Page 52 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

1:07 PM

Alison:

Car trouble. Won’t make it back.

1:08 PM

Adam:

Are you okay?

1:10 PM

Alison:

Fine. Drove into a snowbank.

Immediately after I press send, Adam calls me.

“Where are you?” his tinny voice asks as soon as I pick up—no greetings.

I fill my voice with all of the faux cheeriness I can muster. I won’t let him worry. “I’m fine. I drove into the snowplow pile in the parking lot of my doctor’s office.”

“I thought you were lying about going to the doctor.”

“I wasn’t, but now I have to wait for the tow truck.” I yank on the locked front door of my doctor’s office. “And my doctor left, so I’m in for a long afternoon while I wait outside in the cold or in a car that’s mid-takeoff. Perfect.”

“Where are you?” Something honks in the background.

“Are you in your car?” I ask past him.

“I dropped some stuff off at the Lewises’. I’m leaving Excelsior now. Where are you?” he repeats more urgently.

“Adam, no. You don’t need to do that.”

“I’m not leaving you in the cold to wait for a tow truck. I’ll wait with you. It’ll be fun.” He says the word fun with the flattest and most unconvincing affect.

I tuck my scarf into the front of my coat and brush against my icy boob. “I’m not super fun right now.”

“Perfect, I’m never fun.” This makes me laugh, and I swear I can hear him trying not to smile through the phone. “What if I bring sandwiches? I can’t leave you like this. It’s too pathetic.” Now I’m certain I hear a smirk in his voice, and I smile to no one like an idiot.

“Pathetic?” I repeat. His chuckle pings against my ear, and I relent. “Fine. I want a happy salad.”

I know our time together has an expiration date, but I can’t help stretching every moment out as much as possible. I want to believe he is too—shouldn’t we be done with the condo by now?—but that might be my one-sided crush talking.

“No such thing, but I’ll figure it out.” A turn signal clicks on his side of the line. “Send me your address.”

Crap. “Um. I’ll drop a pin.”

14

The Flaw in the Design

Fifteen minutes later, Adam pulls into the parking lot of the Susanna Swann Breast Cancer Center and parks next to my skyward SUV. I climb into the passenger side of his truck and close the door behind me. I know what his question is when he faces me, and his warm, dark eyes beg me not to make him ask.

My hands lift defensively. “I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t have cancer.”

“Does your cancer doctor see a lot of perfectly healthy people on Sundays?” His voice is stiff, and worry etches the lines of his face. His hair is stuck up like he’s been nervously pulling at it at every intersection. If I hadn’t been staring at that jaw for the past two weekends, I might not have noticed that, right now, it’s clenched.

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