Goldberg.”

Chelsea’s teeth tear into discarded pizza crust. “That would be such a good movie!”

Irritation scrunches my features. “No, we’re not…He won’t even talk to me. We’re two people stuck together until we finish the job, never to speak again. Then I’ll no longer be Demi Moore. Or Whoopi Goldberg. I lost track of Patrick’s analogy.”

Chelsea gives me a playful wink. “Oh, Al. You’re a total Demi.”

My groan is cut short by the announcement of our narrow victory. While Mara whoops in unhinged euphoria, Chelsea redirects our prize pizza to a group of crying Harley Quinns, who appear to need it more than we do.

The streets are still bursting when I trudge home, bracing myself for another day in Adam’s company.

5

But It Didn’t Snow

The next morning, the early November chill bites at my face the moment I step off the light rail into the Minneapolis air. The season is well past its peak, and most of the trees are naked sticks with only the last bits of fall foliage clinging to them.

Fall’s the season I like the least because it’s the most fleeting one. It’s always orange and vibrant in my memories, with a pumpkin coffee in my hand to warm me just a bit. In reality, that fantasy season lasts about ten days, tops. The rest of the season is cold, dead, and gray.

The only saving grace is that today is November 1—the official start to the Christmas season, per the reigning queen of Christmas, Mariah Carey. People all over the city will be decorating their trees, wrapping their rooflines with twinkle lights, and decking their halls.

Tonight, I’ll break out a spruce-tree-scented three-wick candle (the more wicks, the better), plug in my tabletop artificial tree, and queue up a Christmas movie. Until then, I’ll be stacking plates and mugs with the North Shore Grump.

The apartment door is unlocked when I arrive. I announce my presence by telling Adam I’m making coffee and take his silence as drowsy assent. My mindless chatter fills the quiet as I open a bag of the coffee and the toasty aroma of the beans fills my nostrils.

I shoot three feet into the air when Adam—a man who I was certain was puttering around the bedroom—strolls through the front door like a goddamned teleporter. Coffee beans scatter across the counter and onto the wood floor with little clinks. I gasp and grab the kitchen island to settle myself—beans crunching under my feet—as Adam surveys the mess.

---