Page 41 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

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The next day, I order a Cozy Pig sandwich from the deli counter while I wait for Adam. Every time the door opens, my eyes dart to it.

Adam eventually walks in and juts his chin in my direction. Relief rushes through me. He points to the front counter, and I mouth, You go order, while waving my arms in a series of chaotic gestures. We both find our way back to the table with our sandwiches, and though mine looks good, his pastrami Reuben looks better. I wish I knew Adam well enough to ask if we could split the two halves, but I don’t. I eat my sandwich and pretend I’m not jealous of his.

I feel him examine my work attire—an inexpensive oversized black blazer from H&M over a T-shirt—while we make idle chitchat about the weather and highway construction, finding our conversational groove in this new environment. He’s changed into clean clothes, but, having come straight from a construction site, his hair still has a bit of dust in it.

“What brought you up here for the day?” he asks around his last bite.

I point at my full mouth and chew a bit more before answering. “I’m a transit consultant. Bus systems, light rail, the occasional heavy rail. I was updating my recommendations to a team working on the high-speed rail from Duluth to the Cities.”

“That’d be convenient. When’s it happening?” He takes a sip of his soda, his eyes trained on me.

“Soon, but maybe never. I’ve been working on it in some capacity since I was an intern. Whenever they want to propose a new budget plan, they bring me back in, but then something happens to the funding. We’re always very close to ‘getting close.’ He’s my white whale.”

“Are trains a he?” His eyes light up with amusement.

“I’ve always assumed as much. Thomas is, at least.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You’re right. Percy, James—are all the trains male? How does that work?”

“I wouldn’t think too deeply about the anthropomorphism in the land of Sodor. It gets very dark very quickly.”

“I can see that.” Adam wakes up his phone to check the time. “Do you have to get back?”

“Nah, I took the afternoon off.”

“I could show you around a bit?”

I sip my soda. “I should probably go for a hike. My boots are in my car. I always intend to but can never seem to get myself to do it.”

“Such enthusiasm,” he says wryly, brushing the crumbs off his hands and onto the parchment paper.

“I’m trying to embrace the outdoors and adventure in general, but it’s a bit of a work in progress. Most of the work seems to be forcing myself to enjoy it, and then I feel guilty for not enjoying it, which only makes it feel more forced.” I rummage up something that resembles a smile. “But I want to enjoy it, so it’s worth it.”

It’s the first time I’ve tried to put words to the fight within myself. Like an intense camp friendship, Adam’s place in my life is necessarily temporary. He makes me feel like I can peel back the layer behind what I want everyone to see: My life is big and exciting. I’m worthy, I swear!

Adam stacks our sandwich baskets and buses our table. “Why does everyone romanticize walking uphill without a destination? Unless you’re wild for the woods and have nowhere to go, it’s a waste of time.”

“So you live in northern Minnesota, which is basically a giant forest, and you’ve never taken a walk in the woods.”

He pops a brow. “I go into the woods when I need to be in the woods.”

“So only when you must craft an emergency farmhouse table do you stride into the cedar trees and chop one down with great purpose? How does a live, laugh, love sign rank? Is that a need or a want?”

“Definitely a need. Could you imagine walking into a home that didn’t give you explicit permission to live, laugh, and love all at once?”

Is he making a joke? Adam’s eyes hold mine, and the laughter that passes between us is sweet and perfect, like a giant Hubba Bubba bubble. I’d give up talking forever if we could stay just like this. But he pops the moment to say, “You don’t need to hike if it doesn’t make you happy. That sort of defeats the purpose.”

It sounds simple when he says it.

I shake my head, wrapping my green wool scarf around my neck. “It’s about embracing a better me.” He gives me the blankest expression. “You don’t get it. You live out here where it’s all at your fingertips. If I lived here, I’d totally be my ‘best self.’ ”

“Yeah? What would your ‘best self’ look like up here?”

I count off on my fingers. “I’d go hiking every day. I’d finally learn to like camping. I’d travel more. I’d befriend a small-town bookstore owner and fall in love with a Christmas tree farmer.”

He raises a snarky eyebrow. “So your best life is a pretty bad Hallmark movie?”

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