Page 19 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

Alison Mullally is authorized to pick up Acura MDX #672 YKX registered to Samuel Lewis.

I hand Russell my ID and gesture to Adam to do the same. “We’ll sign it as ourselves.”

“Does Adam have the authority to—”

“We’ll worry about its enforceability, but as you can see, no one’s pretending to be anyone they’re not.” I press on.

Russell frowns, and I briefly switch tactics, offering my sweetest smile. “Can you verify our signatures? I can’t tell you how much it would help us out.” I pout my lips slightly. I’ve seen Chelsea pull off this move with great success, but I haven’t practiced it enough to know whether I look sexy or constipated—high risk, high reward.

Russell reveals all of his perfect white capped teeth, and I know I’ve got him. He removes his stamp and ink pad from a pouch. I write in a loopy, purposefully illegible script. Adam seems to follow suit, or he just always signs like a toddler.

“Good luck.” Russell scoff-laughs as he verifies our signatures with his stamp.

“Thanks.” Adam’s gratitude pains him.

Russell repacks his notary pouch. “Alison, you’re sorting out who’s getting Sam’s stuff, right?”

“Not really. I’m helping Adam pack everything to get the condo ready for sale. We’re not distributing anything.” I look questioningly at Adam, but his eyes are narrowed on Russell.

“Sam promised me some mountaineering gear for the Patagonia trip. I mentioned it to Sam’s mom at the funeral. She said I should talk to you about picking it up.”

Adam slants him a seething look. “Our thirty-two-year-old friend promised you ‘gear’ in the event of his accidental death? And you asked his mom about it at her son’s funeral?”

“He was giving it to me for the trip. What’s your problem?” Russell flexes and crosses his arms defensively over his chest.

“That’s fine, Russ.” I collect the letter from the table, stepping between the two men before this display of testosterone gets out of hand. “Text me what to look for, and we’ll figure something out.”

Russell faces me with a cocky grin, but his eyes are fixed on Adam, watching for sudden movements. “Good. We can meet for drinks after. You’re still coming to Patagonia in January, right? Sam wouldn’t have wanted you to miss it.” Russell doesn’t wait for my response. “It’ll be therapeutic. I always find returning to nature to be the perfect clean slate. A rebirth.”

I remember when Sam invited me on this trip. We had only been on a few dates. It all sounded incredible—hiking in the mountains, camping under the stars every night, nothing but the pack on your back. He invited me along like it was nothing—like such an experience was even a possibility for a recovering homebody like me.

I said yes, and it was the most intoxicating feeling. I loved being the type of girl who agreed to spend two weeks in Patagonia with a handsome stranger. I could tell Sam liked that girl more than the real me. But the more time we spent together, the more obvious it was that, to me, the adventurous girl was still a goal. To him, she was a lie.

Adam grimaces, which only makes Russell’s grin look toothier. Russell is as slick and uncontroversially handsome as a reality dating show contestant, while even Adam’s sourest expression is undeniably trustworthy. It’s the eyes, I think. They’re solid and seemingly honest.

“You two can pick through Sam’s stuff another time.”

I look daggers at Adam before presenting my forced smile to Russell. “We better get going. Thanks for your help, Russell.” I push Adam out the door before me.

“I’ll text you,” Russell calls out as I’m stepping into the truck.

Like him, Adam’s truck is beige on beige on beige. Still, it’s impressively tidy—not a speck of dust or McDonald’s wrapper in sight.

Adam adjusts his mirrors from the driver’s side of his bench seat. “If you want to stay here with him, I can figure out how to get the car back on my own.”

“Why would I stay here?”

“Alison, baby, let’s get a drink, just the two of us,” he mocks.

My eyelashes flutter with faux sweetness. “Someone’s cranky. I’m sure he would have invited you too if you hadn’t been scowling at our only hope for getting the car.”

“I wasn’t scowling.”

“So that deep ridge forming between your brows is just your face then. My mistake. Either way, you can’t get rid of me yet. It’s my name on the note.”

“Don’t let that stop you from shooting your shot with Russ. His shirt’s already off, and he doesn’t strike me as a generous lover. I can wait.” He cranks up the heat and unbuttons the top two buttons of his khaki-colored coat.

My eye snags on the denim lining I recognize as the outside of yesterday’s jacket. Does Adam only own one jacket? “Don’t be gross. He’s your friend.”

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