Page 33 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

It’s a miserable, drizzly morning, which means I’ll be spending the entire day with Adam fighting my hair. At its best, my hair is light brown with a texture somewhere between Felicity-era Keri Russell and Folklore-era Taylor Swift, but today’s spitting rain only seems to emphasize its wildness.

I smell coffee brewing when I back-step into Sam’s apartment clutching two red Starbucks cups. The boxes I filled yesterday are gone, as are the cupboard doors. On the kitchen island are coffee beans, a brown paper bag of bagels, and an extra-large tub of cream cheese. Adam has hit every small business on the block that opens before seven a.m.

“I brought you an Americano for the breakfast buffet.” My words bounce around the sparse living room. The furniture’s still here, but everything that made the place special is now packed away.

Adam’s head pops out of the bathroom door. Scattered around him are several orange Home Depot bags. “Oh, thanks. Leave it there with everything else. I’ll need help installing the faucet when you’re ready.” He bends his head like the matter is settled and disappears behind the toilet.

“Is there a reason we’re fixing the sink and not, say, a licensed plumber?”

“If you have to hire a plumber to replace a faucet, you’re hopeless.” His insult echoes off the bathroom tile.

I roll my eyes, kicking off my winter boots and shimmying my coat down my shoulders. Muddy, slushy footprints show my every move like animal tracks. I curse myself under my breath, knowing that every small thing I do to make this apartment messier only adds to our growing to-do list.

Sam’s parents couldn’t have known the repairs this place needed when they tasked us with getting it ready to sell in only four weeks. Surely they’d forgive us for leaving an imperfect sink, but I don’t want to abandon Adam and whatever feelings are compelling him to spend so much of his free time in this apartment.

“I see you beat me to the coffee. Do you want this Americano? I wouldn’t want to overcaffeinate you.”

“Not possible.” He strides out of the bathroom, washing his hands in the kitchen sink before grabbing the cup from my carrier. He lifts it in a gesture of appreciation. “I got a coffeemaker while I was out. This way, you won’t have to buy it.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s good.” I try to conceal my disappointment. I like bringing coffee. It justifies my presence while he’s under the sink fitting pipes or whatever light plumbing he’s up to.

“And you don’t need to worry about missing your mint mochas.” Adam opens the fridge with a flourish, revealing a slim green carton.

“Fudgy Mint Cookie Creamer.”

“They can’t call it Thin Mint Creamer because of trademarks.”

“Sure.” I turn the carton slowly, certain it’ll detonate in my hands.

“But that’s obviously what it is.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Adam sounded the slightest bit excited. It’s infectious, even though this creamer sounds utterly repulsive. I settle into a stool opposite him.

“I’ll pour some mugs,” he says, and I’m about to ask him, What mugs? when he produces two ceramic, hand-thrown ones from his backpack on the counter. He places the slate-gray one in front of himself and the forest-green one in front of me.

“These are beautiful.” I pick mine up to admire the handsome curved handle, foiling his attempt to pour coffee into it.

“My sister makes them. I stole these from her house this morning. She has all different colors.”

“But these are your favorites?”

“The gray one is. But I thought you’d like the green.”

Adam pushes the green mug—my mug—to my side of the kitchen island. The liquid inside is a promising dark mocha color. I pull it to my lips for a slow, hesitant sip.

It’s revolting.

“Mmm,” I say through sheer force of will. My effort is truly heroic.

Adam is practically beaming with pride, meaning one tiny corner of his mouth is tipped upward.

Then the aftertaste hits, and nausea crawls up my throat like the girl from The Ring.

“I’m sorry,” I say, suppressing a gurgle. “But this tastes like you cut bastardized Thin Mints with antifreeze.”

His head jerks backward. “You said you liked it.”

“Temporary insanity. A side effect of the antifreeze.”

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