Page 59 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

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Thursday night sports trivia is shaping up to be a particularly brutal defeat. Patrick’s a no-show, and any questions we manage to answer are through a Slumdog Millionaire–esque series of coincidences. Chelsea and Mara know a few of the baseball facts by virtue of being alive in Minnesota, and in the image round, I recognize Kris Humphries from his marriage to Kim Kardashian—not his time as a Minnesota Gopher.

The Wisconsin-themed bar, adorned in green and yellow twinkle lights, subjects us to an entire section on the Green Bay Packers. Chelsea alternates between “Brett Favre” and “Aaron Rodgers” every time we have to guess.

Humphries, Favre, and Rodgers come through for us, and we wind up in a distant, but respectable, third place. It’s enough to put Mara in a relatively good mood. We win a complimentary basket of cheese curds that we split three ways, and all check our neglected phones in unison as the jock rock kicks back up.

I have a few unread messages, but only one makes my heart leap pathetically.

9:03 PM

Adam:

This is all your fault.

Below his message is a photo of a single string of twinkle lights draped along his workshop wall. I want to be mad at him, but I can’t help but soften in the face of my grump’s reluctant Christmas cheer.

Chelsea coos, and I look up from my phone, still smiling like a fool.

“I knew it! Look at your face! When did this happen? In the car? Uncle Ricky said a dude was there when he towed you from the ditch. Did you get busy in the car? Did you swipe your hand on the foggy window like Kate Winslet?” Chelsea’s voice climbs higher with each question.

“Oh my god, Chels. It was the middle of the day,” I deflect, because who knows whether we would’ve pulled a Jack and Rose if the tow truck hadn’t shown up when it did.

“That’s not a denial.” Mara’s nose is still in her work phone, and she’s giving this conversation approximately 40 percent of her focus.

I wrap my arms across myself to intercept the involuntary shiver rolling up my body when I remember how Adam’s beard felt against my neck and how desperate I was for more. “Adam happened to be nearby and gave me a ride. And it wasn’t a ditch. It was a snow pile on the other side of a curb. If you’re going to gossip about me with your uncle, I want you to have every humiliating detail correct.”

Mara clicks off her screen and gives me her full attention. “He happened to be near the breast cancer center?”

“Jesus, Chelsea. Hasn’t your uncle heard of medical privacy laws?”

“Ricky’s Towing isn’t bound by HIPAA,” Chelsea answers, shaking her head at my attempted diversion. “So how long has this been going on?”

“She’s at least made out with him,” Mara tells Chelsea. “Her mouth’s doing that twitchy thing. That’s her tell.”

“I don’t have a tell!” I slap my hand over my face. “Fine. We did kiss…a bit, but we both agreed it didn’t happen. Or that it shouldn’t have happened. I can’t remember the specifics of our not remembering.” I’m too busy remembering everything before that very specifically.

“But you like him?” Chelsea asks, propping her head in her hands, her eyes soft and wide like a cartoon deer’s.

A smile breaks free across my face. “He told me I’m his ‘favorite new person.’ ”

“Cute,” she gushes, drawing five syllables out of the word. “Wait, did he say ‘new favorite person’ or ‘favorite new person’?”

“The second one.”

Her pony bobs encouragingly. “Okay. So what does that mean?”

“It means he likes her, but she’s still his best friend’s girlfriend,” Mara explains.

Disappointment sags in my stomach. “It’s not like that.”

“He thinks it is.” Mara’s usually assessing eyes fill with compassion for the mess I’ve made, which makes me feel all the more hopeless.

My body stiffens the moment a male hand unexpectedly clasps my shoulder. Scents of the beach and expensive hair products waft into my nostrils.

“Hey, babe!” a familiar voice says.

I inwardly curse, and Chelsea’s mouth falls open at the figure behind me.

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