Page 56 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“No, the one after that.”

“Ahh.” He knows I’m full of shit. I watch his eyes decide whether he’ll play along. “Should we forget it ever happened?”

“I think that’s what they recommended. In the article.”

“Who produced this study?” he asks, his mouth quirking up to one side. I’ll take it.

“Science. All of it.” I suppress a laugh.

“I won’t deny science.” His voice is all faux solemnity as he pulls to a stop behind a van’s brake lights. Adam’s cheeks are tinted red by the stoplight. “Alison, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I…can’t.”

“It’s okay. We’re friends,” I remind him, but my voice goes up like it’s a question.

He turns to face me, looking at me a beat longer than my friends usually do. When his expression turns green, he stiffens and faces forward. “Friends,” he agrees, pressing on the gas.

We don’t talk for the rest of the ride. The tension between us remains thick. Despite our agreement to forget the kiss ever happened, I imagine his mouth on mine three more times in the warm comfort of his truck. My belly fizzes and pops like soda.

When he pulls in front of my apartment, his arm crosses my body to open my door, brushing my front. My skin ignites at the friction of his coat against mine and the weight of his arm, and I delude myself into thinking he might kiss me again, but he doesn’t. I replay his words like they’re a broken cassette tape.

You’re kind of my favorite new person.

Instead, without leaving his seat, he opens the passenger door to let me out. I turn to him, visibly blushing, and I know he sees it. Hands and lips flash in my mind as he faces forward before I have a chance to register how another charged moment has passed me by.

He waves but doesn’t drive away. He lets the car behind him honk to watch me get into my building safely. It’s so effortlessly tender, and I wonder if he would’ve done it for any friend, or if maybe I’m special.

15

Ricky’s Towing Isn’t Bound by HIPAA

I don’t remember what I dreamed last night, but it must have been about Adam, because my cheeks burn at the sight of his name on my phone screen Monday morning.

His message is simply a picture of his familiar hand holding a carrier of two oversized white to-go cups.

7:14 AM

Alison:

Double fisting? Rough start.

7:16 AM

Adam:

Someone shouldn’t have driven into a snow pile. I might’ve made it home before my bedtime.

I light up alone in my kitchen in front of my Keurig, grateful not to be on FaceTime. The fluttering in my stomach is getting difficult to contain.

I type and delete two messages, one too revealing (It’s good to hear from you) and one too inconsequential to elicit a further response from him (Ha ha!) until I realize Adam is witnessing my overthinking in the form of a dancing ellipsis. Finally, I type out a reply.

7:18 AM

Alison:

Bedtime, Grandpa?

On Tuesday, Adam “Confirmed Friend Nothing More” Berg texts again.

3:34 PM

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