Page 21 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

He jerks his hand through his messy hair, his jaw tightening like he’s trying to barricade the words inside his mouth. “You don’t need to stick around to get whatever you’re hoping for. I’m sure Judy will let you have whatever you want.”

“Why are you being such a jerk?” I spit the words out, fueled by my righteous indignation. “I’m helping Sam’s family. Mrs.Lewis wanted me to do this.”

“Because Judy thinks he was serious about you!” A wave of regret instantly washes over his face. He drags his eyes from the road to see the wreckage of his direct hit. “I didn’t mean it like that. Well, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it.”

A bitter laugh shakes out of my throat. “Should I appreciate your honesty?”

“I only meant he didn’t talk about you much, and when he did it always sounded so casual.”

“Oh my god.” My words fall out on a drained exhalation.

From his defeated look, I can see he’s not saying any of this to hurt me. And he’s right—Sam broke up with me, after all—but it’s humiliating to have your ex-boyfriend’s indifference toward you detailed by a third party.

He adjusts and readjusts his grip on the wheel. “This isn’t…I’m not saying this right.”

“No, you’ve been very clear. You don’t want me here, and Sam never cared about me. Or talked about me. Ever.”

“That’s not what I said. I said he didn’t talk about you much.” His eyes flit upward like he’s thumbing through the dusty filing cabinet of his brain. “I remember him asking if I’d go skydiving in your place, because you refused to go.” Based on the way his mouth practically trips over itself to soften its blow, my face must be doing something bad. “But he made you sound kind of funny when he told me about it.”

“Skydiving is ridiculous. Why would I voluntarily participate in a flight’s worst-case scenario? If you’re not exiting a plane on the ground, something’s gone horribly wrong.”

“Yeah, that!” I get a glimpse of an animated Adam before it disappears behind his mask of detachment. “I liked that. I told him I couldn’t agree more.”

I can’t tell if he realizes he’s making this worse every time he opens his mouth. He’s hitting on my every insecurity without even trying.

“Alison.” Concern passes over his face. “I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I cut him off. We sit in an unbearable silence the rest of the way back to the impound lot, and the fact that I bet he’s loving my loss for words only fuels my quiet rage.

“There’s no way this scheme works,” he says when he throws the truck into park.

“Have a little faith in me, Berg.” I slam the truck door shut.

Icy moisture pricks my nose, and I hold out my hand to marvel at the perfect cotton candy flakes floating down onto my glove. Finally, it’s started to snow, and I can’t even enjoy it.

We wait in line for the second time today and present our deliberately worded note to an even more apathetic attendant who’s openly watching hockey on his phone. With a disinterested glance at the notebook paper I hand him, he accepts Adam’s check, and we trudge into deeper mud toward the navy SUV in the distance.

I step into a puddle of sludge, but when I pull my left foot forward, it refuses to follow. Tragically, my momentum doesn’t stop. My stomach flips as my right foot slides out from under me, my left still mired in the muck.

It happens slowly enough for the thought to crystalize in my mind—I’m about to faceplant into ice-cold mud—but fast enough that I can only manage to yell, “SSSuuuuuhhhhh!,” which I assume is a portmanteau of many curse words.

I’ve extended my hands in acceptance of my filthy fate when Adam turns from beside me, his large frame meeting mine. “Whoa,” he says, like I’m livestock. I lean into the wall of his body to catch my breath. It feels too good to rest here—even if only for a second—and when he’s not pressing on my fears like they’re a bruise, he’s steady and warm, if a bit stiff.

“Are you okay?” His hands grip my arms and stand me back up with minimal effort. He ducks down, his eyes surveying my face for signs of damage. We’re close—so close that I can make out the shape of snowflakes catching on his long eyelashes. His nearness overwhelms me.

The air bites at my cheeks, and I finally remember to breathe. It creates some much-needed space between us. “I’m fine. See?” I manage to pry my foot from the sludge as an unnecessary visual aid. He nods, his intense brown eyes splicing me in two.

We both register that he’s still holding me by my arms and break apart. He walks ahead, and I quicken my unsteady pace to follow. The navy blue SUV appears in front of us. He wordlessly passes me the keys.

I open the car door, about to climb in, when I feel Adam’s hand brush against my arm. “Will I, uh…Are you coming back next weekend?” he asks.

I want to be angry with him, to write him off as an asshole unworthy of my time and effort, but his guilty face is so achingly genuine. It pulls at my heart like a loose thread. It’s those infuriating eyes. They’re so gentle and guileless that I have to look away when I tell him, “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“See you Saturday.” His voice is low and sure, like he never told me he didn’t want me here. Like it was never up for debate.

He turns away and walks back in the direction of his truck. He looks over his shoulder twice, and I scold myself because both times, I’m looking back, frozen in the spot where he left me, the warmth of his hands still skittering across my arms.

But I can’t help but stare. Adam Berg has a phenomenal walk.

---